Trauma

Some content may be inappropriate for young readers.

I love karaoke. When I was younger and had my eyes set on being the first woman president, my first presidential act was going to be to declare “National Karaoke Day.”  (Turns out there is now a National Karaoke Week… my heart soars)

I had just turned 21 and had been frequenting a local bar whose name has changed since then several times, for karaoke as many nights a week as I could.  I was never a big drinker, had lots of “karaoke friends” and even the bar staff watched out for me. I was the little sister so to speak of that crazy group and I loved it!

The first time he came into the bar I was helping out behind the bar. He came in with a regular and was sweet, funny and a steady flow of conversation provided an evening of entertainment and intrigue. By the end of the evening he had convinced me to give him my number along with a promise to “meet again soon.” I was flattered by the attention and in the few days to follow, the flattering texts and just thinking about you moments continued to fill my head with excitement as we made plans to meet again at karaoke the following week.

I rang in the new year with some dear friends… my first indicator that something might be off was the over 45 phone calls and text messages that I missed during a 5 hour  celebration with my friends.  I chalked it up to a little over exuberance and continued on toward the karaoke date with a bit of hesitation but not enough to keep me from going.

During the two days prior to our next meeting time, he continued to call and text incessantly… I began to feel wary, something just did not seem right. But our mutual friend convinced me that I was overreacting, that he was really a great guy.

The night finally arrived; I wore my favorite shirt and my new pink pants that I had gotten for my birthday. They were velour and the most comfortable pants I had ever owned. Did my hair, put on make up, and to karaoke I went. I ordered a beer and jumped into my normal karaoke routine waiting for him to arrive.  When he did arrive, much later than planned, he had a friend with him and had some story about his friend’s car not working and did I mind us all hanging out together.  While it seemed odd, I shrugged it off, said sure, and went up to sing the song I had selected especially for when he got there (it showed off my ability the best and he had said it was his favorite). He sang once that evening, a song he dedicated to me and my heart swooned… not because he that good but more because of the sweetness of the idea.

The evening continued on and they kept talking about a friend who has having a get together at his home and did I want to check it out. I said I would think about it but I wanted to stay a little longer. He offered to get me a beer, (my second for the evening) and I agreed. I sang once more and started to feel a little funny. Overwhelmed by the noise and lights and like I couldn’t breathe right.  It was then that they suggested leaving and I agreed quickly.  As we were leaving, my dear friend behind the bar questioned me as to my condition saying that something seemed wrong and was I sure that I was ok.  I readily assured him that I was ok, just felt a little off and I was going to leave with them and they had promised to take me home.

The rest of the evening is somewhat a blur… I remember bits and pieces.  I remember driving to a house and there being 4-5 other people there.  I remember him instantly being very physically attentive, calling me “his girl” and making sure I was never out of his sight.  I remember my head pounding and my going through the medicine cabinet desperate for some sort of Tylenol to ease the pain. I remember telling him directly “I am not going to have sex with you I don’t even know you” and him laughing and telling me not to worry.

In the morning I could not find my keys, or my pants and I wasn’t sure where I was.  My keys were across the room underneath my neatly folded pants along with my cell phone which had been turned off. Feeling panicked as to where I was or how I got there I quickly dressed and left noting that everyone else was sleeping.  Still feeling very off I went home desperate for more sleep. I had to work that night and so I got up, dragged myself to the shower feeling very sore and more “hung over” than I should have been after 2 beers.

While I was in the shower, I began to have flashbacks of the evening before. I remembered him pushing me up against the wall all the time telling me how beautiful I was and that I would be his Portuguese princess.  I remember trying to squirm away but him holding his hand around my neck just tight enough to keep me there.  I remember trying to pacify him by saying “let’s just go to sleep, tomorrow will be a new day.” I remember putting my keys and my phone next to me on the couch and having my pants ON! I remember him trying to come on to me and my pushing him away saying “I said no, leave me alone.” I remember waking up and he was on top of me, my pants were on the ground, one arm was holding my neck and shoulders down while the other hand was doing things inside me. I remember crying. I remember him starting to pull his pants off and my flailing trying to get away. I remember him speaking to me in a low quiet tone telling me “it’s ok, it’s all going to be alright, I won’t hurt you if you stay still.” The feeling of his arm tightening around my neck; praying in my head “get me out of here please.” Then mustering everything I possibly had, using my entire body weight and pushing him off me yelling “I said no.” Then everything going black.

