Beach Therapy

waikikiYesterday I skipped my weekly therapy session so I could sunbathe, swim, and belly laugh with family.

We drank tropical drinks. We buried our toes in the sand. We took silly pictures. We shared smoothies and brownies and inside jokes.

We stayed out until the sun went down on Waikiki.

My heart and soul craved connection. Levity. Beauty. And that’s exactly what we found.

Sometimes you gotta dive deep, and sometimes you gotta chase the sun. Yesterday, I think I did both.

My therapist will be proud.

Future Me

lanikaiI was walking toward my future self on the sands of Lanikai Beach as the sun rose over the Mokulua islands (a short drive from my house and a favorite spot of mine). She was sitting on a woven blanket, wearing yoga pants and a ponytail, looking healthy and relaxed. I asked her how she got to be so happy and she laughed.

“I’m happy because I chose to come watch the sun rise. I’m still exhausted. Life is still hard. But I’m choosing what makes me happy.”

I sat with her on the blanket and watched the sun as it grew in strength and color, and I was struck by how peaceful and calm we both were. All I was focused on was the sun and the sand and my breath.

Suddenly, she laughed, jumped up, and began sifting through the sand – she had a gift for me but had forgotten where she had hidden it. Finally she unearthed something gold and shiny from  beneath a large weather-beaten log.

She grinned. “Buried treasure!”

She handed me a golden compass hanging from a chain. I asked her what it was for, and she just shrugged and smiled.

***

For the last three Decembers as a part of Stratejoy’s Holiday Council I’ve embarked on a simple guided meditative journey to meet with my future self. She is always thinner than present me,  calmer than present me, and better rested than present me. Her hair is always in a perky ponytail (she’s finally mastered the art of effortless beauty), and she always looks invitingly cozy. The first year she was curled up on the couch in our Tacoma living room wearing a chunky sweater. The second year she was cooking in our Tacoma kitchen, laughing with Jake as he clapped in his high chair. This year she was alone on the Hawaiian shores, soaking in the sunrise, strong and healthy after a year of yoga, running, breathing, and prayer.

It’s always such a grounding exercise for me, to let my mind wander and unlock hopes and fears and questions I have about where I will be the following December. The first year, I was afraid I’d never get pregnant, and it was unclear whether the woman I saw  was reading on the couch while her baby slept or if she was still waiting expectantly. The second year, I had high hopes of learning how to cook and creating a warm welcoming space for our family to grow. This year, I was afraid to ask whether her husband had returned to her, whether her kids were safely tucked in bed under the protective gaze of their father, so I focused on the only thing I know I can control: myself. The past two years I have been seeking family, coziness, and community; this year I was seeking freedom, self-renewal, a release from the anxiety that binds me.

I’m unsurprised I found her on the shores of Lanikai Beach, a beautiful hideaway I first discovered with Tim when we first visited Oahu many years ago. I’ve watched a couple sunrises in my time here and they always leave me feeling more centered, like I’m back to being no bigger and no smaller than I am meant to be.

***

As a Four on the Enneagram, the Individualist, or Romantic, I am what you might call moody, defined by ever-shifting emotions, and motivated by the need to feel heard and understood. No matter the life circumstance, I often feel as though I am missing something – like I lack some fundamental character trait that others possess that allow them to get up every day and live a drama-free life. I often struggle in the tension between wanting to be fully known and fearing that no matter how vulnerable I am with others, I will never truly be loved for who I am. So I withdraw. And I project. And in the confines of my self-protective fantasy world, I imagine a future self who has everything figured out: she has found the mysterious secret others seem to possess, that elusive ability to remain content regardless of her circumstances. She’s calm, unruffled by her ever-changing emotions. She’s free of anxiety and her constant suspicion that others are judging her for being different. She’s self-forgetting and is no longer caught up in the tragic stories from her past or the ideal relationships and accomplishments she dreams about in the future. She just exists. She is connected to her body and she is healthy, happy, whole.

***

This year, I decided my guiding word is breathe. A simple, grounding reminder to a woman whose wheels never stop turning, whose emotions never seem to settle. Faced with deployment, solo parenting, and a lifetime of unknowns, I have finally realized I have got to get a handle on this inner turmoil I have often unknowingly exacerbated. Life is hard enough without trying so hard to emotionally color all of my experiences in the attempt to turn it into an epic work of art.

