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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85044695243105661642019-09-14T03:10:05.681-07:00the "florkens"the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-721490189057596722019-06-26T08:51:00.004-07:002019-06-26T08:54:10.932-07:00Overcoming the Mountain
I'm overcome.

With anger.
With sadness.
With despair.
With rage.

I cling to my own child while reading horror stories about other children.
Children who weren't fortunate enough to be born in this country.
To be born white.
To be born middle class.
To be born privileged.

I cry.
Sometimes I cry at my desk at work.
Sometimes I cry in the shower.
I often cry in the car.

Then I'm overcome with guilt for my tears.
Who the hell am I to cry? I'm lucky. I'm untouched by these perils. My daughter is safe.
But the tears flow like clear, hot lava and my soul burns.

I've donated.
I've prayed.
I've journaled.
I've volunteered.
I've shared resources online.
I've called my elected representatives.
But I keep coming back to the same question, "What have I really done?" or rather, "What can I even really do?"

What can you do when you see a picture of a father and his young child face down, drowned in a river as they searched for a better life? A life I freely lead through no right other than circumstance and chance. First, I stopped to notice...

I noticed that the child was tucked under his shirt and that made me think about his actions before wading into the waters. How he probably comforted her, told her that by sharing daddy's shirt she would stay close to him... near his heart. I thought about how scared he must have been but how tucking his daughter into his own shirt must have given him some assurance that they'd be together. That they'd be okay.

I noticed how, even in death, the child clung to her father -- a little elbow crooked around his neck. That little arm signified a deep trust. Trust that daddy was doing everything he could. That daddy would keep her safe. My own daughter has clung to me in a similar way, but never through a coursing river as we journeyed towards safety, towards peace, towards a chance of life.

I couldn't stop thinking about their last moments. What he said. What the child did. What I was doing in my own life as they journeyed through literal hell on earth. I bet I was peacefully sleeping, my own child safe in the room down the hall where I can watch the rise and fall of her chest on a monitor.

Next, I wanted to do something, but what?

Cry?
Scream?
Curse the very earth I walk upon and all the horrors it spews upon humanity?

I've done those things. Hell, I'm doing them as I type this. But what do they accomplish? How do they stop the horror? They don't undue the torment on those young souls. They don't bring back the dead. They don't rain down justice on the perpetrators.

I say again -- I am overcome.

I ran from faith for a long time. I never truly stopped having it, but I quit embracing it. Embracing it felt like an acceptance of all the nasty things that have sadly become associated with faith. With hatred. With judgment. With pride. With arrogance. I couldn't bring myself to embrace those values so I convinced myself that I didn't need faith in my life on a daily basis.

But as I watch the horrors unfold around me I feel moved to reevaluate my position. As I stared at that picture of that sweet drown baby girl and her father, I remember...

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

I may be overcome but if there is a shred of justice in this world, they will be blessed.

I don't know how. I don't know when. But they must be.

I don't think I could stand to breathe another breath if I didn't have faith that somehow their torment on this earth would not stand unanswered and unaccounted for or if I believed that after the misery and toil of this world, nothing better awaited them. No, surely they are blessed. They are blessed beyond measure. Blessed more than any of us will ever be and I praise that and embrace it as fact based not on evidence, but on faith alone. I cling to that because I too am drowning, not in water but in sorrow and rage. I cling to this newfound faith. I need it as much as I need oxygen.

This new faith has brought new authors into my life and I recently I finished a book entitled "Jesus Feminist: An Invitation to Revisit the Bible's View of Women" by Sarah Bessey. The book isn't new but my discovery of it is. As I read, I got a sense that many other women, be they of faith or not, probably feel as overcome as I do now. You may feel overcome. In the book, she puts a spin on a favorite verse from my childhood. The verse is Mark 11:23 and it says: "Truly, I tell you, if anyone says to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and does not doubt in their heart but believes that what they say will happen, it will be done for them."

As a child, when I was nervous about a test or some other trivial thing, I'd turn to this verse and remind God of it. "I do not doubt!" I'd say. "I do not doubt that I will ace the ACT and get into a good college and get a good scholarship so I'm willing it into being through prayer per Mark 11:23 Lord. Let it be so. Cast this mountain into the sea!" I have nothing but deep sighs and eye-rolls for past me and my prayers that were narcissistic in nature, not to mention probably a borderline attempt to blackmail God with the Holy Book.

According to Sarah Bessy though, "[S]ometimes our most holy mountain-moving faith looks more like spending our whole lives making that mountain move, rock by rock, pebble by pebble, unsexy day after daily day, casting the mountain to the sea stone by stone rather than watching a mountain suddenly rise up and cast itself."

I see what the mountain is now. It isn't tests or high school crushes, it's hell on earth. It's children being separated from their families and left without basic provisions and care. It's families stuck in war zones at the mercy of people in power who think of nothing else. It's mothers who watch their children die of disease or hunger when resources existed to help -- but they just couldn't get past enemy lines. It's unarmed black men being gunned down in their own cars in front of babies. It's addicts who can't afford health care and high maternal mortality rates for people of color. And yes, it is a child clinging to her father, even in death, in a river on the border of the wealthiest, most powerful country in the world, one which also happens to so boldly proclaim: "In God We Trust."

That's a mountain. It's vast. It seems impossible to move. It's hard to overcome.

But we have to and if that means taking it pebble by pebble, well give me damn shovel! I'll rejoice in it. I'll kiss the blisters on my hand as they form!

You see, I've suddenly realized that "overcome" has another meaning... a powerful one. One that means I do not have to succumb to but rather, one that hints at a power I possess. One we all do. Bessy refers in her book to our "preaching-with-our-feet-and-voices-and-hands-money-lives." We have those and we can chose to wield them! Instead of feeling overcome by the mountain, we can decide that by deed, word, action, and faith we will instead, overcome it.

It won't happen all at once.
There will be more horrific stories and photos that will send us reeling and looking for answers. And it will be okay to seek them. We can cry. We can mourn. We can even ask ourselves why are we here -- blessed, happy secure -- while others are not. It's okay. But we cannot get so bogged down in despair that we forget that we've been enabled with a power to overcome. Our safety and security in this world comes with a solemn duty to those trapped by the mountains:

A duty to pick up a shovel and get to work.
We've got mountains to overcome.
 Here are some resources you can use to help move this mountain. Please grab a shovel -- we've got work to do:DONATE to one of these organizations:

Raices Texas is the largest immigration nonprofit in Texas offering free and low-cost legal services to immigrant children and families.

The Project Corazon Travel Fund sends volunteer lawyers and law students to the front lines of this humanitarian crisis so they can provide free legal services to those seeking asylum.

KIND or the Kids in Need of Defense has been leading advocacy efforts for kids in immigration detention.

United We Dream, the American Civil Liberties Union, Mijente, Immigrant Families Together and the Immigrant Justice Corps are coordinating advocacy and services at a national level.

Local organizations providing legal aid include the New Sanctuary Coalition in New York, Las Americas in El Paso, Americans for Immigrant Justice in Florida and the Denver Immigrant Legal Services Fund in Colorado.

Pay bail for parents who have been separated from their children so they can be reunited with their children.

PLEDGE

Use your frequent flyer miles to help get more attorneys to the border to provide pro bono immigration services to those being detained.

Sign online petitions to show elected officials that you are not okay with this humanitarian crisis occurring anywhere, much less on our own soil. Don't miss this one from the ACLU that will be sent to the Secretary of Homeland Security.

Use a spare room or property to host a refugee in crisis.

INFORM YOURSELF and OTHERS

It's not okay to bury your head in the sand and it is your duty to confront those you love who choose to do so. Read, listen or watch the news. I suggest NPR, PBS Newshour, and the BBC for solid reporting.

Learn the facts about family separation so that you can wield truth to those who are misinformed.

SPEAK OUT

Contact your elected officials today, tomorrow, and every single day about this crisis. Urge them to support the following legislation at the national level:

S. 3036 - Keep Families Together Act

H.R. 5950 & S. 2937 - The HELP Separated Children Act

H.R. 2043 & S. 2468 - Fair Day in Court for Kids Act of 2018

H.R. 6193 - The Central America Family Protection and Reunification Act

The Central American Women and Children Protection Act of 2019 - introduced in May of 2019 by Rep. Norma Torres (D-CA) and Rep. Ann Wagner (R-MO)

Find events near you so that you can speak out and show up in person.

Write an op-ed to your local paper detailing why you support ending this humanitarian crisis.

HOLD ELECTED OFFICIALS ACCOUNTABLE

You may not be able to hit the voting box for at least another 7-months or so, but make a plan now to only support political candidates who have concrete plans to end family separations and espouse productive and humanitarian methods of ending the immigration crisis in our country and reuniting families and children.

the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-56004930307396718642019-05-09T08:47:00.000-07:002019-05-09T10:06:37.087-07:00A Beautifully Terrible Motherhood Truth
Last night I had a moment. It was a moment that I think most moms (and dads) of growing kids could probably relate to. I had come home from work and Holland was excited to see me. She wanted to tell me about her day and to ask me about mine. I sat at the kitchen table, watching her effortlessly glide across the floor towards me, dancing and twirling as she came, and it hit me...

She isn't a baby anymore.

In that moment I was filled with both immense pride for the human being she is growing into but also, deep sadness that as the years slip by, I lose tiny pieces of her "babyness" that shall never return.

I paused and told her just how grown she looked and she just smiled widely. She, of course, only understands that growing into a BIG girl is a good thing. And it is...

This morning, as I drove into the office, a deep truth of motherhood that I'd never before understood hit me.

One day, if Holland chooses a life that includes children, she will understand those bittersweet moments I've experienced because she too will have them. More than that, she will understand the depth of a mother's love. She will understand the feeling of desperately wanting a child to sleep so you can just have a moment of silence and peace, only then to feel an intense (and irrational) desire to wake up that same child so you can hug them and be assured of their presence after running across a picture of them or, sometimes as it happens in the world we live in, reading or thinking about a sad story like a recent school shooting. She too will feel this intense, this amazing, this difficult, this relentless love for her child or children. But... she will never feel that for me.

Oh, she will love me. (At least, I hope she will). A child's love for a parent is a special bond in and of itself of course. It can also be deep and difficult and I personally believe it expands to new horizons once that child becomes a parent itself. It becomes more understanding of their parent -- of their hard choices and their sacrifices. But... it isn't the same. It is quite different than the love that a parent feels for their own child.

So becoming a mom is this amazingly terrible double-edged sword. Because, by doing so, in a sense -- you sign up for a love that will never quite be requited. You make this silent pact within yourself to give a piece of your soul up -- knowing deep down that the soul you are giving it to will never be able to give you the same piece of their own soul. That piece is, of course, reserved for their own future children. As it should be...

When this realization struck me, I quite literally lost my breath for a second thinking about the beautifully terrible nature of this cycle. It has such loss and sadness, but also, this prevailing hope that coaxes us into continuing it. It is as if the generations of humanity are built upon this deep and willing sacrifice that parents make that requires them to pour out a certain type of love that will never be returned to them.

When I arrived at my office, I found myself having to wipe away a few silent tears.
Silent tears marking the realization I had just made.
Tears for the sadness of knowing that my daughter won't love me, ever, in the same way I love her.
Tears for the intense joy of knowing that one day, my daughter will feel this love for her own kids.

Tears for the love my own mother poured into me that I'll never be able to give back to her in the way she deserves.

Tears for all the parents who have or who are participating in this beautifully terrible cycle of love and self-sacrifice that is the backbone of all humanity.

As I gathered my things and found my composure, I prayed a silent but thankful prayer.
Thankful for the love I received. For the love I give. And for the legacy of love that we all pass along through our beautiful children.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-25346511938374169632019-04-01T08:09:00.002-07:002019-04-01T09:32:51.774-07:00Why My Nose Stud is a Love Letter to My Nose
If I were a betting woman, I would bet that you don't like your nose.

Funny thing is -- I don't have to see your nose or even know who you are to probably be accurate in that guess. Odds are, you don't. Our noses are this weird thing in the center of our faces that help us taste our food and amplify the sounds we hear and yet, quite a few people don't like the version sitting on their face.

I'm one of those people.

Again, if I were a betting woman, I'd say right now you're thinking, "What? Your nose!? Why? There is nothing wrong with your nose!" But if I were to say the same about your nose, you'd disagree and be able to immediately pinpoint all of its perceived wrongs.

I don't recall a time in my life, ever, that I was consciously aware of my nose's existence and didn't hate it. You see, I share my rather distinct nose with other members in my family and extended family. And in the family, it has always been deemed an "unfortunate" nose. Wistful words about rhinoplasty around the house were not uncommon and it didn't take long for me to join in the lament.