It took me 24 hours to decide to go to the police, I didn’t know what to do, I was ashamed, scared, and because my memory was somewhat spotty I had no idea if anyone would even believe me.  The creepy police officer that took me to the hospital who was saying “call me if you need anything” while trying to slide his hand onto my leg. The nurse that was cold and hard, questioning me as to why it took me so long to come in. Clearly not understanding how scared and confused I was.

The months to follow carried with them significant heart ache, trauma and pain.  I was plagued with nightmares each time revealing a detail that I had remembered from the event.  My friends were angry, some at him, some at me (one friend told me I ruined their wedding, they were getting married a couple of days after everything happened and I was catering for them… which for the record I still did), and I was so ashamed that I told the most vanilla version of the story that I could just so that it would be over, so that I didn’t have to talk about it anymore.  The re-traumatization of needing to tell the story over and over had paralyzed me. I walked around in a fog.

I spent years that way. To this day I refuse to wear or be near anything velour. I’ve never sung that song again or been able to listen to the song he sang without wanting to vomit. I’ve avoided that house and anything near it.  Around this time every year I’m plagued with nightmares, irritability, the desire to hide in a hole and not come out.  It feels like everyone that looks at me can see my pain, the dirtiness, the scars that I carry.  As if I’m carrying my insides on my outside.

It’s always been easier to not talk about it.  Even though I have found a lot of healing from the event in my brain, my subconscious, my insides are still wounded.  The biological response, although I’ve fought desperately against it, still manages to rear its ugly head and remind me as if saying… “hey you… I see you… everyone sees you… you’re disgusting, you let that happen to you, you probably deserved it.” And the kicker… I never remember that it’s happening until I look at the calendar after wondering why I haven’t slept, or woken up soaked in sweat, or felt like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder and feeling like I might jump out of my skin. That I would just like to go hide in a hole until it’s over.

If you carry pain like mine, or experiences like mine and can’t understand why you just “can’t seem to move on from them.” Know that you aren’t alone. 

It wasn’t your fault. 

Everyone can’t see your scars, and they aren’t ugly. They are beautiful. They mean that you survived, that you have gone on to live the best that you can, they show pain transformed into beauty. And if you can’t seem to see that part yet, keep trying. It will come.  

Does it ever fully go away? I don’t think so. I’m not sure that it is supposed to.  But I do know that in sharing who I am, how I feel and what I see, it gives someone else who is hiding like me the freedom to know… they are not alone.

You are not alone. We are together. There is room in my hole. You are welcome here.

Shame

Ashamed- Embarrassed or guilty because of one's actions, characteristics or associations.

Shame – make someone feel ashamed.

Selfish – lacking consideration for others, concerned chiefly with one's own personal profit or pleasure.

I have spent most of my life feeling ashamed because of the shame I feel towards those that are selfish. As someone who has found most of my self-worth through seeking to make others happy, I have discovered that I am incredibly resentful of those whose focus is inward. But... I'm 32 and I'm just now realizing this...

I struggle to fathom how people spend their days thinking and acting solely on what they want and have no regard for other people or often times can't see beyond the end of their own nose to notice that someone might need a kind word, some encouragement, or even a hug (although I am not a hugger, so please don't start hugging me)...

While I do feel that there are those who are exceptionally self-focused.... what I have begun to realize is that I have become more comfortable condemning those who take more care of themselves than others rather than accepting that what I need and want is not only ok... it's necessary to my survival.

I recently started doing some work transcribing psychological evaluations and one of the tests performed measures how well one cares for themselves, while another measures what one expects from relationships. The most common result is that the individual does not focus enough on themselves and does not expect relationships to be reciprocal instead often expecting little to nothing from other people.