Further study of the Enneagram has helped me identify all the ways in which I am my own worst enemy, the ways in which I’ve been contributing to this pervasive feeling of melancholy for most of my lifetime — but also the ways in which I can choose to (however slowly) make changes. I’ve begun to see that perhaps the future self I dream of isn’t an emotionless yogi on the beach, but instead an integrated, emotionally intelligent woman who is wise enough to know when to act on emotion, and when to let it go.

So how do I get there?

Perhaps the answer lies in her gift to me. Perhaps, I need to remind myself there is goodness and beauty in the world–whether or not it feels good and beautiful. Perhaps, if I work a little harder at attuning myself to all that is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and admirable*–if I remember I already have the tools to get to where I’m going (even if they are buried deep in the sand)–I won’t worry so much about trying to feel my way to true north.

 

*Philipians 4:8

 

 

 

Splinter

jakeandmamabw

Jacob ran out the front screen door, exclaiming, “Christmas wreath!” in his two-year-old toddlerese. It was early December in Hawaii and the wreath I had picked up at the local Target was our lone Christmas decoration. With a deployed husband, two small children, and an upcoming holiday trip to my parents’ house on the mainland, I felt justified in skipping all the trimmings.

He couldn’t believe his luck – not only had I brought home a wreath, but also wrapping supplies. “CHRISTMAS BOWS!” he squealed, and immediately insisted we add one to the wreath. Why not. So I picked him up and steadied him as he added a huge, shiny red bow.

“Yay! I did it!” he grinned ear to ear and as soon as I set him back on his feet, he began to do his signature celebratory dance.

I was distracted for a few minutes, chatting with Monica, our nanny, as she updated me on the day’s events and prepared to go home. I didn’t see the moment when the splinter got lodged in the tender skin of Jacob’s foot.

At first, he didn’t want to let us see. He ran around the house, favoring the foot, insisting he was okay.

We were finally able to corral him, and when we saw the splinter’s size, we knew we needed to act quickly. Monica saw the horror on my face (how do I even do this?) and graciously offered to stay and help.

As I carried my screaming child to the well-lit bathroom, tweezers in hand, I couldn’t help but think of my thirteen-year-old self, spinning around barefoot on the hardwood floor of my parents’ kitchen, ending up with a splinter the size of a toothpick. I finished that day in the Emergency Room. The nurses rolled their eyes at me until they caught a look at how big it was and realized someone needed to cut it out.

Like mother like son. Please God, don’t let it be that bad. Not when Tim isn’t here. He’d know what to do.

Monica said she had experience removing splinters from thrashing toddlers, so we decided she’d take the tweezers and I’d hold him steady.

“NO THANK YOU, MAMA!” He sobbed the words I had taught him to say when he doesn’t want someone touching him, when he needs his space. “I hear you, baby. I know you are saying ‘No thank you,’ but Mama and Monica have to do this to make you feel better. I am so sorry.” He screamed, and it was heartbreaking, shattering, to hear my child crying from the depths of fear and distress, pleading with me to stop the pain I was allowing.

Tethered so firmly to the present moment, he was too young to understand sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. How could I convince him to trust me?

His tears brought tears to my eyes as I held him tightly, clutched to my chest, holding down his kicking legs and flailing arms.  Monica was the essence of calm. She spoke quietly, reassuring him, doing her best to efficiently remove the splinter.

When it was done, we smiled at Jacob. “You did it!” I squeezed him. “I am so proud of you.” He drew a big, shuddering breath and said, “Thank you, Mama.”

***

It’s no secret that in recent years I’ve been working through some anger with God. This all-knowing, all-loving, ever present Father has allowed so much heartache and pain in my life, the lives of my loved ones, the lives of people all over the world. I’m over it. It hurts so much and he allows it to get worse. So I kick and I scream and I buck and I cry. I’m like a toddler who can’t be consoled, who doesn’t want to listen to assurances that God knows what he’s doing and that ultimately there is a greater plan.

A few months ago, not long before Tim deployed, I was in church and the pastor asked us to imagine being in the presence of God – what would be like if we were standing face to face? I suddenly had this image of me pummeling God’s chest. Just hitting and hitting and yelling and screaming and crying. And he held me. As I hit him and kicked him and said “NO MORE!” He just held me. He didn’t chastise me. He didn’t tell me to buck up. He didn’t tell me I knew what I was signing up for when I became an Army wife. He didn’t tell me to stop being a baby. He didn’t let go of me and say “I don’t deserve this from you,” or “Have you forgotten all I’ve given you?”  He just held me with love and confidence and grace. He let me struggle, but never without assuring me with his strong arms and tender gaze.