My negative nose self-talk really didn't improve based on my school experience either. In addition to my "unfortunate" nose, I had rather prominent dark hair on my arms and legs. And since I was not allowed to shave my legs until 6th grade, school bullies had taken to calling me "Woolly Mammoth". One particular bully, Bryce, decided to up the torment when I was in 5th grade. He proclaimed that my nose was so pointed, it looked more like a beak than a nose and decided my new nickname should be "Woody Woodpecker." On days that Bryce and his friends were feeling particularly vindictive, they called me "Wooly Woody." That still stings a bit if I'm being honest.

With time, I shaved my legs (and arms -- yes arms!) and the Woolly torments eventually died down. But the Woody ones never really did. In fact, the day I graduated high school, I recall Bryce slinging his arm around my shoulder and saying something to the effect of, "Well, we made it Woody."

Needless to say, I became very self-conscious about the point and sharpness of my nose. I've never liked it. I've always said I would "fix it" as soon as I had the money. I was adamant on this point.

Until... I had my daughter.

After Holland was born, I took a reevaluation of my negative self-talk generally. I started to worry how it might influence her. I of course, want her to be happy and healthy, but I don't want her growing up with a mother who is constantly trying to lose 10 pounds or thinks that her thighs look terrible in shorts. I made a conscious decision early in her life, that in order to encourage her to love her own body, I must love mine. That took work and yes, some days I eat a whole pizza and start to doubt my own self-love. But for the most part, I'm happy with my body knowing that it has served me well and that I'm mostly, good to it.

But making peace with my nose has proven to be a much harder task. I often wonder how I will feel if my daughter grows up to have my nose. Will I think it is unbecoming on her as well? Surely not. Like everything about her, I'm sure I'll think that it is beautiful and amazing. So why then do I have a hard time accepting it being in the middle of my own face?

But if my child, in her early years of life, hears my own negative-nose talk, I'm afraid that she too is likely to learn by example that her nose is ugly. It breaks my heart that she might one day be as hard on herself about her nose as I have been, and continue to be about my own, on a daily basis.

That's why, last Friday afternoon, I got my nose pierced.

When I was a teenager, I got my naval pierced. Afterwards, I started making plans for tattoos and other piercings I would get once I was grown up and could decide for myself. One day, I said aloud to someone that I loved (and who loved me), that I would get my nose pierced. That person, full of doubt and hate for their own nose, wasted no time in telling me that was a bad idea. They said, "Kate, you don't put fancy treatments on an ugly window. It just draws attention where it shouldn't be."

That person loved and continues to love me deeply. But they were blinded by the very nose on their face and likely generations of people telling them that this nose is just not good enough. Regardless, their words have stuck with me. I think about them every time someone catches a photo of me in profile -- something I try to always avoid. I think about them when I put my makeup on each morning. I think of them each time I get a zit on or around my nose. "You don't put fancy treatments on an ugly window."

Maybe we should though.

Maybe, we can dress that window up enough that we'll look at it more often. And maybe, instead of avoiding it, all the attention put on it will slowly turn our disdain for that window into acceptance of it. And maybe with time, that acceptance will become admiration. And perhaps, if we are truly lucky, admiration will blossom into adoration. Maybe. Just maybe.

I've spent 32 years of my life locked into a pattern of avoidance and disdain towards the very nose on my face.

No more.
I'm done.
For me.
For Holland.
For future kids or grandchildren who might also share this nose one day.
The time has come for me to break the cycle. To break up with the self-hate.

I'm not there yet. Not even close. I still cringe at photos of me in complete profile and I find myself occasionally looking up plastic surgeons in my area.

But each time this tiny jewel catches the light and draws in my eye, I see my nose a little more clearly. And I have high hopes that one day, I'll be able to admire the window for itself. With or without the fabulous drapes.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-19347873863122695602019-02-20T12:27:00.000-08:002019-02-20T19:49:02.678-08:00Ending my Addiction to Fast Fashion
Overall the years, I've given up a lot of things in pursuit of a more ethical lifestyle that would also reduce my carbon footprint.

First, I gave up meat. Technically, I first gave up beef and pork. Then, over a year later, I finally gave up poultry as well. I had discovered the true cruelties of the meat industry, the terrible impact of meat on your physical health, and of course, came to terms with what I'd known my entire life as something that felt "wrong" to me. At first, giving these up seemed a little daunting but I soon realized that there were, in fact, pretty easy to do. My fear and comfort zone held me back more than anything. And making the changes made me feel better than ever -- physically, mentally, spiritually.

Next, I gave up all of the beauty and household products I had even known. I went from loving Clinique and pretty much everything that P&G sold to understanding the horrors of animal testing and just how dangerous many of the ingredients in those products are thanks to the US's super lax standards. I of course, replaced these items with brands that were cruelty-free and eco-friendly (including favorites like Dropps and Grove).

Then, I started parting with money by regularly donating to organizations that I believe are pursing worthwhile causes to support ethical endeavors around the word. This too felt good.

After that, the universe started to impress upon me the importance of sustainable and ethical fashion. It began when Adam randomly played "The True Cost" on Netflix one day. That led me to feeling reaaaaal crappy about my fashion choices and out of guilt, following a few key people in the sustainable fashion movement like Livia Firth online. But then --- Old Navy, GAP, and Target hit up my e-mail y'all and I bet you can guess what they offered me:

Cute clothes
Real cheap
Decent(ish) quality
Credit card that offers in-store rewards

And I bit. Hook, line, sinker. I continued supporting the fast fashion industry. Of course, I'd still get frustrated when a top fell apart after a first (or fifth) washing but I'd roll my eyes and think, "At least I didn't spend THAT much on it."

Then Marie Kondo told me to clean up my act. Not once. But twice. First with her book back in 2017. Then again with her Netflix special in 2019. Both times I threw out copious amounts of cheap clothing that I either never loved, no longer loved, never fit properly, no longer fit properly after washings, or that was worn out completely. Both times I vowed -- "Nope. Not again. Not me. I shall break my fast fashion habit."

Narrator: "She did not break the habit..."

I had good intentions. I did. I always DO. But I've been groomed my entire life to not only expect a bargain but to practically crave them. Each time I hit "Buy Now" my brain is flooded with feel good chemicals that softly whisper, "Sssh.. it's okay if it isn't exactly what you want or need. It will do for now. And you got such a great deal on it. Don't worry. You'll love it!" This is reinforced when tracking information is sent. Oh, I get a high from a watching a tracking number that is somewhat embarrassing to discuss. And don't get me started on the joy I feel opening the boxes that arrive on my front porch. It is... so freaking satisfying. It's a treat to myself from myself that, at least temporarily, makes me feel good about myself.

But like any addict - I know that my high is always temporary. And soon, I'll have to search for another promo code, another deal, another item to ship and track and open. The cycle repeats and as the highs fade I'm left with closet full of things I don't necessarily love.

Using the skills I've recently learned by reading The Power of Habit, I want to CHANGE when those feel good feelings flood my brain and what message they relay. And I'm proud to say, for the first time ever, I think I'm taking some concrete steps to override my addiction to fast fashion.

What's the plan now?

Well... first I raided my "sales" e-mail account. You know, that e-mail account you keep solely to provide to sales clerks when they ask if you are on e-mail lists or that you type in when you get to a website to get an initial promo code. Yup. That one. I raided it. It received, on average, roughly 60 messages a day from my favorite fast fashion retailers -- Old Navy, Gap, Banana Republic, Kohls, J. Crew Factory -- and I did the unthinkable to each e-mail: I opened them and I unsubscribed.

Then I went to my Instagram account and did something just as hard: I unfollowed nearly every single blogger in the feed that pushes products from these places (I will admit -- I left one or two on the follow list but only because I really like them a lot outside of them peddling cheap, fast fashion).

Next, I went on a mission to replace these things with quality, sustainable brands and ambassadors. If bloggers and promotions e-mails were fueling my fast fashion habit, then perhaps the best way to build a love for sustainable and ethical fashion was to find brands and influencers I loved. As online analytics picked up what I was doing, I was pushed ads for ethical, sustainable brands I'd never heard of before. I started to look forward to logging online and scrolling through Instagram just to see which new brand would advertise to me. By doing this, I also discovered tools like Good on You (supported by Emma Watson) that would further help me explore better options for clothing.

Then, I picked up Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion from my local library. I'm still reading it, but with each page that I turn I become more and more resolved to finally overcome my fast fashion addiction. I'm making plans... Plans that, in years past, would have raised my blood pressure.

Plans to cut up in-store credit cards altogether (Ek!)
Plans to stop looking at Target's clothing each visit (Gasp!)
Plans to never step foot into Old Navy again (*RIP Kate*)

Plans to, after YEARS to lip service, finally curate a sustainable, eco-friendly, ethical wardrobe that is versatile, somewhat compact, and that meets all my needs.
Plans to treat each and every piece of my wardrobe as an "investment piece".

This is hard. And yes, I realize that these choices I'm making are heavily influenced by my economical privilege. People can't treat every item of clothing they buy as an investment piece if they are worried about putting dinner on the table. But regardless of where you fall on the disposal income scale, you can make choices that will reduce your reliance on fast fashion. The best thing to do is to thrift -- give old pieces new life. Another great idea is swapping. Instead of trashing old duds, get together with friends and trade them. And if you have to venture into H&M for a piece of clothing, engage in some basic quality tests to see if it might (at least somewhat) stand the test of time.

Out of all the habits I've broken to reduce my carbon footprint on this planet, ending my love affair with fast fashion has to be the hardest yet. But I'm determined this time to see it through and I feel confident that I've already made more progress than in any of my prior attempts. I plan to keep updating here including sharing many of the brands, influencers, and resources I've discovered.

So tell me.. have you reduced your reliance on fast fashion?
What are your favorite sustainable brands and influencers?

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-29913197708312293122019-01-16T14:21:00.001-08:002019-01-16T14:21:29.096-08:00A Personal Revolution
Each year, like millions of others, I try to embark upon some new journey. To strive towards some new goal. To improve the life I'm already living in some novel way.

Some people do this by choosing a word to define their year.
Others do it by paying entrance fees to races they are determined to run or by buying new calendars and to-do lists.
I know people who don't necessarily mark the occasion with anything so concrete, but nonetheless make steady vows to themselves every time the ball drops.

I've been all of these people at one point or another.
I will be again. Perhaps I am now.

Like most, I think there is something refreshing about a new year; it's a new opportunity, a clean slate, and all that jazz. And while in truth there is never a perfect time to start a new journey, there is something whimsical about declaring one in conjunction with another turn around our favorite star.

In years past I've proclaimed to the world that I planned to focus on Intention and Effort. And while I indeed did just that, at least for a while, I would be lying if I claimed not to still struggle with both. Daily. Oftentimes by the hour.

Perhaps that's why this year, I've been a little slower to jump on the resolution bandwagon.
I'm not anti-resolution you see, it's just, well... I'm craving (and have been for some time) something greater than a resolution.

I need a revolution.
A personal revolution.

And truly, I can say that I'm in the midst of one. It began before January 1st though I couldn't tell you an exact time or place. It may have come from a place of self-love or self-loathing. I'm not entirely sure nor do I feel compelled to be. Either way, it pressed itself upon me before I had time to notice that I was stumbling towards it, not halfheartedly, but in dire need of it altogether.

My revolution is both grand and insignificant.
Some may notice changes while others perceive nothing out of the ordinary.
But me? I'm noticing.

Let's start with obvious changes: I've given up Diet Pepsi, a long-held favorite since the moment my lips took their first sugary, carbonated sip. I've also discovered a new, more holistic attitude towards self-care that has resulted in me being more consistent in the gym than I've been in my entire adult life. Perhaps most strangely of all, I've found this time to be not only rewarding, but wildly liberating in a sense I never expected. I've also begun reorganizing our home with a fervor and insistence that I don't think I have previously been capable of -- finding myself easily parting with things that a year ago I would never have parted with without substantial tears.

But those are just the obvious things.

The subtle changes are much less perceptible. They are, so intangible in fact, that I even find myself struggling to find words for them at all. It's been, if anything, a mindset shift that perhaps only I can truly feel though I still won't purport to fully understand it myself. It is ongoing. Evolving.

If I'm being honest (and it's my blog so I will), I've found myself taxed in recent years - not by life necessarily, but by myself. By the weight of the things that I've taken from others or that I've put on myself. These burdens are based on both inner and worldly expectations. I've done this willingly. Sometimes even happily. But it always ends in the same place and I'm discovered this simple fact: I don't want to live in that place any more.

