The crisp air of January whips outside my family room window, tossing new leaves onto the life-sized pastel plastic princess castle I once upon a time declared hideous. Maybe it still is, and I just don’t care! But now I see something different. Not an eyesore, but rather another meaningful symbol that things are no longer what they once were for me—in my days, or my body, or my home décor, inside and out. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
For the first time so far in 2019, I’m completely alone, perched at my little writing desk. Graced with my Starbucks of choice these days, a caramel macchiato with almond milk. I’m looking right at my fresh written planner, new MacBook Air, and TBR stack of books piling high. There’s no shortage of blog topics and posts I’m eager to share with you all! An update on my baby weight journey, my transition to having 3 kids, maybe even my goals for the year. At last, my experience with postpartum depression after my Hadley Girl, everything I learned through six months of therapy, and how it’s still helping me now in my last-ever time with an infant.
Some lighter posts, too. What’s in my make-up bag! What’s in our playroom! Where I love to shop for my girls! After my year of restoration, of stillness, of simply being and forming my Reese, there are things I want to rise up and do. It’s a brand-new year, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt such a clear turn of seasons.
And yet.
Before anything else, I feel pressed to write for you the words that I need most myself. It’s true that I feel the passion, excitement and bright promising aura that seems inherent to January. Who doesn’t love an old slate wiped clean? I believe there is greatness ahead. It’s good to feel alive, clear-headed and open to possibility. Motivated to move.
But also?
It’s hard for me to show up sometimes—at this writing desk, or God’s feet. It’s hard for me to show up every second, of every day, to be the best mom I can be. It’s hard for me to show up in life, in community, in family, in ministry—and just offer myself, fully me—believing I have something of value to give.
So I hold back. I cower. I quiet myself.
I make Satan super happy.
The old voices of insecurity and fear and self-doubt roar louder than the voices of truth.
I get sucked right into the Instagram game of comparison—the one you can’t win—and after five eternal minutes, feel fully convinced that, well, what on earth am I doing,continuing to write and to share?! There are thousands of writers and sharers! What an imposter I am!
Not to mention, I need to start dressing my girls cuter. Head-to-toe! Designer! Get on it! You call yourself an actual #girlmom?!
My house is looking old, and so is my forehead.
We need to plan a fancy vacation.
I need to lose more weight.
They look happier/They look better/Why wasn’t I invited?
I feel myself shutting down.
This is the slope, and it is slick. Lined with slippery, terrible lies. And I bring it up not only because it’s something I struggle with, off and on, but because I am slowly seeing more mention of it pop up around me like kettle corn. Social media is the epitome of salty and sweet, and most of us taste the dichotomy. It’s something that’s here to stay, but it’s complicated, with some pretty tough kernels to swallow if we get too deep down the rabbit hole. We might even break a tooth. Or worse, our very own hearts.
If you feel it, too—the push/pull, love/hate of social media—I just want to say that you’re not alone, sister. I’ve found that even some of the super-robust Instagram accounts whose whole purpose is to inspire and motivate me, and women like me—instead sometimes have a contrary effect. Rather than march away newly empowered, I’ll slink away thinking, I’m not enough. I don’t have an empire. Unless you count that castle in the backyard! I’m definitely not writing bestsellers. But I did write that awesome to-do list earlier, and the pen color was kind of pretty, and I even remembered to DO half the actual things on it!!!
Not to mention: Where in hot Jupiter is my time going?
I fully accept that the problem here starts with my heart. And also, that my brain is perhaps more fragile than the average bear’s. While I don’t have postpartum depression this time, I’m still very much right there in the hormonal window, so have to remain on guard. (P.S. To be clear, I far from feel this funky way all the time!)
But truly: these whole-wide-worlds in our hands can be tricky for just about anyone. Our moms didn’t have this comparison trap right at their fingertips. They didn’t have the pictures or pressures. They didn’t have the constant temptation to compare, compete, and contrive. Instagram is the absolute best. But it can also be the absolute worst.
I was revealing some of this to my mom the other day. My insecurities, my funk, my inclination to just close the laptop for good after a weirdly inexplicably discouraging morning. She asked me if I’d ever heard of choosing a “word” for the New Year—to set the tone and walk into its meaning. I said, why, yes, ma’am. I have! She knows how much I love words. She probably didn’t know that this gentle nudge would lead me to greener pastures. Or rather, remind me just how green my own pastures already were.
Last year, my clear word was Rest.
And after some thought, I decided.
For me, this year: It is Courage.
Courage to put my phone away more, when I sense my eyes and soul need a rest.
Courage to keep writing my stories, to keep digging into my heart and sharing with you what I find.
Courage to mother presently, and intentionally, and get eye-to-eye with my girls, when any number of distractions or Netflix would often feel a lot easier.
Courage to try new exercise classes, even when I feel silly; to wear the cute-and-tight yoga pants, even when I also feel shy.
Courage to delve even deeper into my friendships; to fling my arms wide open into new ones.
Courage to say what I actually think, instead of what someone might want to hear.
Courage to stick to our budget, to believe that I want for nothing.
Courage to open my Bible each day, before I open my apps.
Courage to pray, courage to kneel, courage to comfort, courage to feel.
Courage to never stop dreaming.
Courage to fill up my soul in all the ways that I need—to in turn pour out all that I have.
Under the cool fall sun at a local park in November, I witnessed a moment starring my Emerson. She’s five, and it was a seventh birthday party for a close friend of ours. The bash was lovely and simple—cake, some balloons, a picnic table covered in pink. I watched my Kindergartner play seamlessly with all the first graders for a full hour, impressed by her ease and confidence. I thought, That big girl! She’s mine.She’s also tall for her age, so was indistinguishable age-wise from the slightly more mature girls.
