#so worth loving
Hold onto the good things happening in your life. It doesn’t have to be glamorous. It is the small successes and realizations that shape the big picture. Keep your best moments close to your heart and don’t let them pass you by. Be defined by what you love—be defined by your strengths. You are not defined by your past mistakes, weaknesses, secrets, or fears. You are more than all of those things.
By: Rachel Denton
Instagram: rachelmarlene13
Blog:rachelmarlene.com
Twitter: racheldenton13
It was a Friday when I drove to that little coastal corner of Georgia. The highway was bare – the usual. The day’s sky featured an overcast film, the sun opaque and barely there as it faded into the gray.
Disappointment had begun to settle into my heart like a morning fog. It was a cause so simple as cancelled plans with friends, but why did the impact feel so much more?
These days I was running.
I was used to it – a constant dodging and running from something. Why would a young girl with a safe and normal lifestyle need to be on the run? What could possibly be endangering my clean-cut life?
There was something called The Fear.
It hunted me down so frequently. It hid in the shadows in my mind, stalking me. Planning strategic attacks.
That day was one.
Maybe surprisingly, it’s not an aggressor you’d be unfamiliar with. I’ll characterize it a bit better, see if you might know it too?
The Fear (also, Fear Of Missing Out) – being concerned with events (real or perceived) that you won’t partake in, to the point of causing distress and dismay
I’ve a long history with this mental antagonist, and it’s wild – the more conversations I have, the more I hear of the sadly similar attacks on others too. There’s got to be a way we can escape – a way we can live a life free of its unsettling invasions.
The relieving part is – I’ve found a way. I’ve discovered this arsenal of tools we can tap into, set this Fear running for its life.
The same Friday, I was with family. The outside snapshot showed a peaceful red brick home set in the backdrop of a small Southern town – normalcy, comfort. Inside, however, The Fear was really threatening to have its way with me. I reluctantly settled into my quiet weekend, distant from the events my peers would be attending, which unnerved me because oh my, here’s the scary thought again – what will I miss out on?
I tried to suppress the unhelpful assumptions.
I glanced over at my little blonde hair, blue eyed niece reading a book peacefully on the back porch, seated next to me on the couch. Her messily braided hair sat tucked behind her ear and her heart sat stuffed inside her chest, bursting with the virtue of simple, kind grace.
And in just a single second – I thought how good the moment was.
And how content I could be, right here, if I chose to be.
Joy - the ability to savor or appreciate what is before us, around us, in us
That second of contentedness when I looked at her was accompanied by Joy. And that brief flash of Joy was indeed an invitation to see my life.
I felt that this was an invitation that could be nothing at all – if I chose to ignore it – or everything at once.
Caught by the moment, I opened the invitation and let it dance around in my hands for a moment.
The invitation, what it read: Do you want to see what’s here?
Yes.
And at once, so quietly – it wasn’t that my life finally came alive – it was me. I finally came alive.
I could see that my life has always been rich and real and full. The blonde hair, blue eyed girl was so softly radiant that I could have missed how she shined.
When I’m under the authority of Fear, it’s common to walk in those nightmares telling me I’m missing out on something else. Even when I don’t know what that something else ever is. And maybe that’s because I form these illusions in my mind of what life must be like for everyone else who has things I don’t have. And while I wonder what life is like on the other side, I forfeit an invitation and view right before me.
But I’ve got to know and so do you – how might Joy win? How can we keep letting it win?
I think this looks less like a hearty to-do list and more like using something we already have coded into us. The senses. How we smell, taste, feel. This is an invitation to see, after all.
Seeing your life – letting Joy triumph over Fear (The Fear) in your life - feels like this.
Tightening your arms a little bit more around the people you presently have in your circle. The ones sitting across from you at dinner, working next to you in the office, sending you texts to check in on your day.