So yes, this revolution of mine is personal. I'm dropping perceived notions of myself that I've held for decades and shedding the weight of opinion, judgment and skepticism of others. I'm taking a stand for what works best for me and being unapologetic when that doesn't align where others think it should. I'm rediscovering my life and how I relate to it in all aspects... emotionally, physically, spirituality, and mentally. It's like meeting myself for the first time and learning about my actual needs, desires, and interests.

In recent years, it's become more difficult to ignore the world around me. I embraced this fact and dived in unapologetically and head first. But I've discovered that life is both cruel and kind. It is shockingly just and still terrifyingly unfair. The pain and the elation of it all is overwhelming and yet, oddly serene. With these discoveries I've found an odd question burning on my lips: What about me?

Each day is unpromised yet it's impossible to live each as if it is our last.
What if, instead then, we just live each striving towards ourselves.
Not our best-selves. Just ourselves.
Towards inner-peace. Towards self-reflection. Towards those monstrously subtle delights that make this revolution around the sun worth the ride.

Viva la revolución.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-87863540768448111832018-12-21T09:53:00.002-08:002018-12-21T09:55:45.736-08:00Family Photocall
It has been awhile since I shared any family photos on the blog. When I was pregnant with Holland, someone told me that kids change the most in the first two years. I decided then and there that, for the first two years, we'd do family photos every 6-months just to document how much she changed. She was the sweetest little newborn (here) and the chunkiest 6-month old! By one, she was fiercely independent and determine not to stay still for photo shoots any longer. (I didn't share the 6-month or 1-year photos on the blog, but I did drop some on Instagram --> here, here, here, and here). By 18-months Holland had decided that zero-photo cooperation was the appropriate amount of cooperation to provide much to my chagrin. The fates must have been in my favor though because by the time her second birthday rolled around, #LittleLadyHolland had decided that hamming it up for the camera was literally the best thing in the world.

I love having these five separate photoshoots to look back on -- people were right! Holland changed an unbelievable amount in just two years. She went from this tiny bundle to this fiercely funny little girl. The journey itself was full of ups and downs, but the photos will forever be priceless.

It's been over a year since we last had professional photos as a family and as someone who has admittedly developed a bit of an obsession with family photos, that was far too long for me. So we recently called back up our favorite family photographer (Niki Zimmerman Images) and set out for mischief and ice cream.

I hope you enjoy both!

All photo credit to the amazing Niki Zimmerman Images

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-15177958048957072782018-12-17T09:48:00.001-08:002018-12-17T09:48:35.821-08:00Redefining Self-Care
I need to be honest: I haven't really been taking care of myself lately.

I like to pretend that I'm good at "self-care" because I can easily come home after a long day and treat myself to a bubble bath, a good book, and a glass of wine. I have no problem carving out the time or feeling guilty for doing so. In fact, you could say that this self-care has become a nice little routine I've fallen into and quite enjoy.

A few weeks ago I picked up a book called The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and in Business by Charles Duhigg. I found it incredibly eye-opening. It delved into how our brains work and just how frequently they rely on habit to get by. Basically - large portions of our day are entirely automated and we don't even notice. Moreover, it diagrammed out how we form habits and how over time, we unknowingly fall victim to them. I spent a few nights sunk deep in a hot bath, reading this book, sipping wine and suddenly I realized -- I'm a victim to myself. While relaxing bathes are self-care, they are not (and should not be) the only form of self-care that I participate in. In fact, if this is truly the only way I care for myself as a busy mom and wife (and it currently is), well -- I'm really failing in the self-care department.

With the help of the information in Duhigg's book, I think understand how I ended up in this mess:

Before Holland was born, I worked full-time but still had all the free-time in the world. I ate what I wanted to and seldom worked out. I never meditated or took any quiet time for reflection. But, I was in my twenties and my body was kind to me. And while I did have stressors at work or home, I never felt overwhelmed by any of it really. All of that changed when I became a mother.

After Holland was born, life was chaotic for six months. It was a hard six months of learning as I went and just barely getting by. I was sleep-deprived and overweight. I stressed about milk production and ate anything the internet told me to eat to boost said milk production. By the time Holland was six months old, I felt fat, frumpy, and quite honestly, very low emotionally. I barely recognized myself in photos so one day, I woke up and set out to create new habits and routines. Amazingly, I did! Maybe it was sheer luck and the fact that Holland started sleeping at night -- but I found a new inner strength and motivation that I didn't know I possessed. Not only did I lose all the baby-weight, but I lost an extra 10 pounds! I also got physically stronger than I had ever been before. I could lift weights. Run a mile without stopping (perhaps not impressive for some, but for me this was a miracle). I slept better at night. I focused better at work. I was eating healthier throughout the day. I was ticking all the boxes.

And then in May 2017 I was in a car accident. It was not a "major" accident by most standards, but my SUV was totaled and I injured my low-back. I was in and out of PT for months with no one being able to clearly articulate why I was in pain. I stopped working out. I stopped eating right. I stopped taking time for myself in any other form than "resting" or "relaxing".

When I felt stressed or was in pain, I relaxed in hot baths because they would soothe my back. I'd often throw in a glass of wine for good measure. Maybe a good book too. And for that little bit, I'd forget about my aching back. I'd forget about the stack of things at the office I needed to do. I'd forget about stressors in my marriage, my family, my life... I'd just... relax. I'd forget it all and in that moment, I felt like I was truly taking care of myself.

My low back injury was followed by a broken tailbone in the summer of 2017. And then broken ribs in the spring of 2018. With each of these injuries, I retreated further into my newfound habit for self-care... relaxation. Soon, each time I'd feel stress creeping in, I'd find myself longing for a quiet hot bath, a good book, and a glass of wine. Of course, I didn't always get to indulge in those things but in my mind, those became the only things that could possibly unwind me. The only way to take care of myself. I now see that I developed a poor self-care habit.

The other day I came across a graphic that said: "Take time for yourself: Mind, Body & Spirit."
It hit me like a ton of bricks.

I'm bad at self-care.

I never prioritize time for myself outside of a hot bath. You know, holistic self-care at least. Once I take a hot bath and drink a glass of wine, I mentally check off the "to-do box" for self-care and shift my focus to other obligations.

But... what about my mind? My body? My spirit?

I've been neglecting these because those forms of self-care aren't well, as self-indulgent as I'd like for my self-care to be. Those forms of self-care take more effort than simply blocking off 45-minutes alone for a hot bath. Those forms of self-care come with aching muscles, uncomfortable self-reflection and yes -- less baths and wine.

So I'm trying to redefine self-care. I want to do something for myself every single day.
That means carving out time to go to the gym. Consistently.
Or choosing the healthy snack over the chocolate one more often than not.
That means waking up early to meditate or journal even when the snooze button seems most appealing.
That means challenging myself to learn something new and quite possibly, hard.
That means risking failure but choosing consistency.
That means drinking plenty of water during the day and chamomile tea before bed.
And yes -- that can also mean hot baths and wine albeit, not with the frequency either currently occurs.

I think that true self-care isn't solely about seeking out the things you desire. It is about consistently making time for the things that you need regardless of whether you want them or not. Our needs and our desires are not always aligned. In fact, the Power of Habit made it clear that sometimes we cannot even see our own needs because our desires are driven so much by habit.

But I want to break those habits -- I want to redefine self-care.
Even though I really don't want to, I'm starting now.
And really, that's half the battle. So on to the second-half.

the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-59889001227541602332018-10-18T05:00:00.000-07:002018-10-18T05:00:03.201-07:00Year 31
Today, I turn 32.

My 31st year was full of highs and lows. Quite frankly, there were probably a few more lows than I would have liked. As of late though, I feel like the tide is finally turning in my favor.

This past year my marriage has faced challenges but withstood them and is beginning to blossom in such a beautiful, albeit unexpected way. I went through (but overcame) a bit of a depressive slump and have two wholly unplanned but meaningful tattoos as a result. I've been increasingly concerned about the state of the world but I've stepped up to the plate instead of retreating in fear.

But before I can officially put this year in my rear-view mirror, I must revisit my 40 by 40 list of things I hoped to accomplish this decade. Here's a brief rundown of what I've marked off my list in Year 31:

Wear (and Rock) Red Lipstick (Level 1)

Honestly, I've always been more of a Chapstick kind of gal. But when one of my best friends got married in France and I found a striking red dress and fascinator for the rehearsal dinner, I decided that I simply could not avoid my self-assigned red lipstick challenge any longer. I received so many compliments on my dress and fascinator but I was most surprised that people noticed (and loved) the lipstick. It went over so well that afterwords, I branched out and decided to occasionally wear lipstick to work and once, I even sported this bright red shade again just to get drinks with friends at a local wine bar. I mean, I don't even know who I am anymore! Who am I and what have I done with my Chapstick loving self? Just kidding -- there are currently at least three tubes of Chaptstick within my immediate reach so I haven't strayed too far from my roots. But I can appreciate the art of red lipstick now and even more, I think I may actually like it.

Participate in a Podcast (Level 2)

So I can't tell you which podcast I participated in nor can I tell you what we discussed, but I swear it happened. This year, I got to be an anonymous guest on a very popular website's new(ish) podcast. Let's say that this website is a sort of specialized advice column. I had written in with a question and much to my surprise, the webmaster asked if I would be interested in discussing my letter (and the issues in it) on the website's podcast. I was a little hesitant (mainly because like a lot of people, I'm not really a fan of my own voice) but Adam was super encouraging. He kept reminding me of this item on my 40 by 40 list and saying that there was no time like the present. Quite frankly, when I wrote this item on my list I was not envisioning participating in a podcast that had such a wide audience but I did it! I ended up really enjoying the experience itself and really enjoying the feedback I received on my question (both on the podcast and in the comments and feedback posted on the website following the release of my episode). All in all, I'm very happy that I listened to Adam's encouragement and marked this one off my list when I did.

Stay the Night in a Castle...er, Chateau (Level 4)

As I've mentioned, one of my dearest friends got married in France in May of this year. The trip was amazing save for the fact that I feel within hours of landing, I fell down a flight of stairs and broke four ribs (ouch!). One of the coolest things about the trip was the venue my friend chose to host the festivities and guests. We got to stay in this amazing Chateau (that's literally French for "castle" y'all). According to Wikipedia, a "castle" is typically agreed to be a private, fortified residence of a lord or noble. The castle we stayed in was the the Chateau de Jalesnes and it dates back to 1610. The Chateau's first occupant was the Marquis de Jalesnes -- Charles de Jalesnes. A "Marquis" is a nobleman who ranks above a count but below a duke. The Chateau had stately guest rooms, intricate gardens, heavy iron gates, and even an abandoned moat. So as far as I'm concerned, the Chateau de Jalesnes counts as a castle and I'm marking this one off my list.

_________________

And while I can't mark them off just yet, I've made strides towards accomplishing the following this year:

Write/Send letters to 3 mentors who have impacted my life (Level 2)

I wrote a letter this year to a dear mentor at my old law firm who has truly led an inspiring life dedicated to public service and progressive values. He is an older gentleman who has seen some of the worst things humanity has to offer and yet, he always looks for the bright side. In my letter, I recalled once taking Holland with me to the office while I chatted with some old co-workers. This man came came upon us and found Holland scribbling away with pens and highlighters at a friend's desk. He got on her level and spoke to her gently. When he got ready to depart, Holland gave him the piece of paper she had been coloring. My friend joked, "You may want to hang onto that, it could be worth something one day." This gentleman, without missing a beat responded sincerely, "It already is." That simple statement is an embodiment of everything he is and everything I strive to one day be. I am grateful that he has been a part of my life.

Visit three countries in Europe (Level 4)

It is very clear by now that we went to France this year. That's one European country down -- two (and hopefully more) to come!

Read Three Classics I Haven't Read Before (Level 1)

I had high aspirations of getting through at least three classics this year. I started off strong -- finishing (and loving) both Jane Eyre and Catcher in the Rye by the end of April. I took some time off to focus on work and preparing for our France trip. Sometime in July I started For Whom the Bell Tolls and strugggggggleeedddd my way through each page for months. Literally months. Every time I picked the book up I would just have this overwhelming sense of dread. I couldn't connect to the characters or to the writing. I found myself wanting to skip paragraphs then entire pages. It was, quite frankly, a disaster. A few weeks ago I finally admitted defeat and checked it back into the library half read. Shortly thereafter, I quickly powered my way through Eat, Pray, Love. But I don't think that Eat, Pray, Love qualifies as a "classic" so my quest for another classic will have to continue into Year 32.

_________________

So that's been Year 31. Bring on Year 32 baby!
Happy Birthday to me.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-57277838445120462602018-09-11T11:56:00.000-07:002019-02-21T09:33:53.454-08:00We Don't Have a Village
Parenting isn't for the faint of heart.
It is of course, wildly fulfilling but also terribly consuming. It makes me unbelievably happy and fulfilled and yet, there are days that I want to pull out my hair and run away.