But then, it came time for presents.
The Birthday Girl took her place of honor in the center of a navy-blue blanket splayed on the grass. We moms watched on as a virtual army of 15 first graders then outright swarmed their sweet friend—with all of their gifts, and all their enthusiasm—fighting for their individual turn to bestow their goods at her feet.
“OPEN MINE! You’re gonna love mine best!”
“MY TURN, MY TURN!”
“THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT, I KNOW IT IS BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME SO!”
“I HAVE THIS, TOO, SO YOU’RE GONNA LOVE IT!”
“Pick me!!!”
“MINE!”
“Here!!!”
(Is it just me, or does the whole world feel like this sometimes?)
The visceral chaos caused even me to shrink back, and I felt a small tug on my hand. Emerson clutched her gift bag to her chest more tightly, eager to delight her beloved friend only moments before. But now, self-conscious, unsure, she turned to her safe place, her mom. Just like I do, all the time.
She appeared so young to me once again, and maybe a little scared. She tilted her blue eyes up to me, my heart squeezing tight as I watched them well with warm tears.
I knelt to her level. Kneeling is healing. “It’s OK, Sweetie. We just have to wait your turn!”
“She’s not going to like my gift, Mom,” she said. “There are too many first graders!”
Of course she was going to love it. I knew it, because I bought it. The Birthday Girl’s mom was my cherished friend, and I’d asked her just what her daughter was into. We had this thing in the bag! The very one she was holding! “She’s going to adore it. I promise.”
How could she doubt me, her maker? How could she doubt herself?
“She doesn’t need another present, Mom. I wanna go home. Can we, please?”
I scooped my girl into my arms, untangling her park-tousled hair with motherly fingers. I rocked her; I scratched her back. “Let’s wait a minute, Honey. I promise.”
After a bit, when the flurry of first-grade wonderment settled at last, and the Birthday Girl had finished opening everything else, she made her way to the picnic table, sitting, mostly, alone. The other girls had moved on.
I led Emerson by the hand, coaxing her toward her friend.
Go ahead, Sweetie. It’s time.
Inch by inch, she stood a little taller and braver, until she was finally ready.
“Here!” she said. “Happy Birthday, Finley. I got you something, and I hope you love it. I’m so glad you’re my friend.”
Finley’s mom caught my eye, and we paused in the moment together. I wondered if she, too, was remembering when they were babies.
Finley tore away at the tissue before pulling out the only thing that could ignite such pure and unadulterated ecstasy in a first-grade girl’s eyes.
“JOJO SLIME!!!!! Mom, look!” She glanced up at her mama, like so many of us when we receive or achieve something great. Her joy was undeniable and alive.
Emerson noticed it, too.
Then she looked up at me.
Her gift was received, and it was loved, at precisely the perfect time.
The courage to wait; the courage to give.
Timing is everything. So is humility.
In 2019, I’m claiming this level of courage. The simple kind of a Kindergartner. And even if you have other words on your list, I hope that you claim it, too.
Even if your gift is unlikely in its unique glory, like a princess castle from Costco that takes up the whole backyard.
Even if it feels like you’re last.
Even if it seems like there are too many first graders!!!
Like nobody wants your gift.
That is a lie. We do. You are so special. You’re you.
We need you to pour out your light. There’s a hole only you can make bright.
There’s always enough room on the blanket.
And, if perhaps, there’s not?
Start up your very own after-party, somewhere back at the picnic table.
Launch the new business, sell the bouquets, start the book club, write from your heart.
Lead the Bible study, go back to work, stay home and cradle your baby.
Abundance and love.
Courage and truth.
The last shall be first, you know?
I promise to fight for these things.
And to keep showing up with my JoJo slime.
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“Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD God, my God is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work for the service of the temple of the LORD is finished.”
Chronicles 28:20
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“Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.”
1 Corinthians 16:13
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“Your love stood down death
Crushed the devil’s head
Fear is just a liar
Running out of breath
The fight beneath your feet
I’m standing on Jesus’ name.
Let the devil know not today!!!!!”
— Hillsong UNITED
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My Humbly Offered Heart-Healthy Tips for Instagram Use
I love Instagram. That’s probably obvious. But the dark side sneaks up on me like a thief in broad daylight for whom I kindly opened the door. Some things that help me keep it healthy and fun?
- Appreciate the good. Remember the beautiful, incredible GOOD that comes from social media. The ways I love to receive truth and inspiration from it; the ways I love expressing my own creativity through it. The positive ways it has indisputably changed the world.
- Don’t go on when I’m feeling funky, lonely, or vulnerable. If I’m in an emotional space where I truly need filling up, Instagram could potentially have something awesome to offer me—but the risk to the adverse is great. Open Jesus Calling or the Bible or YouVersion instead. Text or call a friend. Get on the floor with my girls.
- Set the timer for daily use. I recently learned that you can do this in Settings! I set mine to 1 hour per day. I’m not sanctimonious about it, but for me, it’s been healthy to set and know my own limits.
- Check myself. Is the problem with me, or the phone in my hand? The nature of comparison might be a beast, but where is my heart? Am I taking control of my thoughts, or letting the thoughts control me? Examine my motivations and sensitivities. Pour truth into my cracks.
- Put my phone in time-out. Take breaks; for hours, or days. I often put my phone away for four-hour chunks during the week days, when my girls really need me. This helps me be fully present—and excited once again to pick up my phone after a bit. Whatever it is? It can usually wait. Put your heart and your mental health first.
