Make shit happen and get shit done.

What kind of goals you got? Like, real goals.

Not the lottery. Not the magical conjuring of a suitable mate.

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Balls.

It isn’t easy to stay in a good place. It takes a lot of work. Juggling. Some days the work seems effortless; the ball is tossed up and caught with ease. And other days I can’t catch the ball. It feels like an anvil resting on my weakened shoulders. Hunching me over. Only gazing at my feet as I move through the day. I had some of those days this past week.

I know I’m missing my dad.  

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Exercises. But not like sit-ups and shit.

My son catapulted himself off the couch and into the corner of the wall over the summer. He is now the proud owner of multiple titanium plates. Scary shit. But not the reason I’m writing. Although he didn’t lose consciousness or vomit, based on the sheer velocity required to fracture his skull, they also treated him for a concussion. The treatment for that? Brain rest.

Continue reading “Exercises. But not like sit-ups and shit.”

room reading

You know what’s hard? Being a mom. Being a parent.

As someone who has a keen sense of self-awareness I also, not surprisingly, have a high EQ. I find this quality to be advantageous even though it feeds into my anxiety. I can read a room. I can sniff out dishonesty, like “liar, liar!” dishonesty but also I can see the real story of a person, their insecurities, if they really are “ok” when they say they are…those things. I think I can put people to ease. I like that about myself. It’s my super power.

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the books

My dad would write a note each morning. To us. He believed in Mornings. In the note he greeted us, individually by name or as a whole. He’d remind us to have a great day, to “smile large”, he might wish my brother or me good luck on some endeavor or give us the low down on the day’s weather. He almost always drew a smiley face.

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I like her.

I’m coming full circle.

As child I wrote a short story called “Silly Putty” and was a finalist in a Young Authors competition. I remember writing my story and carefully illustrating it, the warmth and excitement of getting to use the laminate machine at my elementary school library, the sound of the punch from the binding machine. In middle school I submitted poetry to competitions and was published. And then I quit writing. Quiet sadness took over and I feared judgement of my words. I lost my way around inside myself. I began assembling the links in my chainmail.  I slowly began burying my true self. Teenage years of uncertainty and identity seeking got in the way.

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anxiety and work attire

So. Recently, my place of business, changed the dress code. We moved from traditional corporate business casual to what is called “situational dress”. Basically, we dress for our day. If we have no meetings then go for jeans and hoodie, casual meetings then jeans and maybe a cute top, meeting with business partners then kick it up a notch, meetings with people you NEED to make an impression on, like vendors or senior leaders, then GO FOR GOLD with dress pants, blouse and a blazer.

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Mindful Moments

Anxiety is like an octopus. It’s never just one thing, its eight. All of them pulling your thoughts into different directions. It’s overwhelming. It’s chaotic. And one person asking you a question can make you snap, leaving that person confused and in disbelief. 

No one can see the octopus. Your octopus. My octopus. They can’t see each tentacle as it wraps around you, suffocating you. You need to let those who love you see your octopus.

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