It saddens me to realize that for the most part, I stopped expecting relationships to be reciprocal many years ago. I allowed myself to believe very quickly that the only value I had in most relationships was what I could give or do for that person and it was safer to just expect nothing in return. I have had very few relationships where I haven't operated under this mentality.

Now, in my own defense. That isn't necessarily ALL my fault. I have had many experiences that contributed to molding that world view, where either my expressed needs were shamed or ignored.... to the extent of being told that my self-centered response was causing detriment to that person to great extent.... which of course for my people-pleasing brain was devastating.

As I have done more introspective work during my accident recovery, one of the things I have identified is this pattern of feeling incredibly angry, hurt, frustrated (you pick a word it probably fits) toward others because that resentment can no longer remain stuffed in my brain. Inevitably, the anger seeps out in the form of shame... which then makes me feel ashamed... all because... the reality.

I suck at being selfish.... I envy those who are selfish. Not selfish to the point of damaging others... but people who can take care of their own needs above the needs of others and feel not only ok about it... but entitled to it. This has resulted in overextending myself (yes I know, many of you are nodding), digging myself into financial holes over and over, along with a general dissatisfaction when it comes to relationships because I feel as though no one sees me. I feel invisible. I feel like the little girl, standing in the corner of the tall grass on the edge of a field yelling “HELLO!!!! I'm over here”

So. I'm turning to a new chapter. I hope... one where I fight for me... for what I need. For people to see me for who I really am. To see my heart for loving others but also my need to be loved in return... and to be seen. To start saying no, even when the pain is excruciating because I know that there is a part of me that still feels like I won't be important if I say no. That finds value in being needed. But is no longer willing to be angry and resentful to survive the mental gymnastics of people-pleasing for self-worth.

I am worth more than that. And if you are at all like me... so are you.

Won't you join me in this new adventure. Of taking better care of me... so that of course in the end... I can take better care of you. 

And just maybe.... you can take better care of me.

Reminiscence

Do you ever have that connection with someone.... ya know... the moment you meet them you feel that deep, soul connection that really usually you only see in movies.

That's how I felt about Erik... not in a romantic way... more like the older brother I never had but always imagined.

The summer before my senior year changed my life. It changed my direction. It changed everything.

First there was Matt.... Matt was the older brother of my friend Annie who at the time was one of my dearest friends; well and really he was my friend too. The Slater kids were friends from church/youth group and I fell right in the middle of their age line-up. All the girls at one point or another had a crush on Matt... he had that dreamy blond hair, blue-eyed artistic look but with abs hat we all swooned for.

Matt passed away unexpectedly at a summer party the end of June. I can still remember getting the call to come to the hospital in the middle of the night after having left the bonfire we were all at because I had a headache. I can remember Mrs. Slater sobbing. I can remember not knowing what to do or what to say. I remember his funeral. I remember the room being so full that people were standing in rows in the back. I remember singing.... I remember not being able to cry during the funeral because I felt like someone had to hold it together, everyone was a mess. We all cried a lot in the weeks to follow. The tragic loss of Matt was something no one was prepared for, nor did we know how to handle.

Then I met Erik. Erik was a heroin addict that was newly sober and looking to make a serious direction change in his life. The details on how he was introduced to our family are a little fuzzy, I just remember his smile. We instantly hit it off. He filled a part of my heart that was still aching from the loss of Matt. He became part of the family.

Erik was an amazing cook! I can remember the first time I cooked when he came for dinner... I was SO nervous. He was so kind... even though I'm sure it wasn't that wonderful. We played Euchre.... I won and never stopped rubbing it in. He just had this way of instantly making me feel warm and comfortable. I remember his hugs. He was so tall! His arms would just wrap around me. They were the best hugs!

We used to talk about the different things we wanted to do in life. Where we wanted to go. I was entering my senior year in high school and he would tell me that I could do anything I wanted... he was sure of it.