***

How do we teach children to trust? It’s a tricky thing. Jacob and I have talked about it quite a bit since the splinter incident, and while I realize it’s going to be a while before he completely understands, I think the basic idea is starting to settle in.

I try to explain to him that I would never hurt him on purpose, that I am here to protect him, to keep him safe, to help him be healthy. That if I ever allow him pain, it is because I know it will be better on the other side. And that in the midst of the pain, he can always turn to me for comfort. Always.

Deep down I know that God is like that, too, because I’ve experienced him to be that way. In the middle of pain, and even in the middle of anger, I still know the God I am wrestling with is a God of love and patience and goodness. I have experienced his overwhelming peace at the strangest times, as nonsensical as it may seem.

He’s teaching me, in these anxious days, how to trust him again. He’s bringing me closer to the light, examining all the splinters I’ve lodged in my heart: the fear, pride, and self-pity he knows will fester if we don’t work together to dig them out. He reminds me, tenderly, that sometimes things have to be more painful before we can heal.

***

I don’t have a scar from the toothpick-sized splinter; in fact, I can’t even remember which foot endured the pain. But I do remember the path to healing was a long, embarrassing one. I showed up to middle school on crutches and had to explain why I couldn’t walk (I uh…got a huge splinter? When I was, uh…dancing around in my kitchen?). Later that week a lymph node swelled so badly I thought I was seriously ill. The doctor assured me it was just my body’s way of fighting an infection that must have begun before the splinter was removed. He gave me some antibiotics, and that was that.

It was done. But it took surgery and drugs and a week on crutches before the pain began to abate. The ER doctor’s scalpel was just the beginning.

When it comes to healing, there are no quick fixes, and that’s true of our hearts just as much as our earthly frames. It’s one thing for me to turn to God and acknowledge that I’m angry and hurt. It’s another thing entirely for me to hand over my heart and let him get to work. Just like Jacob, I’d much rather run away and self protect. And even when I do ask for help, God doesn’t magically make the splinters disappear; he removes them one by one with the precision and care of a surgeon. He takes his time, and he makes no promises that it won’t hurt.

It’s up to me then, whether I want to keep screaming and thrashing. He’s going to hold me regardless. I have to believe that as he holds me, my tears bring tears to his eyes, and with whatever progress we make, he is proud.

I am still learning how to say thank you.

What of the dancing? I’m happy to tell you I still dance around barefoot in the kitchen; to be honest I’d rather have the joy of dancing than live my life on the lookout for loose wood. As for Jacob, until we refinish the porch I try to make sure he wears shoes in the front of the house.

But I don’t catch him every time. I won’t, because he is full of life and curiosity and he’s just going to keep running and dancing. It is inevitable he will find pain along the way. But I will be there to hold him when he cries, just like my Abba holds me.

 

The Miracle of (im)Perfect Timing

img_2113Two kids under two was never part of my plan.

My husband, whose sister is a mere 14 months his senior, assured me having kids close together would be not only good planning (get those hard years out of the way) but also a good investment in their friendship (he counts his sister and her husband among his best friends). My brother is six years younger than I am, and as much as I have always adored him, the years between us often seemed like eons. I figured there was probably a happy medium. Perhaps we’d try for a second baby after the first was potty trained. Or in preschool.

I am what you might call a “small plate person” – introverted, prone to daydreams, preferring a whole afternoon alone with a book to an adventure with friends – I don’t do well with multi-tasking. I knew myself well enough to know that having two kids in the span of two years would be asking a lot of myself, especially if I wanted to do it well and with any semblance of grace.

Which is why it was so strange to me that, when my first was 10 months old, I found myself saying to my husband, “Maybe I don’t want to wait much longer to get pregnant again.”