It tastes like each small bite of the Mexican meal you’re sharing with friends at dinner. (Taco Tuesday, anyone?) The salt on the chips, the zesty bite of cilantro sprinkled on your plate. How unfortunate to gobble through a meal and miss all of those savory moments.
It smells like fresh laundry churning in the dryer and like silver rain on a musky, humid day. Maybe sometimes it just smells like satisfaction with the right now.
The beauty is that it will look, taste, feel, and smell different for all of us. The common denominator, however, will be that we all bask in contentment.
If you still worry, as I do, that The Fear of Missing Out will linger even still, let’s touch on that for a second. To put it frankly, yes – you will miss out.
But aren’t we all? No one can have everything. If you’re a mother, you miss out on the flexibility and freedom of singleness and caring solely for your own schedule. If you’re a celebrity, you miss out on the ability to quietly slip into public without being judged for your outfit, current boyfriend, or facial expression captured in a photo. If you’re a city dweller, you miss out on the quieter rhythms of small town life.
So in the end we have two options. We may be contented what we have. Or we may scroll on our phones, compare, and make a mental checklist of what we do not have – while ignoring that there is always an opportunity cost involved. We will always be forced give up one thing to have another.
This is how Joy can be brighter and louder than The Fear in your life. It’s such a lovely invitation we all have – Do you want to see this?
And because I have tasted how sweet it is, I hope the answer for all of us is an unwavering and resounding
– yes.
Like a typical twenty-something, Rachel is still figuring out a lot about herself, but of course, some things never change: she remains partial to words, hot weather, and late night bowls of cereal.
By: Jessica Willis
I share my story as a way of healing, a way of letting it out and being true to who I am. I do not believe there is any harm in speaking about the pieces of ourselves that we’re proud of or the pieces of ourselves that we’ve struggled with. I wholeheartedly believe that it’s important we share our experience with other people, it not only helps our personal growth but it connects us to others. Our story has the power to heal us as well as heal somebody else because when we share ours; we free ourselves and give other people permission to acknowledge their own story.
Honestly, I find there is a certain catharsis in doing so, a sense of a burden being lifted and it’s freeing. Sharing pieces of me, of who I am, forms some connection with whoever may be reading this at this very moment, and maybe I am helping someone else see how we are all fighting our own battles and maybe my vulnerability can give someone else the strength to get through a difficult situation. By opening myself up and sharing parts that maybe others would hide, I believe it all helps us feel a little less alone in the world.
It has taken me time to get to this point, to get to where I’m realizing that everything that has happened in the past two-ish years has actually happened for my greater good. The postpartum depression, the betrayal and the downfall of my marriage, the secrets, the lies, the denial, the “crazy making,” and the absolute nonsense that I have had to deal with even in the past few months, has all happened for a reason and it has happened because there is something better for me. I have been and I still am being pulled, I am being stretched and I am being expanded beyond belief but it’s all helping me to be more awake, stronger, and more aligned with my soul’s purpose than ever before.
I have always kept going, I have kept moving forward even on my darkest days, even when all I wanted to do was hide in my bed and cry my eyes out. Did I still have those moments, why yes, yes I did and do I still sometimes have those moments, absolutely. Guess what though, that is totally okay. It’s called being human and nobody should ever make you feel shame or guilt for expressing the way you feel or how you choose to heal. When I have those moments of wanting to cry or wanting to scream, I get through it and move on.
The past year and half has been a roller coaster of emotions. It has had its ups and downs, many downs, and because of that, I have grown. I am so much more than what I was before, I am learning who I am and I am so much more accepting of who I am and proud of what I have become. What I am trying to say here is, you can own your story or your story can own you. Nobody can re-write the past but you can influence the next chapter and continue to become the best version of yourself.
Check out Jessica’s Instagram for more beautiful words like these: @hellojessicalauren
By Kinsley Holland
I wish someone would have told me that I was not the only one. I wish I would’ve known that I was not alone in my struggles, alone in my fears, trapped on a deserted island of my shame. And that is why I am telling you, right here. Right now.