In the busy and delicate balance of juggling work, parenting, and marriage we are told not to forget about ourselves. We are encouraged to find time away from the house with friends. We are told to pursue our individual interests. We are told to find time to indulge. We are told to prioritize our marriage.

What we are not told is that all of those things are harder to do when you don't have a village.
Villages are supposed to raise children. But our family does not live in a village.
Our family resides on an island. With a single house. And perhaps a partially rusted skiff tied to the dock.

Parenting is harder on an island.

On our island, there are three humans. One of them is fairly small but quite demanding.
We tend to revolve around her.
And the two larger humans are sometimes exhausted and cranky.
Okay, fine.. we are often exhausted and cranky.

Our island occasionally gets visitors. Grandparents drift in with general supplies and offers of childcare services. Their visits are nice and always appreciated. But they don't live on our island. They don't live anywhere near it. Sooner or later, they depart our little piece of shoreline and once again, we will find ourselves alone.

In the day to day of life our island is quite lonely. And it can be tough.

It is pretty difficult to escape our island. If we want a date night or any time away together, we have to make arrangements for someone to come to our island. And they don't make the trip for free. This means that our nights out are usually spent constantly watching the clock so that we can get back to our island before it costs us a small fortune. And of course, picking the most frugal and often-times least fun activities so that we can even pay for the privilege to leave our island.

I must admit I am often jealous of parents with villages.
I'm sure a village has drawbacks, but I long to have a reliable village to raise my daughter in. A village that would support us in our parenting goals and methods. A village that could offer her encouragement and love in our absence. A village that I knew I could count on when life got tough. A village that my daughter could come to rely on.

As I sit on my lonely shoreline, I see other islands. I see other parents in need of companionship and support. I see other islanders desperate for respite. And I start to wonder... maybe we should form an archipelago?

We could connect our islands. We could actively form pathways between them.
I can pledge to be there for another mom and she can pledge to be there for me.
My child becomes hers and hers becomes mine.

What if, instead of dreaming of a village I don't have, I just make one for myself?
For my family. For my daughter.
For your family. For your children.

Children grow best when they have broad experiences and exposures.
Children grow best when their parents are intentional.
Children grow best when mommy and daddy have a little sanity left over at the end of the day.

So I propose that islanders like myself decide that we longer live on a lonely islands with only our children. Rather, let's dive in and connect our lives to create a massive chain of islands with lots of children.

Perhaps children do grow best in villages.

But maybe they can grow just as well in an archipelago.

I'm certainly down for trying.

the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-86772693555145165232018-08-13T11:03:00.000-07:002018-08-13T11:10:24.882-07:00Ruffling feathers
I was born and raised in the South.
Despite its flaws, I love the South and for the most part, I love the way I was raised.
I was taught to respect my elders.
To always say "Yes Ma'am" and "Yes Sir."
I was taught to be kind.
To always be nice and agreeable -- especially to people in positions of power.
I was taught not to ruffle feathers or to cause a scene in public.

But....

Children are senselessly dying or killing others after gaining access to unsecured firearms.
Mothers are being murdered in front of their children by partners with histories of domestic violence.
Men are killing each other over parking spots and cell phone conversations in movie theaters.
Teens are taking their own lives with weapons they can easily obtain from family members.
And of course, as we know too well by now, we all live in constant fear that a madman with a gun will storm our office, school, grocery store, local restaurant, or park.

And despite these things, our culture and our politicians tell us that all we can do to protect ourselves from this nonsense is pray and pack heat ourselves.
They tell us that it is all about "defense" and that there is no offense we can play in this game.
I grew up where the Friday Night Lights shined bright and I know that there is always an offense.

It is time to ruffle feathers.
It is time to cause a scene.

Last week, I had the immense pleasure of attending Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America's annual leadership conference aptly named, Gun Sense University ("GSU"). Even though I've been a volunteer, member, and leader for the Arkansas Chapter of Moms Demand Action for quite awhile now, I was eager to meet up with other mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and yes, gun owners, who like me -- desire to see some sanity introduced into the "gun debate" in our country.

In the event you do not already know, Moms Demand Action is a non-partisan organization that (much like Mothers Against Drunk Driving) was created to demand action from legislators, companies, and educational institutions to establish common-sense gun safety reforms. The organization is not "anti-gun" but rather, believes that the 2nd Amendment and common-sense gun safety measures can (and should) co-exist. Moms Demand Action envisions a country where our children and families are not constantly plagued by gun violence and it works towards this goal by educating, motivating, and mobilizing supporters to take action that will result in stronger laws and policies at local, state and national levels.

GSU was overwhelming for me in a lot of ways. I spoke with survivors of gun violence. I hugged mothers who had their children murdered by someone who should not have had a gun. I sat and talked about self-care and racism with a woman who had been shot five times (3 of those in the head) by her partner in front of her two young children. I listened to friends and family who lost someone they loved dearly to firearm suicide. I learned from police officers and community health workers who talked about real-world consequences of the number of guns on our streets and how they end up there in the first place. I danced alongside those who once contemplated taking their own life but were able to get help before they were able to find a gun. Hell, I even got to share a belly laugh with a celebrity I've always loved who shares my passions.

I was so inspired by people with full-time jobs and multiple kids who despite having just as much time in their day as the rest of us, still manage to care so deeply about gun violence prevention that it has become their life's work. I walked away from GSU knowing that things can change. Even better, I walked away knowing that things are changing. And they aren't changing because a handful of full-time activists are coordinating huge national strategies backed by millions and millions of dollars either.

They are changing because a single mom in Indiana chooses to write postcards supporting Gun Sense Candidates during her kids' nap time.

They are changing because a working father in Florida enters volunteer information in a Moms Demand Action data bank at night rather than spending an hour scrolling through Facebook.

They are changing because a grandmother in California who has never "been political" learned who her state representatives were and decided to go talk to them during the legislative session about how important gun violence prevention is to her and her family.

They are changing because a teenager who watched the aftermath of the Parkland shooting decided they didn't want to live in fear anymore so they attended a meeting with peers to talk about things they could do to help.

They are changing because an Aunt in Arizona attends a festival and hands out free gun locks and a flyer to people who pass her table.

They are changing because a stressed out mom in Texas, who juggles a full-time job and boatload of responsibilities at home, decided that she could find one hour a week to contribute to the cause.

You see, they are changing because average citizens are finally mounting an offense. Our offense is currently 5 million volunteers strong.

Activism is sometimes scary.

It can seem overwhelming and hopeless. It can seem as if you are already treading water and that adding one more task might cause you to drown. It can seem like you don't have anything of value to offer to a movement or cause. Or for those like me, it can seem to go against your nature or the way you've been raised.

It ruffles feathers. It can cause a scene.

But activism doesn't have to be scary.

Activism can be brainstorming gun violence prevention strategies with friends over dinner. Activism can be making a few phone calls a month. Activism can mean wearing a t-shirt to the grocery store and being prepared to explain it to a random stranger who may ask. Activism can mean giving up one hour of TV or Facebook a week to do something that will have long-term meaning on the world that children (perhaps, your children) are growing up in.

Activism can be as simple as texting "JOIN" to 64433 today rather than putting it off any longer.

Activism is offense.

I've had #Enough so I'm in the game.
Are you?
the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-85051711239400943212018-07-27T09:40:00.001-07:002018-07-27T09:40:37.369-07:00My Actual Size
From the point in my life where I truly became "aware" of sizing (more specifically mine), I was a Size 4. Comfortably. Over time, I started to identify with this fact. That sounds weirder than it probably is -- all I mean is that I knew easily and without hesitation that I had brown hair, freckles and was a Size 4. I had nothing against other sizes per se. Those other sizes just... weren't mine. I was a Size 4.

As I transitioned into maternity clothing, I was not the least bit worried about growing out of a Size 4. I assumed it would be a temporary adjustment and that with time, I'd come back to my "normal" size. After my traumatic labor and delivery, I was in no rush to return to a Size 4. Losing weight was the last thing on my mind. I did however, continue to assume that in the future I would eventually be a Size 4 again.

At roughly six month postpartum, I set out to lose the weight. It was relatively easy for me. I started working out a few days a week. I cut down my nightly wine habit. I brought a healthy lunch to work instead of ordering delivery. Before long, I was once again comfortable in a Size 4. That journey, if anything, only cemented in my mind that I was indeed, a Size 4.

But here's the thing... that's changed.

It has taken me many, many months to admit that's changed. Not necessarily because I'm ashamed of no longer being a Size 4 (I'm not) but because being a Size 4 has been such an active part of my identity for nearly my entire adult life. It felt odd to disassociate myself from it.

However, over the past several months my mood instantly soured when I got dressed. It took me awhile to figure out the reason. One day, it hit me: The act of getting dressed made me feel bad about my body.

Each time I'd zip up my Size 4 pants, my self-esteem would plummet. Sure, they zipped. I could even sit in them and somewhat breathe in them. But they were not actually comfortable to me. In fact, I'd find myself unbuttoning them if I sat at my desk for long periods of time. Or immediately rushing to take them off when I got home. Once off, I instantly felt better about myself.

You see, I like my body. I like my lifestyle.
I didn't like my pants.

I was allowing an arbitrary tag number sewn into a waistline determine how I felt about my body and my lifestyle. I realized that the pants hanging in my closet are 100% within my control. I was literally choosing to feel bad about myself.

Is it silly to identify with being a particular size? Maybe; maybe not.
Is it silly to continue to identity as any particular size when it is making you feel bad about a life and body you are otherwise content with? YES!

"If it costs you your peace, it is too expensive."
Being a Size 4 is too expensive for me in this stage of life.

In this stage, I'm putting in extra hours at the office.
In this stage, I'm only able to hit the gym on occasion.
In this stage, I use my downtime to play with my toddler and catch up on self-care.
In this stage, I want to occasionally enjoy ice cream or cupcakes with said toddler.
In this stage, I enjoy unwinding with hot baths and cold glasses of Chardonnay.
In this stage, I am a Size 6.

In the next stage, I may be a Size 4 again. Or not. I could be a Size 8 or a Size 10.
Hell, in the next stage I may no longer be a brunette (hello age!).
That's going to be okay with me too because being healthy and content does not come only in particular sizes or colors.

I'll be 32 in a few months. I'm ashamed that it has taken me that long to learn that cornerstones of my identity may need to fluctuate. For me, that was the size of my pants. For you, it may be something else entirely. Either way, it is okay to be happy being something other than what you've always identified yourself with -- time and circumstance molds us all.

Today, I'm happy being a Size 6. And being nearly 32. And being a brunette -- but I now truly understand that all of the above are subject to change.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-63594558031638291692018-07-20T12:29:00.003-07:002018-07-20T12:29:48.334-07:00But first, savor.
I often let things get me down.

Personal struggles.

Relationships.

Anxieties.

And lately, the state of the world.

Recently, I found myself in a sort of depressive "slump" wherein I was wrestling with each of these continually. They invaded every thought I had and every action I took. I could no longer brush them aside and busy myself with a day's work. Rather the opposite in fact. I found myself unable to do even simple tasks. One day in particular was so bad that I could not will myself out of bed. It was all consuming.

The slump was deep but I practiced self-care. I went to my therapist. I journaled. I was proactively mindful during the day. I listened to calming music. I gave myself extra space and grace. I wrote down affirmations. I indulged in things that brought me joy.

And if you follow us on Instagram, you'll know that I went on an impulsive streak and got two new tattoos. Little by little, I felt the fog lift. I could still see and feel everything surrounding me, but none were dictating my journey. At times, my slump was deep and dark. And while I did arrive at the other side of it, I arrived a changed woman. For that, I am actually very grateful. In the darkness you see, I discovered (and re-discovered) things that made my life brighter. Lighter. Happier.

I learned to focus on my breath. Silly? Perhaps. But stop... right now. Don't change your breathe. Focus on it. Each is special. Each is a gift. Each can never be repeated or reclaimed. Ever. There is

.deep power in knowing that...in remembering it

I learned that life gives us respite. In fact, each day has a built in period of rest. We can toil all day, but the sun eventually relents. So too should our anxieties. Give them a break. You can pick them back up in the morning. But each night, lay them aside.

I remembered that I cannot pour from an empty cup. I cannot be the wife, mother, friend, employee or volunteer people deserve unless I fill my own cup. I need to attend to this task with care and

.reverence. So should you

I learned that I accomplish more if I focus on less. Spreading yourself thin -- even just mentally -- diminishes your overall effectiveness.

I remembered how much I love my life. It is easy to get caught up in wanting more or wanting different. But when I stop and look around me, I remember that everything was carefully selected by

.me or for me. It is already perfection

I remembered the power of small pleasures. Each is more than a moment -- they are tangential reminders of a life well led.