Now, if you think this occurred to me because first children are often a breeze compared to their loud and feisty younger siblings, let me set you straight. Our first, our wonderfully vibrant Jacob, is anything but easy. He (and therefore I) didn’t sleep more than 45 minutes at a time for the first two months of his life. And this was just the beginning. Often a solo parent due to my husband’s rigorous medical residency schedule, I spent the majority of my days intently interacting with my very extroverted, very loud, very intense son. I couldn’t even leave him on the play mat for the two minutes it would take to reheat my coffee without him screaming as though a piece of heavy furniture had fallen on him (this tendency did not help with my postpartum anxiety).

So why the change of heart? Partially, because at 10 months, Jacob was slightly less challenging and more solid and less prone to breaking. He had teeth and could eat Cheerios and was cruising and laughing and snuggling. We had fun together, even inside jokes. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. The newborn months may have been terrible, but they suddenly felt light years away.

I had survived. I knew I could do it again.

I began to think about my upcoming 34th birthday and how I only had a year before my womb would be considered “geriatric” (can we please come up with a better word for this?).

Originally my plan had been to wait another year, after moving the following summer, wherever the Army would send us. But then I began to think about the potential for my husband to deploy (even though he assured me it wasn’t likely to happen so soon).

Also, it may have been momnesia.

My husband was ecstatic. When can we start?

So, when Jacob was 10 months old I quit taking the pill. You know how it goes: we weren’t trying, but we weren’t trying to NOT. After one particularly romantic evening, I thought I felt a twinge in my belly and I thought Oh my – did we just make a baby? A couple weeks later I took a pregnancy test and with mixed feelings read “negative.”

Mostly I was relieved. I started doing the math and realized if I had been pregnant, the due date would be a mere six weeks before the Army moved us God knows where. I thought to myself, Maybe we should wait a couple more months so we’re not moving with a newborn and a toddler.

Five days later I realized it was time to take another pregnancy test. This time it was positive.

When the first trimester nausea hit (so much worse this time around), and each morning I found myself sprawled out on the floor eating saltine crackers in front of Daniel Tiger with my son, who couldn’t even walk yet, I thought, How am I going to do this?

I comforted myself with the idea that this baby was meant to be. It might not be my timing, but it was the right time for him or her. The last time I checked, God doesn’t consult me about his plans.

I told myself if we had waited, we wouldn’t be having this baby. This baby is the one who is meant to be ours.

And sure enough, in May, seven weeks before we had to move, our sweet Henry was born. We knew right away he was my husband’s son. He looked just like him, and, unlike Jacob–intense and emotional like his mama–Henry eased into life with a gentle spirit and a love of sleep.

There was a peacefulness about him that drew us in, a quiet calm that almost had us fighting over who got to put him to bed. During a stressful move, quiet time with Henry became a welcome respite. When we learned my husband would have to deploy only a few weeks after starting his new job, Henry’s presence became not only an anchor to the present moment but the embodiment of hope in our family’s future.

In the face of our fears, his slobbery kisses were like christening, his coos a benediction.

Sometimes, I catch myself wondering how different life would be now had we waited to get pregnant with our second, especially during this time of transition and separation. Certainly, Jacob and I would have more quality time and fun adventures to the beach and the park. I’d get more sleep. I’d only have one nap to plan my days around, one bath time and bedtime, only one size of diapers to buy (and change). Life would be simpler. Easier.

But then, I wouldn’t have Henry.

At seven months, he still looks just like his daddy, except his daddy has teeth (and, now that he is deployed, a “silly mustache,” as Jacob would say).

When he smiles at me, I see my husband: his kind blue eyes, his impish grin, his calm and steadfast love. What a gift.

And I have to think, as I rock him to sleep, maybe the timing was pretty perfect after all.

Originally appeared on The Good Mother Project

Waiting For My Missing Piece

crown-gecko-1302347_1280The lizard was tiny and speckled brown, and it ran across the carpet of the new master bedroom as Jake and I played on the floor. Excited to show my toddler a creature he’d never met before, I pointed to it.

“Look, Jakey! A little gecko!”

With the speed and curiosity inherent to boys of his age, my little scientist jumped up, ran to the gecko, and promptly pinned it down by its tail.

The gecko kept moving; the tail did not.

After our first week living in Hawaii, in a house without furniture or air conditioning (with a toddler and a newborn), my coping skills were at their limit.

Without thinking, I squealed. “Oh NO!”

My little boy came running back to me, wide-eyed, almost shaking with fear. “Mama!”