When I was on the verge of my teenage years, I began to seriously struggle with the way I would feel when I looked at my body in the mirror. But it was even so much more than that, so much more than just my body- it was my skin, my hair, my nails, my smile, my teeth, my eyebrows. Everything. Though I never succumbed to the temptation of self-harm, I allowed my thoughts full of self-hatred to chip away at the innermost pieces of my being. My soul was crushing under the weight of the anxiety and fits of depressions that I would experience whenever I thought about myself.
One of my most vivid memories of the pain I experienced from all this came when I was playing sand volleyball in my junior year of high school. I showed up to my first practice, wearing what every other girl was wearing, but the lies forming in my head, saying things like, “You’re fat in comparison to these other girls,” “You’re an outsider,” and “What do you even think you’re doing here? You’re not good enough.” I made the excuse to run inside to the bathroom, and for the next ten minutes I struggled to find my breath, as I felt like the lies in my head were going to crush me to pieces. My first anxiety attack came that night, and it was one of the most difficult experiences that far in my life.
And I wish someone would have told me I wasn’t alone in my struggles. So, because I thought I was, I want to remind YOU today that you’re not. You, my friend, never walk alone.
I think when our mental health takes a hit from our own bodies, we feel isolated. We feel as though there has never been someone else in the world like us to have struggled, well, like us. When I was 16, I really began to share my struggles with those around me I was closest to. In my mind, many nights are stained in tears as I just grieved through the loss of my hope, grieved through the loss of my joy. What I heard from the girls with whom I had trusted with my deepest hurts astounded me. They had struggled too. Many of them, at some point in their lives, had dealt with the grip of mental illness, self-hatred, and body image struggles. And the most encouraging thing was that they had made it through. So, I knew that I could make it too.
Today, as I write this, I’m a nineteen-year-old sophomore in college. I love my life. I love my body. I love the quirks God gave me, the crooked smile I flash when I’m too overjoyed to contain my laughter. I love where my life is now because I know where I have been. Don’t be fooled, though. Those thoughts of unworthiness and those feelings of hurt still surface on occasion. They don’t just disappear entirely. But what I have learned is that we’ve been given a community for a reason. We have communities around us to remind us that we are so worth loving, that we are qualified to do the things we dream of, and to remind us we have hope and a future.
Personally, I never had to seek out medical help to get better. I have many friends who have made that decision because it was the best thing for them. The ways in which we’ve gotten better do not make one superior and the other inferior. They just make us different. And I don’t know about you, but I really have learned to like different. I found my hope in a Savior named Jesus who tells me every day that I am worth everything to Him. He tells me that I am beautiful in His sight. “Imago Dei,” meaning “Image of God” in Latin, is the promise that carries me through each hard day. And for me, that kind of love and acceptance I find in Him is enough.
Kinsley’s life changed drastically while she was in college, when she felt God nudging her heart to move to a different city all on her own. Through the love from others and the hope they provided, she began to learn even more fully her worth and the magnitude of her purpose, even in extremely treacherous times. Kinsley finds her joy in Jesus, iced coffee, writing, and running!
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I was done with the waves. I have had enough of them. The waves of hopelessness that tricked my mind into believing joy would never stay. During my divorce it was understandable for me to have waves of sadness, depression, and heartbreak. However, the shock and surfaced pain wore off and I had another journey ahead…facing what has settled inside of me and made a home.
I had felt so guilty because God’s faithfulness has been so beautiful that I mistook processing pain as being ungrateful.
Then, a therapist said something that made everything shift inside of me. He shared that depression is an expression of suppressed anger. WOW. I’m not a person that gets easily angered. That hasn’t always been the case—at one time in my life I had a temper. I was a little spitfire with a lot of opinions but along the way, I convinced myself that anger was invalid and irrational.