I learned that self-discovery does not end in your teens or 20's. The ability to surprise yourself is just

.as stunning and exhilarating as always

I learned that acceptance is not the waving of a white flag. Rather, it is merely acknowledging the path before you so that you can see the briars instead of becoming ensnared by them.

I learned that Force ultimately fails one way or another. It's counterpart Flow however, is merciful

.and generous in her own time

I remembered that less is more in most aspects of life. Brushing aside the unnecessary leaves you more space to enjoy the needed.

I learned that life is best when it is lived. Not wished away. Not muddled over. Not fussed about. It is

.best when you dive into each day with one mission: to experience it

I learned what it felt like to truly savor something. Not to just acknowledge it, but to drink it in so deeply that it almost hurts. To have a laugh or gesture truly radiate within you. Truly savoring something allows you to recall it with such specificity and strength that you almost transport back into a moment or memory. True savoring is magic. We should all try it more.

Yes, my fog has lifted. Trudging through it was not pleasant but it was profound. I cannot and will not declare that it shall never happen again. I do know with certainty however, that if it does, I will be better prepared for my journey. And even better, I now find myself equipped with magic I had either long forgotten or which had been unknown to me before entirely. I cling to this magic now. Not out of fear. Not out of obligation. But because it is merely, life after the fog.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-80182080332274239522018-06-25T12:13:00.000-07:002018-06-26T06:27:19.029-07:00Flow; Not Force
Life is a puzzle. But we are too close to the pieces of our own puzzle to know what it truly looks like to others. I sometimes sit back and imagine what people see when they see mine.

I want them to look at my life and see, a hard-working mom. A caring wife. A community activist.
I want them to see my love for others. My devotion to living a life of meaning and kindness.
I want them to see someone who loves to laugh.
I want them to look at me and see someone worthy of everything she has been handed.
Someone who tries to enjoy it but also, someone who actively tries to pass some of it along.

But I am sometimes unsure if that's what people truly see.
Because often, that's not really who I am.

I am a mom who sometimes goes to the office only because I know it will pay my mortgage and mean someone else will watch my child long enough for me to drink a cup of tea before it goes cold.
I am a wife who isn't always grateful or kind to my partner. I sometimes resent him.
I am a community activist who often finds it draining and overwhelming. I sometimes just want to give it all up and live in blissful ignorance.
I am someone who sometimes loathes. And sometimes the loathing of certain people or things overwhelms me and brings me to dark places.
I am someone who occasionally wants to cry for no good reason at all.
I am someone who isn't worthy of even a quarter of the things life has handed to me and still, I often find myself asking for more. Asking life to give me even more things I do not deserve.
I am someone who likes to receive and sadly, someone who is constantly comparing and coveting.

That puzzle isn't pretty. And I physically shutter when I think about others discovering it.
I don't want people to see it. But is that who I am?

It isn't. At least, not always. You see, these two sides of me are not constant. I ebb and flow between them. Sometimes, I remain in one longer but ultimately something snaps me back to the other. When I feel the less desirable qualities coming through, it is like I can see my puzzle change. I see the darkness and the ugly seep into the pretty picture I've portrayed.

So I spend considerable time and energy focusing on maintaining the "good" side of myself.
I try forcing myself to be a cheerful giver when my desires are to the contrary.
I try smiling when I want to cry.
I try selling myself as a wonder-parent when the one thing I'm actually wondering is how quickly bedtime will come.
I try not to long for more than I have. I try not to indulge in things I do not need.

At first, this forcing feels good. It feels like my puzzle looks brighter -- prettier. That feedback encourages me to keeping forcing it. So I do.
But in time, the forcing starts to hurt. It creates this tangible pain inside of me. I can feel the pressure of it rise up within my chest. It boils. It threatens to bubble over.

It is not sustainable.

I think I'm starting to learn that the ebb and flow of life (even with the bad) beats a forced one.
I think I'm starting to learn that I can be both. My puzzle isn't wholly beautiful nor is it wholly ugly.
My pieces may never even fit together and I'm starting to be okay with that in ways I have never been before. I catch myself reaching for pieces only to remember they are not for me. So I decide to stop.
Someone else can have that. Someone else can be that.

Maybe your puzzle is wonderful through and through.
Mine isn't.

Mine, like me, is comprised of messy, complicated things and emotions.
Mine, like me, is beautiful to some and less desirable to others.
Just like me, my puzzle is complicated. And I'm starting to be okay if the world sees that in me.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-92081173784693664552018-06-15T09:24:00.003-07:002018-06-15T09:36:25.104-07:00Families Belong Together
I am a mother.

Typically, I don't lead with that statement because I am also a lot of other things. And in our society, women are sometimes pigeonholed and their identity as a mother is used to place them in a very narrowly defined category. For that reason, I usually like to let people know that I am a lawyer. A feminist. A wife. A friend. And yes, also a mother.

But this week, the "mother" part of me has been distraught. The lawyer part of me has had to go into the office and do "lawyerly" things. The feminist part of me has continued to call out sexist behavior and support the women in my life. The wife part of me arranged for a date night with my sweet husband. The friend part of me set up dinners and reunion weekends.

But the mother part of me?
Well, she raged this week.
She wept this week.

Photo Credit: theRealNewsNetwork

She raged and wept at the cruelty that is occurring on the southern border of this once-great nation. She put herself in the shoes of those mothers. She imagined her own child. Her sweet, precious, innocent child -- full of wonder and potential. She imagined that child being ripped from her arms. She imagined that moment -- her child screaming and her arms bare. She imagined that child put in a cage. She imagined that child crying for her warmth. For her comfort. She imagined that child being scared without its mother there to provide reassurance. She imagined that child alone and afraid. She imagined scary strangers with weapons and harsh faces, instructing that child to eat or bathe. She imagined it all and the thought broke her. It broke her.

But these thoughts that tortured the "mother" in me this week, well... they didn't happen to me.
They have and are however, happening to other mothers. And that doesn't break me. It shatters me.

Last night, I put my child in her bed. I placed warm blankets over her. I kissed her cheeks and her tiny nose. I sang her our favorite lullaby. I told her that I loved her and that she made me happy.

I wonder what that mother did last night. I wonder how she managed without her child in her arms. I wonder how that precious child fared last night. I wonder if it cried itself to sleep.
Why has that mother been destined to a different fate than I?

Is it because she is brown?
Is it because she is poor?
Is it because she is out of options?
Is it because she didn't have the fortune of being born in this country?
Is it because her native lands aren't safe for her and her child?
Is it because she did the only thing she could to help her child live a better life?
To to live at all?

You see, to me -- those are reasons to help this mother and her children. Those are reasons to embrace her. Those are reasons to give her comfort and shelter. Those are reasons to show her love and mercy. Those are reasons to care.

But our country's leaders see those reasons as cause to persecute her. Reasons to treat her a subhuman. Reasons to punish her. Reasons to belittle her. Reasons to actively do her harm.

Honestly, I don't care about your political identification today. I don't care how you voted in 2016. I don't care if you identify as pro-life or pro-choice. I don't care what church or religious persuasion (if any) you find solace in. I don't. Not even a little.

I do however, care if you cannot find love and mercy in your heart for this woman. For these women. For these children. For these families. If you cannot? Well, I think there is a very special place in hell for you.

And if you do find love and mercy in your heart, I care that you act on it.
Call your Senators. Call your Representative.
Post about it online. Raise hell.
Demand that our government find love and mercy as well. Demand it. Demand it over and over again until this madness ends.

Silence is complicity.
Do you want to be complicit in this human rights violation?

The mother in me continues to rage and weep. But she also is taking action.
Please, for the love of God and His people, join her.

#FamiliesBelongTogether

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-55976953378865848672018-06-07T10:10:00.000-07:002018-06-07T13:48:35.724-07:00Our Stalemate
My marriage is happy. My daughter is amazing.

I love my job. I have a great network of friends.

I say these things - not to brag - but to convince myself that I'll somehow be okay.

That I will be happy and whole.

Still, I have doubts.

You see, I desperately want another child.

We are not infertile. We are both healthy. We are not financially incapable.

I sometimes tell myself that if any of those things were true, it would make this time in my life easier in a morbid sort of way. It would somehow absolve me of the illusion of choice and while it would, of course, come with its own trauma and sadness, at least I'd have a path to travel that I knew I could not change.

Instead, I now travel a path that has a tiny sliver of hope but alas, not enough to change its ultimate destination. It is a path people don't openly discuss. A path people do not warn you about. A path there aren't "help" articles about or online communities you can turn to and vent your frustrations, sadness, and fears. A path that, when shared with outsiders, there is much sympathy for but very little "true" understanding of. On this path, there are plenty of things to say and yet, so much more that is simply left unsaid. My path is this: My husband and I disagree as to whether we should have another child.

He is adamant he does not want another. I desperately do.

I have always wanted a big family. Adam has not. We did discuss the issue before we got married and came to, well, an agreement on numbers and general timing. But the realities of fatherhood changed Adam's opinions and now, we are at a stalemate. Normally we are in lock-step traversing this world together, but this is one area we cannot seem to reconcile.

And this particular irreconcilable difference influences the contours of the world around me.

I no longer feel intense joy when friends and acquaintances become pregnant or give birth. Instead, I feel bitterness. A deep, dark bitterness that is ugly and unkind. This bitterness also takes hold at seemingly random moments -- like when friends casually discuss their own family planning or when I see siblings arguing over who gets to sit in the shopping cart at a store. It even rears its head when someone mentions their own adult siblings or tells stories from their childhood. It cuts deep and I feel myself retreat back into a kind of despair. One where I avoid uttering my biggest fear aloud; that this stalemate will not have a happy resolution for me.

Of course, Adam's feelings on the topic matter. They matter as much as mine. And they are strong. Just as strong as mine. He has his reasons and his logic. Those must also be honored. And it wouldn't be fair to bring a child into this world if it isn't wholly wanted by both of us. Another child simply wouldn't be. He doesn't long for it. He doesn't want it.

But I do. Every fiber of my being wants it.

My heart isn't done. It isn't done with pregnancies or childbirth. It isn't done with mothering a newborn or watching first steps. And my heart longs. It longs to watch my daughter nurture a younger sibling. It longs to see how different or similar a sibling would be to her. It longs to watch them grow up together - getting on each other's nerves, having each other's backs, and ultimately being each other's family.

But each day, I grow closer to the dark realization that my heart isn't likely to get what it wants. At least, not fully. It, of course, can still have the happy marriage, the amazing daughter, the awesome job and the wonderful friends. Those things aren't going anywhere and I try to find solace in that fact.

But it is a very real possibility that I shall never again feel the kick of life growing inside of me. That my arms will never hold another infant that belongs to me. That Holland will never know the deep love and loathing you can have for a brother or sister. That my life, as happy and as wonderful as it is, will never truly be whole in a way that it could have been had the stalemate just ended differently.

"Our parting was a like a stalemate...

Neither of us won.

Yet both of us lost.

And worse still... that unshakable feeling that nothing was ever really finished."

-Ranata Suzuki

I want to be happy.

I want to be whole.

I will be happy.

I will be whole.

But this path I travel... is one, I fear, will never truly be finished.

the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-2020452579450853732018-02-21T12:07:00.000-08:002018-06-07T10:18:19.184-07:00If My Daughter Dies in a Mass Shooting: Her Extended Family is Culpable
Here we are two months into 2018 and we've already experienced our 18th school shooting. That brings the total number of mass shootings in 2018 to 30. In terms of frequency of violent gun deaths, we track a lot closer to Iraq than we do to our culturally similar cousins in the UK. This makes us 31st, out of 195 countries, on the list of gun violence worldwide. That isn't surprising given that 6,575 gun related incidences have occurred thus far in this country.

I'm angry that gun violence is somehow still a thing in this country. I'm frustrated at our ineptitude to mitigate this problem as we would any other. This is primarily due to our cultural indoctrination and political maneuvering. You'll hear politicians of one party and one party alone saying something akin to, "it's too soon to talk about gun legislation" or "we shouldn't politicize guns". It wasn't too soon to start talking about treating opioids when it turned out thousands of people were dying each year from exposure (though we seem to be fairly stagnant on that front too). We talked about water quality after Flint, MI, we talked about vaccines after Zika and Ebola outbreaks, and we're talking about infrastructure because roads and bridges are crumbling. Takata airbags cause deaths and we talked about (and implemented) a recall. Hell, things don't even have to be real for people to talk about them such as "voter fraud" and "immigrant criminals". So it seems an unwillingness to talk or do anything about guns is a mix of willful ignorance, cognitive dissonance and party affiliation.