As he threw himself into my embrace—something that happens so rarely these days—I took a deep breath and prepared myself to do damage control. “It’s okay, sweetie. Geckos’ tails grow back. She will be okay. I was just surprised!”

“Oh no,” he repeated, hanging his head. “Oh no.”

How quickly things change from the time our little ones cannot comprehend the words we speak over their heads to the days when they absorb everything we do – our words, our tone of voice, our knee-jerk reactions. The responsibility we carry as parents suddenly shifts from not only providing them their physical needs but ushering in a safe emotional space to inhabit as well.

I held him close and whispered reassurances, but I could feel the weight of what happened settle onto his small shoulders.

Our summer was one of immense upheaval—we introduced him to his baby brother in May and seven weeks later packed our things and said goodbye to the town and the friends who had been the only home he’d ever known. On my mind throughout most of this was how he would handle so much change with so little consistency to cling to.

At a time when we should be phasing out bottles and maybe even diapers, here came a little brother who claimed my attention 24/7 with feeding and changing. And thus my toddler learned the words “Me, too!”

At a time when he needed more supervision and coaching to better understand boundaries and structure and measures of safety, I was distracted and sleep-deprived and ever-ready with the iPad.

At a time when he most needed his Mama and Dada to be loving and encouraging and kind, we were stressed and impatient and short-tempered.

All the while I kept telling myself, Just get through the summer. Soon, my husband would start his new job with more consistent hours. We’d find a church and community to remind us to keep our eyes lifted up and hands extended out toward one another. We’d find a routine and finally figure out how to parent two under two. We’d celebrate all we’d accomplished and the blessed fact that kids are resilient and thrive on even the simplest offerings of love.

Then came the news of my husband’s deployment.

Read more on the Good Mother Project

 

You Can Do This

pill box feetFriends, here’s the truth: Life has been HARD recently. Hard hard hard hard.

Hard.

Not necessarily tragic or traumatic or full of drama – just HARD.

You ever have one of those seasons? When it just feels like you can’t catch your breath or catch a break?

We are in the middle of one of those. It’s like monsoon season over here, with a newborn and a toddler and a house full of boxes and a husband who may or may not be deployed this year. It’s been hard.

And being the highly sensitive emotional introvert that I am? Well, let’s just say I’ve lost my cool more than once.

So yesterday, in the interest of self care, as soon as my oldest was down for a nap I handed the baby to my husband and declared, “I’m going up the Pill Box Trail!” I laced up my new purple sneakers and headed out.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into, stubbornly climbing my way up the steep, overgrown embankment making up the initial ascent. All I knew is that I wanted to see the Pill Boxes, I wanted to sit on the edge of the graffiti-covered concrete and stare out into the blue. Whatever came before that would be worth the climb.

So I whispered to myself “It’s okay, you can do this.”

And I remembered in a flash the moments right before my youngest was born–before the move, before the malaise, before whispers of deployment–when the pain was too much and I didn’t think I could go on. I remembered my own hoarse whisper, coaching myself through labor, reminding myself that I could do hard things.

So I kept walking. And climbing. And scrambling. And even scooting on my bum when the trail got too steep. I was slow and perhaps even timid. But I was also tenacious. I kept going.

And I did it. And it made me proud: proud of the body God gave me. Proud of the strength I’ve been slowly building at the gym. Proud of the wisdom it took to take a break from the monotony of motherhood. Proud of the courage it took to stretch into the blue sky and the hot sun and the sandy rocks.

After three hours in the wilderness my feet were worn, clothes sweat-soaked, and fingernails caked in dirt. And when I returned and my oldest approached slowly, quietly asking: “Mama?” as though he wasn’t quite sure I was the same woman who left, I smiled to myself.

It’s about time he meets this version of me, I thought. It’s about time he sees me doing hard things. It’s about time he sees the brave woman I need to be to raise his brother and him well.

It’s about time I see her, too.pill box

Originally shared on the Good Mother Project Facebook page

Liebster Award – Danke Schön!

liebster_

The lovely Andrea at Show Love Loud nominated me for a Liebster Award (thanks, lady)! The Liebster is given by newbie bloggers to other newbie bloggers in an effort to spread love and awareness of new sites. I love the idea of gathering around each other in this kind of community to share each others’ stories, so I am honored to accept. In turn have nominated 6 other bloggers, to whom I’ve linked at the bottom of this post. Go show them some love. 