If you are like me, then you have this ability to reframe circumstances to see them from an optimistic point of view. My therapist would say searching for a brighter side seems safer and less painful than the truth…my optimism was actually denial.
So if depression is the expression of suppressed anger…what is going inside of me? I shared with a friend and she said: “Eryn what are you angry at?” Me: “nothing…I’m really thankful..” Her: “No Eryn…what are you still angry at?” Me: “Okay, well maybe I’m angry at…” and then the list began.
Angry at him for ____.
Angry at her for ____.
Angry at them for ____.
Angry at me for ____.
For the first time…the first real time…I saw underneath. I saw the anger. I saw the pain that has been weighing me down. I saw the triggers…I saw what would have a strong hold. It took me being so embarrassed by my inconsistencies to say I’M DONE. These waves are controlling me and impacting my relationships. Admitting what I was angry at brought me closer to joy. Without pain, joy can’t exist…I get that phrase now. I found where the pain was and I’ve found how joy can sustain… // When Dr. Henry Cloud and team asked me to share a quote that meant something to me, I knew exactly what it would be. Dr. Henry Cloud has impacted my healing so much.
Love,
Eryn
Quote from Boundaries by Dr. Cloud with Dr. John Townsend
Artwork by Ali Nelson of Ali Makes Things
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By Rachel Dowda
I don’t have a Sam’s club card, and sometimes, if I want to go, I’ll show up to the warehouse, find a family and squeeze myself in by walking closely and confidently behind them, pretending to be a part. It always works and I end up inside, wandering around aisles of twenty-four packs of toilet paper and free samples. I feel like I do this a lot in my life, except I’m not pretending to be a part of families, but actually welcomed into their lives of eating and loving and laughing.
Three summers ago, after dinner with my tribe, my friend Trent encouraged all of us to jump into the lake. It was pitch black and freezing and the waves towered over our heads like black ghosts whipping back and forth. I struggled staying above the water at times. My bones were in shock over the temperature and my friend Meredith was making me laugh, and in the midst of panic and sputtering I became overwhelmed at where I was. Just a few years before, I was content with hiding in my room, which was lovingly nicknamed “the cave”, contrasting drastically with my current condition: freezing, out of breath, and feeling fully loved in the midst of an ice cold lake, under thousands of stars, treading water alongside people who loved me and genuinely wanted to know me. I never want to tread water alone again.
I think about the magic in letting myself be loved by others, and that love shoots life through all of my tree limbs, like instant photosynthesis; receiving divine light, roots planted deep, not just a lone tree but a forest; a tribe of trees rooted and gazing upward. I grew up in the suburbs, alone in a crowded concrete maze of houses, but now I am part of a forest, surrounded by trees that are cheering for me, willing my limbs to grow longer, healing me by placing their palms on my bark, and causing my tree rings to multiply.
If I could pick the biggest change I’ve experienced in my life-journey towards wholeness, it would be that I’ve fallen in love with people. Me falling in love with people feels just as miraculous as being able to wake up and breathe every day. I used to believe there was power in independence; that I was strong and spiritual when I isolated myself, but it was just an act to hide hurt, to hide the fact that I failed at making and keeping relationships, that I was afraid of being known.
In 2013 I moved to Alabama and lived with twenty other people on a beautiful vineyard, while attending a spiritual school there. Slowly throughout that season, I fell in love with people. I didn’t have a drastic awakening, but simply observed some of the most loving people in action, and as they moved and breathed out love, the attraction for that kind of lifestyle became overwhelming. I became jealous of their ability to pursue and know people despite behaviors I found inexcusable and irritating. I slowly opened myself up. I was taught how to live in community.
Two years later I found myself living on a beautiful lake, working at the ministry that opened me up and taught me to love people. However, while working there, I became silent again. I stopped letting people in, even though I knew they could heal me. I went back to keeping things inside, because vulnerability puts you at risk for hurt, even though I knew that opening my mouth would begin the process of healing, to be wrapped in safe arms.