I cannot fathom how gun violence still runs so rampant in this country. The statistics are overwhelmingly in favor of passing gun restrictions of any degree. More guns in a given area results in more gun-related deaths. That trend holds up both nationally (additional source) and globally. More guns in an area means a higher rate of police deaths by firearms. Roughly 1,300 children die a year from gun violence and hundreds are due to unintentional discharges in their own homes. Mass shootings predominantly take place in public areas (not gun free zones) and are more frequently halted by unarmed civilians than armed civilians (21 incidences vs 5 incidence) according to the FBI.

So let's take it down even further, line by line. Background checks do, in fact work (here, here and here). These acts are not committed predominantly by the mentally ill (here, here and here). More armed citizens does not equal less crime (here and here). Gun buyback programs do work (here and here). Mass shootings account for a very small percent of gun violence. The government is not coming for your guns (here). Arming yourself does not make you or your family safer (here, here, here, here, here, and here). Arming yourself increases the probability of you acting aggressively and possibly using your firearm in an aggressive manner (here, here, here, here, here, and here). Women are far more likely to be shot and killed in this country relative to other industrialized nations (here) oftentimes by intimate partners (here). Arming a domestic abuser also increases the likelihood other loved ones and innocent bystanders will also be shot. In fact, domestic abusers are the predominant actors in mass shootings.

We don't even need these detailed studies to make a qualitative assessment. When we compare ourselves to other Western democracies (meaning predominantly white, predominantly Christian) we see that our rates of gun violence are substantially higher. Australia had a mass shooting 1996 so the government enacted a gun buyback program. Mass shootings are virtually nonexistent and overall gun violence decreased. Britain had a mass shooting in 1987 and enacted stricter gun ownership laws and gun violence has been dropping ever since. The U.S. does not have a monopoly on violent crime or the mentally unstable. What we do seem to have a monopoly on is guns (~5% of world population with ~50% of civilian owned guns). The sheer volume of guns and the ease of their access is the only significant deviation we have from our cousins across the pond that accounts for our firearm epidemic.

All that was a bit non sequitur to my actual thesis: If gun violence strikes my daughter, her extended family is culpable. That may seem harsh but that does not make it untrue. We live in Arkansas and her extended family reside both here and in Texas. So when her family acts irresponsible at the ballot box, they put her in danger. An uninformed vote can be as deadly as a bullet and here's how:

Voting for Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, and George W. Bush put Scalia, Kennedy, Thomas, Roberts, and Alito on the bench of the U.S. Supreme Court. Those 5 Justices were the majority in handing down the District of Columbia v. Heller decision, which drastically expanded gun rights for the civilian population. Votes to send John Boozman (AR) to the US House of Representatives along with whatever Republican was on the ballot for Texas yielded a Republican majority in both chambers of Congress that failed to extend the Federal Assault Weapons Ban in 2004. In turn AR-15's have become a mainstay in mass shootings. A vote for whatever default Republican on the ballot for Texas Governor or Congress resulted in the state becoming open carry, allowing guns on college campuses and significantly broadening civilian use of deadly force situations. A vote for Bart Hester in the Senate and Robin Lundstrum in the House of the Arkansas General Assembly allowed a bill to expand permissible concealed carry locations to land on the Governor's desk. A vote for Asa Hutchinson as Governor got that bill signed into law. Furthermore a vote for Asa Hutchinson has now caused Arkansas to become a de facto open carry state (based on the Governor's broad interpretation of a 2013 law). The federal level isn't any better as a vote for Republican Senators led to the defeat of universal background check and no-fly no buy bills following the Pulse nightclub shooting.

This is so damn ridiculous. It's that simple. More guns is not the answer. "Good guys" with guns are not the answer (here, here, here and here). It is not anecdotal or hyperbole; it is empirical. So if you want to do something, then be more sensible when you vote because voting has consequences. In this case, those consequences can end lives. Get it together before someone you love ends up on a victims list.

Here are better written summaries of the facts (here, here, here and here).

the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-71035000581955004472018-01-23T12:53:00.002-08:002018-06-07T10:18:43.594-07:00Compromise is NOT a dirty word
Back in elementary school I was, admittedly, a bit of a bully. I never called people fat, stupid, or ugly. It wasn't that kind of bully. But I wasn't the easiest-going kid on the playground. You see -- I really liked getting my way. That meant that if I wanted my playground friends and I to swing, we would swing. If I wanted to play Red Rover, we played Red Rover. I think you get the picture.

I honestly never saw myself as a bully, but looking back at it all now I can clearly see what I was. In high school, a young woman who I was casual acquaintances with at that point, laughingly told me that once in elementary school I slapped her across the face because she kept advocating for a different game than the one I wanted to play. She may have laughed about it but I was shocked. I have zero memory of this incident but I cannot outright contest it because I know that I was a very strong-willed child who did not like to compromise.

As a near-adult, learning that I may have physically hurt someone because I didn't want to give in, was well -- sobering. It honestly scared me a little and it shamed me a lot. But it also made me very, very grateful that I did, in fact, grew up and learned the art of compromise.

I feel that as a society, we have reverted to our baser selves and have begun to abhor the idea of compromise.
And that's no good.

Barry Goldwater once said that politics and governing demand compromise.
He was right. It does. And when we have entire political parties taking no-compromise pledges, progress on all fronts grinds to a halt.

Earlier this week, Congressional Democrats struck a deal to reopen the government with the GOP. The deal essentially funds CHIP for 6-years (funding for CHIP had previously expired and the GOP refused to bring it to a vote thus jeopardizing the health care of approximately 9 million children in our country) and it reopens the government until February 8, 2018. In addition, the Democrats obtained public assurance that the GOP will allow a vote on DACA. DACA is a program instituted by the Obama administration that protects approximately 800,000 illegal immigrants who were brought to our country as children from being deported. In September of 2017, President Trump decided DACA would expire in March of 2018 unless Congress took action. Public support for DACA is overwhelming and the consequences for it expiring are truly terrifying for families and could be devastating for our economy. Once this deal was struck however, people immediately took sides. Trump and company proclaimed that the "Democrats Caved" and Democrats worried that Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer sold out DACA recipients, those supportive of the DACA program, and of course, larger immigration reform.

And while, as a former playground dictator, I understand the urge to be terribly unsatisfied with not immediately getting everything you want -- I feel that these knee jerk reactions against good ole' compromise cannot possibility be good for us as a society.

As much as I wish everyone in our country would decide to tighten up on gun control, stop spending massive amounts on beefing up our military, start investing more in early childhood education (and education generally), declare healthcare a basic human right by changing to a single-payer system, and make serious progress on prison and immigration reform, I realize that's not going to happen. It just isn't. At least not any time in the near future. But the next best thing is working towards those things in a multitude of ways. I can obviously advocate for them personally; I can call my Congressmen and write letters until my hands cramp. I can help raise the next generation to be better and to do better by teaching them to that love, compassion, and empathy are the keys to everything -- looking at you #LittleLadyHolland. But I can also compromise and get some of the things I want now in the hopes that in the future, as the situation and demographics of our country evolve, I can get even more of the things I want. That allow can change minds, change representation and ultimately, it can change votes.

Compromise is not a dirty word but we are treating it like it is. Compromise should be a word that invokes pride because strategic compromise is truly a fierce thing to behold. It is truly magical to "fold" in a such a precise way that you end up getting exactly what you wanted anyhow all while your opponent is none the wiser. Young playground me did not understand that and now, I fear that America does not understand that either.

Despite all the outrage at the deal Schumer reached with the GOP, I am okay with it. I now know that millions of children -- the most vulnerable among us -- will be okay and that their parents are no longer losing sleep at night wondering how they will afford medications when their state funding disappears. And I know that DACA is going to get it's day too -- it's not now and yeah, that ticks me off. Hell, it ticks me off that DACA or CHIP were both on the table at all thanks to GOP tactics. But they were. And now, thanks to some strategic compromise on behalf of the my party's leaders, the GOP will not be able to continue kicking them down the road forever.

I don't want to be that person quoting Maroon 5 in a political piece, but I think they may have honestly said it best: "It's not always rainbows and butterflies. It's compromise that moves us along."

And I truly believe that compromise will, eventually at least, move us along.
So I think that it's high time we leave the playground bullying behind, all grow the heck up, and start embracing the act of compromise.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-34993942330060502302018-01-18T12:28:00.004-08:002018-06-07T10:20:10.009-07:002018: A Year of Intention
If I am being honest, last year was less than stellar.

Don't get me wrong, it was not necessarily a bad year. I mean, politically it was a shit show. A complete dumpster fire shit show. But personally, it was a not terrible year. At the beginning of the year, I decided that 2017 was going to be my year of "effort". I was determined to put forth more effort in a lot of areas: my marriage, my child, my job, my health. And I started things off on the right foot. I signed up for a running class and even a 5K. I took it seriously. I took on big projects at the office and worked very hard on them. I sought out a therapist to talk through lingering issues and made a lot of progress sorting through them. I really put in some effort damnit.

And then in early May, I was in a car wreck. It totaled my car. It hurt my lower back. And to be honest, I was very mopey about it all for months. The back injury totally derailed all the effort I had put forward on my health. I found myself spending hours every week arguing with the at-fault insurance company and trying to justify my trips to PT. Discouraged by all the hassle and pain, I decided that my effort in that arena no longer matter. I started eating whatever I wanted without any regard for the consequences. The results were some rather tight Sloans and even worse self-esteem. But my slump exceeded far beyond just health and fitness.

I went months without seeing my therapist. I stopped checking out books from the library. I stopped making any effort to really see and keep up with a lot of my friends. I became easily frustrated when work projects fell behind schedule. I found myself falling into routines that I did not necessarily love. I will (reluctantly) admit that some of these included getting the kiddo to bed and then basically ignoring everything (sadly, including my husband) until bedtime while I scrolled through social media on my phone. I still of course, had this vision of how life could be if I put forth all the effort in the world... but I did not use my time intentionally. Even once my back (mostly) healed and I settled my case with the insurance company, I found these newfound habits very hard to break. In fact, I'm still struggling with them.

That's why, I'd like 2018 to be a year of intentional acts.

Being intentional means that you perform with awareness or that something is done deliberately, consciously, or on purpose.

I am guilty of not thinking things through. I am definitely guilty of mindless action (or inaction). I am super guilty of having a lofty goal (like writing a novel, remodeling the house, or getting in better shape) but then never breaking those things down into their smallest parts and being intentional about obtaining them. Instead, I lament that I don't "have time" to write a novel despite the fact I usually spend my lunch break scrolling through social media. And I insist there is simply no money for the remodel projects I want to do yet I wastefully spend untold sums in Target's Dollar Spot or I buy Holland yet another cute outfit for her already crowded closet. And I complain about my tight pants or my energy level while also raiding the snack cabinet at work for dark chocolate or skipping the gym because it is rainy or too cold. None of these self-sabotaging acts are done on purpose or with deliberation. And really, that's the entire problem. If I had a bit more awareness (and self-control), I simply would not do them.

There is a reoccurring quote online about how we all have the same amount of hours in our days as [insert person you admire here]. And as cliche as it sounds, that quote is absolutely right. Now, that does not mean that it isn't okay to veg out or to relax or to even indulge in mindless activities. I think it is. But for a little too long now, I've lived more out of habit than out of intent. I want desperately to change that about myself.

So in 2018, I vow to be intentional in how I invest my time, my money, and my energy. I do not want to wake up and prioritize my schedule every day -- filling the empty bits with mindless habits that get me no closer to the life I intend on living. Rather, I want to lead a life in which I schedule my priorities and on occasion, intentionally decide that my top priority is a glass of wine and an early bedtime.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-10368210990198431132018-01-12T05:00:00.000-08:002018-06-07T10:20:21.891-07:00me too - a story in three parts [part III]
Over a decade later, I finally have more anger than shame about what happened to me that summer. But even now, the shame is still there. It lurks in corners and sometimes pops out to surprise me when I least expect it. Like when I was trying to write these blog posts. It enveloped me all over again and I began to doubt myself.

But when I'm thinking rationally I know -- the fact that I was drunk does not justify what he did to me. The fact that we were friends does not justify what he did to me. The fact that I do not remember the act itself does not justify what he did to me. And most importantly, the fact that I did not report it to campus police or other authorities (or even tell my friends) does not mean it did not happen. It happened. It hurt. It still hurts.

It changed my life. I became a different person. I pushed away people. I pulled away from friends. I thought of myself differently. I valued myself less. I made bad decisions. I did stupid things. At the time, I did not even realize why I was doing those things but in retrospect, it is clear to me now. It took time -- a long time -- before I realized that while what happened to me that night changed me, it did not define me. Now, I can usually reject the shame and embrace my anger.