Rules for the Liebster Award Nominees:

  • Thank the blog that nominated you on a post in your blog.
  • Answer the questions asked by the blog that nominated you.
  • Nominate 5-11 other new bloggers.
  • Create 11 new questions for the nominees to answer.
  • Notify all nominees via social media.

And now to answer Andrea’s questions!

What is the number one thing on your “bucket list?”

I don’t really have a bucket list, but I have always wanted to go on a hot air balloon ride. I’d also love to go back to Australia with my husband and show him all the sights I fell in love with when I studied there for a semester in 2003.

Do you want to have any (more) kids?

Hmm…we shall see! Considering I’ve spent the last 2+ years pregnant and Baby Boy #2 will join us in 5 weeks, right now the answer is a resounding no. But that could be my aching back and hips talking. Ask me again in a year!

If you could be in any profession and be very successful in it what would it be? (you can’t say blogger!)

Can I say writer? Blogging is great but I’d love to be an author of non-fiction books, most likely memoir. I also have a dream of someday offering workshops on writing to heal, both in-person and online.

What is your favorite animal and why?

Wolf. Independent, fierce, solitary but also strongly devoted to her pack. And they’re so beautiful. Wolves are my spirit animal.

Who inspired you to create your blog?

I’ve been inspired by so many women, and women writers in particular, but the ones who first come to mind are Glennon Doyle Melton of Momastery and Addie Zierman of How to Talk Evangelical. I really appreciate how vulnerable they are in their writing and how bold they are about declaring the truth of their stories in the hopes they will reach others who may have experienced similar stories and help them feel less alone.

What’s one thing your reader might not know about you?

I know *some* of my readers know this because they are my friends and family (hi, guys!) but my husband and I just recently learned we are moving to Hawaii in July!

What’s the last thing you read?

The last book I read in its entirety is Addie Zierman’s Night Driving: A Story of Faith in the Dark. On my kindle now is Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up (before we move, we need to purge BIG TIME!)

If you could live anywhere else where would it be?

If you had asked me this two weeks ago I would have said HAWAII! So I am getting my wish. But I also really, really love Seattle. I miss the market and the Olympics rising over the Sound. Living in Tacoma has been wonderful, but a sunny day in Seattle has a magic that I’ll never truly get over.

What is your favorite scripture/quote?

This is, hands down, my favorite passage in scripture. I’m a big fan of David, of his reckless heart, his treacherous story, and most of all, the way he never stops believing in the grace of his heavenly father. There was a time in my mid-twenties I couldn’t bring myself to crack open the Bible, but I wrote this on a note card and looked at it every day.

You have searched me, Lord,
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.
You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

Psalm 130:1-12

Name something you could eat every day.

Sushi. Specifically salmon nigiri. It’s hard being pregnant.

Music artist/band that could never do wrong in your eyes (your favorite).

I can’t give a short and simple answer to this question, so here’s a short list of those who make me pretty darn happy: The Dixie Chicks, Natalie Merchant, The Weepies, Stars, Simon & Garfunkle, Adele, Hillsong, Fun!, Our Lady Peace, Matchbox 20, Third Eye Blind, and basically any and all alternative 90’s music.

*

I hereby nominate:

Katie at Just Enough Brave

Cat at The Cathartic Blend

Sarah at Sarah Elizabeth Finch

Amanda at Down Ups Teacups

Shannon at We’ll Eat You Up, We Love You So

Jessica at Keeping Up with the Joneses

Here are my questions for the bloggers I nominated:

  1. Why did you start your blog?
  2. Do you have a writing routine? If so, describe it.
  3. Who inspires your writing?
  4. Do you picture any particular person or people as your audience as you write? What are they like?
  5. What is your idea of the perfect day?
  6. Are you an introvert or extrovert?
  7. Pick one: what is the hardest thing or the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to you?
  8. What is your go-to self-care routine?
  9. What is your favorite book?
  10. What’s the best vacation you’ve ever taken?
  11. What have you learned about yourself through creating and maintaining your blog?

*

Thanks again to Andrea for the nomination! And special thanks to Jessica at Keeping Up with the Joneses for nominating me at the same time I was nominating her (don’t worry, Jess – you don’t have to answer my questions, too)!

I hope you’ll take the time to read through the blogs of these amazing women – they continue to inspire me each day.

xoxo,

etc