I don’t really know what was going on inside of me, except problems from the previous fall had followed me to Alabama, like unwanted visitors. I kept stuffing anxiety, my ocd, and an eating disorder deep into my pockets, but they kept falling out one by one until I couldn’t stop tripping over them. Rocks were piled up on my heart and my tree limbs had curled inward, keeping relationships to formalities. I would long to have someone sit and listen to me, to share my burden, but instead I would punish myself by keeping my mouth shut.
Eventually I heard someone share something that hit me in the belly, changing everything in that moment. My friend John asked a group of us if we had ever seen the meat head guys that could lift and throw cars and trains. He said that vulnerability is the switch to that kind of power; that vulnerability gives you superhuman strength. I wanted to throw cars and move mountains.
I left my friends that night knowing that I would have to find courage to somehow spill what was going on. It took a few more months, but I did. I told people that were my new next door neighbors but, for some reason, felt extremely safe, like a magnet was drawing me to them. And that cool spring night I was met with unbelievable understanding, empathy, and love. My friends looked at me and said, “Rach, We didn’t think it was possible to love and respect you more than we already do, but hearing your heart and secrets are causing us to love you even more deeply”. They asked me what I needed in the moment, and followed through. Vulnerability gave me the gift of depth in relationships; it gave both parties the ability to love and be loved unconditionally. Those early moments of vulnerability gave way to the most beautiful, trusting relationships, where I felt fully known and safe.
In late summer I had those same friends pull me aside, sit me in view of the sunset and lake and a fan blowing our hair, and told me the truth that I needed to hear. Truth that said while I was honest and powerful, I was also broken and may be reaching a point where I needed professional help. Vulnerability is healing but sometimes you need special people walking you through the dark caves and forests of your mind, the bramble bushes that make up a confusing array of emotions and the roller coaster that happened to be mine. Over the course of the summer my anxiety and destructive coping mechanisms had been increasing at a pretty steady rate.
I felt like a little girl who is overtired but won’t admit it, and instead tantrums and cries and refuses to sleep. Then her family picks her up and firmly gives her what she needs: to go to bed. That night, through love I was held strong and given the strength to say, “yes, I need help”. Because I wasn’t created to have such extreme mood swings. Because I can be brave and powerful and admit that I might have some problems; because it’s not normal to want to die all the time.
Truth spoken in love is powerful.This was the first of many times I had beautiful people reveal the truth to me. To have someone sympathize with you and try to understand is a treasure. To be welcomed into homes is healing, but sometimes not enough. It took months to finally make some progress, and even in the progress there were still weeks of backwards steps. But any progress is good and throughout that beautiful autumn, my Alabama family loved me thoroughly, enough to propel me forward, enough to receive the help I needed.
If I held a magnifying glass against my skin, I would see thousands of fingerprints of people who touched my life, people who, with gentle hands, lifted me up to my feet, spoon fed me food that nourished and healed, and whispered words that championed me. Raised by mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters; many colors, sizes, and ages, leaving their thumbprints on my skin and words that built a home. Raised by the world into something other worldly. Led by forests and tribes, light and textures, shades and hues, tastes and smells.
So, collectively, my tribe carries me around in her mouth, like a mother cat carries around her kittens. So often I struggle and then someone picks me up in his or her mouth and carries me (sometimes drags me) along. I’ll take it; movement is movement. Mother cat nourishes me and loves me and moves me and sometimes all I can do is just receive. I’m okay with that. Warmth, food, peace, love, movement; what else do we need? All I can do is receive this cat-love and be vulnerable with people who are willing sit next to me on my roller coaster.
Being terribly close is hard but it sucks out all infections and replaces them with the potpourri of being fully loved and known. So that winter I went and ate dark chocolate and drank egg nog and had shared secrets with all of my mother cats and I could smell the potpourri smells stronger than ever.