Several years ago when I worked in downtown Little Rock, I saw Brian* in a crosswalk as I was driving to my office building. I immediately began to sweat. The hairs on my neck stood up and I got dizzy -- woozy even. I ducked my head down low as he passed in front of my car. I silently prayed he wouldn't turn my way. That he wouldn't catch my eye. And that if he did, he wouldn't recognize me. As soon as he cleared the front of my car, I felt myself exhale lingering shame as I sped away. It had been years since that night in the yard and I was now a successful, happily married lawyer. And yet, once I got to my office, I shut the door behind me and sobbed.

Shame does crazy things to people.

I decided to tell my #metoo story, in part, because just the other day, his face popped up on a friend's Facebook post. The post asked people to share two photos of them with their significant other -- one in the year they met and one current photo. I scrolled through the comments happily looking for some familiar faces and suddenly, there he was again. As with the day in the crosswalk, it literally took my breath away. I nearly dropped my phone. Tears immediately stung my eyes and I found myself pushing down a ball of dread in my stomach as I forced myself to examine his second photo; a photo in which he stood proudly beside a smiling blond while clutching a toddler in his arms-- he now has a son.

My monster -- the one who changed my life and led me on a downward spiral of shame, humiliation, and self-doubt and destruction - the one who to the rest of the world has always appeared to be a nice guy -- that monster now has a son. There really are no words for what I felt in that moment but perhaps panic is close. I had to quickly click away from the photo -- it was too much.

As I attempt, once again, to balance my anger and my shame, I wondered what he will tell his son about consent. About me? Or the others? Over the years, I've become convinced there were others. He was too blasé about what happened to me for there not to have been others. Will he talk about us at all? I wonder if one day he will secretly confess his crimes to his son. They were and are crimes. I wonder if he will beg his son to not repeat his mistakes. A less hopeful side of me wonders instead, if one day he'll teach his son his ways. When his son comes of age, will he tell him to always be the "nice guy" who takes drunk girls home? Because perhaps, even after all this time, it was not rape in his eyes.

Is my monster raising another one?

I do not know what what he'll tell his son, but I do know what I will tell my daughter about him and about that night. I'll tell her the truth. I'll tell her that affirmative consent matters. Every time. I'll tell her that she should be smarter than I was but in no way, shape, or form does that excuse rape or sexual assault. I'll tell her to always have a sober, female friend to get her home. I'll tell her that she can always call me. I'll tell her that not all men are monsters but that some monsters parade around as good men. I'll tell her that you never get over the anger you have when sexual assault or rape happens to you. Or the shame. Or the pain. I'll tell her that it sticks with you -- that you have to come back to it continually whether it is with your future partner or your OBGYN. It never truly leaves you.

And then I'll tell her that as a society, we are working on it. And now, I'll be able to tell her that I spoke out and told my story too. I'll tell her that I voted for politicians who do not blame women and who refuse to sweep things like this under the rug. I'll tell her that no one deserves to be a victim -- and I'll tell her that though it has taken me years to even admit it to myself -- I know that I did not deserve what happened to me.

I am raising a force to be reckoned with...

And one day, should I be lucky enough to have a son, I know what I will tell him. I'll tell him that affirmative consent matters. Every time. I'll tell him that he has a duty to speak out -- to call out his male peers on the slightest type of predatory behavior. He'll know that women aren't delicate flowers, but I'll tell him that it isn't fair that young females aren't allowed to go out, to be young and stupid and to make mistakes like their male counterparts. I'll tell him that a heavy weight rests on his shoulders but that the weight is really a blessing. That weight means that his generation can end the culture that perpetuates such acts against women.

It has to end. For me. For my daughter. For yours. For his son. For our sons. For us all.

It has to end.

#metoo

*Brian is not this individual's real name.
the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-52367721057871487692018-01-11T05:00:00.000-08:002018-06-07T10:20:31.937-07:00me too - a story in three parts [part II]
I soon got my chance to confront Brian*. In college, there is always another house party just around the corner. I was no longer in a mood to drink or even to be mad at my friend and the guy I had been interested in before this all went down. My primary motivation was to find Brian and get him to admit that he was lying to people -- to have him clear the record. We did not sleep together. And I wanted some explanation as to what happened the night when he took me home. Where did the blood come from? Why was I so sore the next few days? Did I fall? Who had taken off my clothes?

I found him at the party quickly and asked that he come outside to talk. He agreed and if he had any hesitation at all, it didn't show. We walked out to the front lawn to a quiet patch away from the house and road. He just stared at me. I decided not to beat around the bush so I simply asked, "What's up with you telling people we slept together?" He shrugged his shoulders and replied, "I mean, we did."

My heart dropped into my stomach. I think in that moment, all the denial I had been experiencing crashed down around me. Of course I hadn't fallen on anything. Of course he had been the one to take my clothes off. Of course. It all made sense but still -- I could not truly comprehend it. Or maybe, I was not prepared to really admit it.

"What?" I stammered, "What do you mean? We didn't have sex."
"Yes, we did," he insisted. If he felt at all mournful or regretful for his actions, his face did not betray him. Rather he simply tossed out: "You were just too drunk to know it."

The night was starting to swirl around me. I couldn't be hearing what I was hearing. "What do you mean?" I asked again, trying to find my voice again. "If I was too drunk to know I was having sex, then I was too drunk to have sex."

He laughed. He fucking laughed. "Practically," he said with a grin. "I mean, it wasn't like you did much more than lay there."

I felt anger and shame boil inside of me. It mixed and mingled and I didn't know which one there was more of in that moment.

"Did I say I wanted to have sex with you?" I demanded probably less forceful than I wanted to sound. His smiled started to disappear but he didn't break my glaze when he said, "You didn't say anything. You were drunk. Really drunk. Passed out drunk." Then, as if fighting off a laughed he added, "But I mean, you didn't say no."

"If I didn't say yes...If I didn't say I wanted to have sex with you, it wasn't consensual!" I was trying very hard not to scream at him. Did he not understand what he was admitting to? Did he not understand that having sex with someone who is passed out is rape?

He shrugged. "Yeah, so..."

Yeah, so. Yeah, so. Yeah, so. Those two words would haunt me for a long time.

"You hurt me," I blurted out. "Like, I was bleeding."
He shrugged again. "That happens sometimes when someone isn't used to anal. It will be better for you the next time you try it."

I was stunned. But I was also ashamed. Ashamed it happened. Ashamed I didn't remember it happening. Ashamed I had been drunk. Ashamed that I had been drinking at all. Ashamed that I hadn't been able to admit to myself what had happened to me before this very moment. Ashamed that this guy -- this person I thought was my friend -- thought so little of me that he could do that to me without my permission. Ashamed that I was apparently so worthless that he'd feel no remorse for his actions.

It was now clear that I had more shame than anger. The shame in fact, was overwhelming. It smothered me. I could no longer make eye-contact with him. I broke his gaze and stared intently at the ground trying to conceal my tears.

He shifted front foot to foot -- clearly uncomfortable for the first time since our conversation began.
My tears flowed freely as I continued to peer towards the ground. After a while, he spoke: "Look, I'm going back inside if you don't have anything else you want to talk about."

My tears and shame enveloped me and I was silent. I never responded.

Until now.

*Brian is not this individual's real name.
the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-25461804393311672442018-01-10T05:00:00.000-08:002018-06-07T10:20:42.304-07:00me too - a story in three parts [part I]
Over a decade ago in the summer of 2007, I became a statistic. Among undergraduate students, 23.1% of females experience rape or sexual assault through physical force, violence, or incapacitation.

Months before, I had finally broken it off with a long-term boyfriend. He had been a jerk. Most likely, I had been a jerk too. We shared mutual friends -- many of which, were his fraternity brothers. One such fraternity brother had been very kind to me during our drawn-out breakup. He and I had both indicated mutual interest in each other but both had conflicting feelings on getting together so quickly after my breakup. My ex had also made it clear to his fraternity brother that I was not to be dated by any of them. So this guy friend and I agreed to take things slow. Still, I was already telling many of my close girlfriends about the possibility of us one day dating once the dust from my breakdown died down.

You can imagine my surprise then upon finding one of those close girlfriends making out with the guy at a party. At the time, I felt hurt and betrayed by them both. And like many non-rational college students, I decided that the best way to deal with the rejection was to get drunk. And get drunk I did. I'm not proud of my behavior that night or some of the things I said and did. And in those moments, my anger at my girlfriend and my crush was overwhelming (everything is dramatic when you are young, right?) and I lost all sense of self-preservation. My drunken behavior at this party only served to isolate me and eventually another male friend offered to take me home.

I can now vaguely recall getting in his car -- still muttering profanities under my breath at the entire situation.
And that's it.

Until the next morning.

I woke up in pain. Understandably, my head hurt but so too did my body. I rolled out of bed slowly, struggling to understand exactly what was bothering me besides the killer hangover. That's when I saw it -- blood on my sheets. I looked down to see that I was just wearing a shirt (with no bra) and nothing else. I reached my hand underneath me, to the source of the pain, and discovered blood. I was dizzy with confusion.

I remember going to the restroom, sitting down on the toilet, and realizing my rectum was covered in a mix of fresh and dried blood. I was sore too. In fact, I ached in a lot of places one wouldn't consider normal for just a hangover. I examined myself in the mirror - there were no bruises to account for but I felt an overall physical pain.

I rushed to my phone to call my best friend to ask her what had happened to me -- only then did the entire night flood back to me. I couldn't call my closest friend -- I had yelled at her for kissing the guy I wasn't technically dating. Dread started to set in so I decided instead to take a bath. As the water rushed over me, a sense of isolation did as well. What happened to me? Could it be what I think it was? If so, who did it? Why did they do it? And most importantly, what could I do about it?

Soon my roommate, who was also at the party and a good friend, came home. We sat on my bed and she asked me how I was doing. Her tone made it clear that she wasn't asking about the blood on my sheets (which were now being soaked in the washing machine), but rather about my best friend kissing my crush. We talked and while I was still upset about the whole situation, more than anything I was terrified of what happened to me after the party. Casually, I asked my roommate how I got home. She replied, "Oh, Brian* took you home."

Suddenly, I remembered getting into his car and I felt an instant wave of relief flood over me. Brian was such a nice guy. He was the jokester of the fraternity and usually the one that would allow sad, drunk girls to cry on his shoulder. Of course Brian had taken me home, I thought. That was such a Brian thing to do. I still could not explain the blood or the pain, but I instantly felt reassured about the whole situation. Whatever had happened to me, it wasn't that. Brian wasn't that kind of guy. I would just need to ask him about it the next time I saw him and I was sure he would have a satisfactory explanation to it all.

But before I got the chance to speak to Brian and soothe my remaining worries, rumors began to fly. My ex started telling people that I was a slut for sleeping with Brian. I was enraged. I didn't sleep with Brian. I specifically remember telling my roommate that the allegation was ludicrous -- this was Brian we were talking about here. Brian was not the kind of guy most girls lined up to have sex with -- he was the kind of guy girls would watch chick-flicks with after a breakup. That's why I was so very confused when, just a few day later, my roommate told me that she had heard Brian was the one telling people we slept together. Why would Brian say that? Why would he lie? He was already a favorite within the fraternity. What did he have to gain by lying about that?

*Brian is not this individual's real name.
the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-61651425679568966062017-10-18T05:00:00.000-07:002018-06-07T10:21:12.849-07:00Year 30
Today, I turn 31. I'm pretty excited about it. Year 30 has been (mostly) good to me. I did get in that car wreck in May which totaled my car and seriously put a cramp in the running I was doing (and enjoying) thanks to a back injury. That wasn't so great. But I also fell more in love with my job, watched the most amazing toddler in the world grow up some more, learned the joy of having a therapist (a future post topic I am sure), remodeled our master bathroom, and grew stronger in my relationship with my amazing husband.

In short, Year 30 provided me with opportunities to learn more about myself, my marriage, and my child.

Last October, I shared a 40 by 40 list of things I hoped to accomplish over the next decade. I think I'm off to a pretty decent start. For a reminder of the level breakdown of my list, click here. True to my word -- I've knocked several things off my list. I thought I'd give an update, in part, to keep myself accountable. Here's a brief rundown of what I've marked off my list this year:

Find and regularly participate in a local nonprofit cause/organization (Level 1)

This year I found and became involved with an organization called Moms Demand Action. I've shared their mission before on the blog and discussed why they are so important to me. In light of the gun violence that occurred in Las Vegas a few weeks ago, I believe their mission is even more critical. They are not looking to take guns away from responsible gun owners. Hell, I am a responsible gun owner. They are however, looking for ways to make gun ownership more responsible, ways to keep guns out of the hands of dangerous criminals, AND ways to ensure that guns do not fall into the hands of children. Did you know that gun accidents kill at least one child every other day in our country? My newsfeed this year has been flooded, absolutely flooded, with stories about children shooting and sometimes killing, themselves or others after getting their hands on an unsecured weapon. And yet, I still constantly see pictures of unsecured gun posted online as well -- even from people who have young children in the house. Moms Demand Action have created the BeSmart initiative (you can find out more about it here) which aims to promote responsible gun storage. Moms Demand Action chapters, like the one here in Arkansas, hand out FREE gun locks in hopes of lowering the number of senseless gun deaths. Free.

I am so happy that I have worked with this amazing group of women this year. I will admit that work and life have been crazy recently and I have not participated as regularly as I would like. However, I am proud to be associated with Moms Demand Action and I am looking forward to continuing my work with them in the coming weeks, months, and years. Moms Demand Action will not stop until sanity surrounding guns and gun violence has been restored in our country.

Have a romantic in-state weekend getaway with just Adam (Level III)

Back on September 7th, Adam and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. We decided it was finally time to take our first vacation since our honeymoon. We dropped the kiddo off with Grandma and Grandpa (for the first time ever) and drove about an hour up the road to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. It was an amazing getaway -- especially considering it was our first getaway post-Holland. We were far enough way that I felt I could let loose and have some fun. But, we were close enough that I felt relaxed knowing that I could get back to Holland super fast if need be. Turns out, I didn't need to -- she was in GREAT hands with her grandparents and had a splendid time without us. And we had a great time too. We ate amazing vegetarian food, we indulged in late nights and lots of wine, which in turn, led to sleeping in and taking our mornings slow and easy. We saw some sights and visited way too many quaint shops. All in all, it was a wonderful and romantic in-state getaway for us both.

Visit a fortune teller or psychic (Level II)

Speaking of that Eureka Springs trip, I saw a psychic there! I went to a place called Mystic Moon and had a Shustah Card reading. I had never heard of Shustah Cards before but apparently they are divination and mediation cards and are used to obtain wisdom and guidance from one's spirit guides. Now, I'm not saying that I don't believe in psychics at all, but this lady probably was not the real deal. Don't get me wrong, she was extremely nice but I definitely got a sense that she was relying heavily on the Barnum effect. She kept mentioning how I juggle a lot of things and do not take time for myself. But honestly, I think those things apply to nearly 90% of moms. Hell, that probably just applies to 90% of people. Anyways, I tried to get somewhat more specific with her as a test. I told her that there was a big decision in my near-ish future and that it could go one of two ways. I asked her to tell me the pros and cons of each way. I was thinking of something specific. In short, she kind of failed the test. She basically told me that both ways were okay but one would involve more short term stress and one would involve more long term stress -- so yeah, super general. But she kept switching up the two ways and then again, continued to rely on very vague and general statements instead of addressing anything I was specifically thinking about in that moment. If she was indeed talking to my spirit guides through the cards, then my spirit guides aren't paying close attention to my life. Still, it was all in good fun and I was able to mark an item off my list so for me, it was $40 well spent.

Become a regular financial contributor to a worthy cause (Level III)

Shortly after the election last November, Adam and I decided it was time that we start putting our money where our mouths were. Of course, we had always made occasionally donations but we had never really become regular contributors anywhere particular. We took a chunk of our budget each month and divided it up between some organizations that we felt particularly drawn to following the election results. For us, those were: 1) the American Civil Liberties Union; 2) Planned Parenthood; 3) National Public Radio; 4) Public Broadcasting Service; 5) Earth Justice; 6) the International Rescue Committee; 7) Save the Children; and 8) Moms Demand Action. To be honest, it still isn't as much as I'd like to do. A couple of these organizations receive as little as $15 a month from our family. But it is regular and it is a good start. Through this process, I've learned that you do not have to have a ton of extra cash to make a difference financially to worthy organizations. You merely need to set aside what you can and take the step of making it official by visiting the website and setting up the draft. It's definitely worth it!

So there it is -- some highlights of Year 30 in a nutshell. It's been a good year. It's been a fun year. And I am incredibly excited about what Year 31 holds for me and for my little family.

Happy Birthday to me.

the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-89695128056910369922017-10-16T12:57:00.000-07:002018-06-07T10:21:53.352-07:00Holland Turns Two
If you follow us on Instagram, you undoubtedly know by now that our sweet #LittleLadyHolland turned two on Saturday. I wanted to share some (quite awesome) shots from her birthday shoot we completed earlier this month. All photos by the talented Niki Zimmerman Images.

Happy Birthday Holland. You are SO loved little one.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-54946937001667694042017-09-04T05:00:00.000-07:002018-06-07T10:22:11.302-07:00This Flag and Me

It is no secret that I'm political. It is also no secret that I'm from the South. Heck, watching a few of my Instagram stories is probably all the proof you need to see that I was born, raised, and live in the South. (The accent doesn't lie y'all.) I've always felt like a bit of a political outsider in the South. When Trae Crowder -- the Liberal Redneck -- became a viral sensation, I was thrilled. It was freeing to know that I wasn't alone in both loving where I came from and expecting more from it. Trae recently wrote an article for Esquire that I found myself nodding along to in several respects. Click over and read it if you have time: My Dad's Confederate Flag.

Now, I grew up surrounded by this flag in many ways. I remember buying a necklace with this flag on it at a local festival when I was in middle school. At the time, I was very naive and thought the flag only represented my pride in being from the South. But in the words of the late great Maya Angelou, "When you know better, do better."

I know better now. I know the history of the confederacy and I've read of its horrors. I know what this flag represents to so many people. Growing in the Texas public school system, I was taught that the war was not about slavery. It was about state's rights. The horrors and inhumanities of slavery were, at times, glossed over by my textbooks and teachers. More importantly, the systematic institutional racism that followed the war was never discussed. I was not taught that the Federal Housing Administration explicitly refused to back loans to black people or even to neighborhoods near locations black people lived thus creating a disparaging housing environment for people of color. I was not taught that the government funded studies that deliberately allowed poor black men to be inflicted with sexually transmitted diseases and that sterilized poor black and Native American women. I was not taught that black people are 12 times more likely to be wrongly convicted of drug-related crimes than their white counterparts or that inequitable criminal laws and procedures have resulted in a prison population that is 58% black and Hispanic despite those segments only accounting for 1/4 of the US population. I was not taught a lot of things.

But I know them now. I know them and they haunt me. But more importantly, they haunt people of color and they continue to impact their lives and the opportunities they have in this country. So yeah, as a proud Southern woman, I support tearing down monuments that glorify and honor the confederacy. As far as I'm concerned, they belong in museums not the town square. And yes, I get angry when I see people flying a flag that has, and continues to, inflict such horror and inequality on people of color. I love my country. I love my state. I love the South. But I also love my friends of color. And the God I serve reminds me that I should do unto my neighbor as I would have them do to me. And frankly, I would not want to raise my child in a world where men and flags who fought to categorize that child as "property" continued to be glorified. So, I do not think it is Godly for anyone to ask people of color to do such a thing. They deserve better. Our kids deserve better. <o:p></o:p>

So let's do better by taking down monuments of Confederate generals and replacing them with statues of Harriet Tubman, Fredrick Douglass, or maybe Lydia Maria Child. Let's quit pretending that the monuments to confederate generals are about remembering history (they aren't since most were built either at the height of Jim Crow or during the Civil Rights Movement in the 50's and 60's) or at least agree that history is best studied in context and thus, the monuments would be better suited for museums where the entire sordid story of slavery and the Confederacy can be told. Let's reserve our town squares and our college quads for celebrating people and ideologies that moved this nation forward and brought its peoples together. Let's take down the confederate flag and fly the American one. Let's tell our history to our youth. Let's warn them of how it happened -- explain to them how some were able to so easily devalue the life of their fellow man. Let's tell them that not everyone who fought for the Confederacy were monsters but that the Confederacy itself, was one. It was a monster that sought to tear this nation apart (literally) but that through blood, tears, and a lot of loss -- we survived. America survived. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't easy. And it wasn't perfect. It still isn't. But it is still worth fighting for...<o:p></o:p>

Let's be honest. Let's be real. <o:p></o:p>

But above all, now that we know better -- Let's do better.

the Florkenshttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8504469524310566164.post-27381503080770995192017-08-24T08:39:00.000-07:002018-06-07T10:22:22.147-07:00It's okay to NOT be an expert
When I was little I always wanted to be the best at everything: the best third baseman, the smartest in the school, and of course, the biggest class clown. I wasn't satisfied that I got to dip my toe into all areas -- I needed to beat everyone else in those areas too.

As I grew older, I began to understand just how unsustainable that way of life truly was -- there were better third basemen, even in my small hometown. There were smarter kids, even in my tiny school. And of course, there were much funnier class clowns. At first, I found this disheartening. But with maturity, I came to see this as a gift that lightened my load. You see, I no longer had to be an expert on everything.

That realization was incredibly freeing to me. I could focus my efforts on being good at the things I truly wanted to be good at and could merely throw my support behind those who were, quite frankly, better than me in other areas.

I think a lot of people in our country could benefit from relearning this fundamental childhood lesson.

I cannot count the number of times I've heard someone start a sentence with, "Now, I'm not an expert but I think..." Or worst yet, "I may not know everything but if you ask me, those experts don't either."

You see, for some reason, a large swatch of our population is under the impression that knowledge either isn't useful or isn't useful if it isn't their own. I find both of these ideas ignorant at best and dangerous at worst.

Knowledge should be celebrated. Now, I'm not talking about #alternativefacts knowledge. I'm talking about the type of knowledge that it takes years of painful study and careful observation to gain. And lest you think I'm only referring to "book smarts" I will clarify and specifically state that I appreciate all the forms that knowledge may take.

For example, a really good mechanic is going to have more knowledge about cars than I ever will. Now, this doesn't mean that I should just bury my head in the sand when it comes to cars. I shouldn't. But if an expert tells me its the radiator I would foolish to insist that it's really my transmission acting up based on a couple of Google searches. Likewise, a mechanic would be foolhardy to go toe to toe with me regarding the constitutionality of a new law armed only with the knowledge they obtained in a 90-clip from their local Fox affiliate.

Now, two mechanics can have a valid disagreement about what's wrong with my car and two lawyers can have a valid disagreement over the constitutionality of a law. And that's okay. But in those scenarios, it is the job of any non-expert listening in to ensure they are at least armed with enough knowledge to discern to who they should give their trust. For example, the certified mechanic with six years of experience and an excellent rating on Angie's List can likely be trusted a little more than your neighbor's uncle Joe who "has fixed a whole bunch of cars" and works out of his own garage. You don't have to personally be an expert in cars to know that maybe Joe shouldn't be your top source of information on the topic.

It seems to me though, that there are also people who simply abhor any knowledge that is not their own. I suppose I just do not understand that frame of mind. Realizing that I did not have to know everything or be the best at everything was so freeing for me. It takes so much time to become an expert -- it is literally impossible for anyone, even the smartest among us, to know and be it all. So, I do not see the harm in allowing others to be the experts in areas that you do not or cannot excel in.

Even worse, it breaks me heart to know there are parents who belittle knowledge simply because it comes from their child. Honest moment here, but I'm going to be really disappointed if my daughter isn't smarter than me. Like seriously. I want nothing more than for her to come home one day and talk circles around me about a topic I have little or no knowledge on. How amazing it is that I can help bring a human into this world that can do things for it that I simply cannot? Having a child be an expert in an area you know nothing about should be seen as a proud accomplishment for any parent -- not something to roll eyes about and use as an opportunity to talk about how youth just do not respect their elders like they used to.

A recent poll shows that growing numbers of Americans think that colleges are bad for our country. That's really hard for me to wrap my head around. As someone with a JD, married to someone with a PhD, I feel polls like that suggest that my family is not valuable to this country. But we are. In fact, we are just as valuable to this country as a plumbers, garbage-men (and women), crosswalk workers, retail workers, or stay at home moms. Everyone is different and everyone is capable of being an expert at something -- but none of us can do it all! We can however, work together because we all bring value to the table. And when we do that, we lift the nation towards prosperity.

But we cannot lift as a cohesive unit when we cannot acknowledge the gifts others have. Book smarts matter. Street smarts matter. The kind of wisdom that only comes with age matters. The type of innovation and fearlessness that only exists in youth matters too. It takes all kinds of smarts and all kinds of people to craft a successful society. So encourage your children to pursue their passions. And when they do -- when their knowledge outstrips your own -- enjoy it. Smile and give yourself a pat on the back for raising your very own expert.

the Florkenshttp://firstname.lastname@example.com