Then the phone call came. It was October late at night. Erik was in the hospital in ICU. Originally we were told he had over-dosed. Turns out that he had gone back out and when he used, it caused an aneurysm in his brain to explode which mimicked the signs of an over-dose. I don't remember very much about the details of the next day. I remember sitting in the hospital. I remember people coming and going... everyone was crying. I remember not knowing what to do. I felt completely lost.

I remember when they decided that they were going to take him off life support I was screaming inside. The gut wrenching, heart stabbing, doubling-over feeling. I remember standing in the room. The beeping of the monitor...Everyone was saying goodbye. I couldn't say goodbye. I told him, “I'll always beat you in Euchre. You were better than any older brother I could have ever had. You can't go.” And then... the beeping stopped...his heart stopped beating...

...I didn't feel anymore.

I couldn't handle the pain, I didn't understand the pain. Why did it hurt so much.

I dropped classes, I struggled to find pleasure in anything. I felt as if part of me was missing. I had nightmares... there I was... standing there... and there he was... the beeping... and then it would stop. I would wake up feeling as though I was screaming only to find I was just dreaming. I went from having a clear plan to no plan at all. To desperately seeking something that would free me from the intense agony I was feeling.

There are a lot of people who have been important to me.

A lot of people who impacted my life in one way or another.

But there have been no more like Erik. I loved Erik as if he were my family.

The trauma of losing both Matt and Erik within months of each other caused a chasm in my heart. A dark pain that for years I tried to numb with just about anything I could. I never really found anything that took the pain away... it just became a dull ache. It still hurts. But now... I let it hurt.

People always say when someone dies, “oh they're in a better place now” or “they don't feel anymore pain.” That never takes the pain away. It doesn't help or ease the intensity.

And ya know... it's ok... It's ok that it hurts, and it's ok that I feel it. I feel no shame in missing someone who had such a profound impact on my life in such a short time.

This time of year is always difficult for me. I remember Matt. Try to imagine what he might have done with his love for art. Who he would have married and what his children might be like.

I remember Erik. My heart aches for him. To know what he would have become. To show him who I've become. And even though I believe that he is in heaven, and I know he would be proud: still I miss him.

I remember.

And it hurts.

But I'm ok.

Bewail

Bewail: express great regret, disappointment, or bitterness over (something).

Mourn: feel regret or sadness about (the loss or disappearance of something).

For as long I can remember, one of the things I have cherished most, been most proud of, and relied on beyond almost all else… was my mind… my brain. I’ve always been quick to catch on, sharp, quick to come up with a response, and worked hard to further my intelligence whenever possible. 

You know the old saying, “an elephant never forgets?” well… Charissa never forgets.  I never needed to carry a calendar, put things in my phone, or write myself notes… My mind was a steel trap.

During my childhood, I was often rewarded for being intelligent.  In fact, in an attempt to help me raise funds for mission trips, I used to be rewarded monetarily for each A on my final two report cards.  $20 an A seemed like a fortune at that time so I worked even harder to make sure those last two marking periods were always my best.

I’ve written before about how important words are to me, about growing up in a family that highly valued extensive vocabulary.  Well the same went for intelligence.  Both my parents and my brother are far above “smart” and we have always taken pride in our intelligence.

I also have always been quite abstract when it comes to my process, thinking, and daily

living.  What does that mean exactly? It means this… while many people need someone to give them step by step directions, some of us prefer either no directions or only an initial concept… or even at times to be the ones that come up with the concept and pass it on to others.  OF course there is always an in between… but I very much fall in the concept creating category.  I have always been able to juggle many balls at one time without risk of dropping them. Again, something I’ve always taken pride in.

Why am I telling you all this?

I need to tell you about the different me.  The new me that I am not yet willing to accept as the permanent me.  The me that is struggling with something that I can’t control. (oh yea, along with all of those really great things came the “control freak” part of me also… wait… I still have that.. I digress)

As you know, I’m recovering (a year out almost) from a car accident that completely flipped my world upside down.  And if you’re anything L ike me, the thought, “Gosh shouldn’t she be better already” is going through your head; trust me, I echo your sentiment.  Unfortunately, there is very much about me that is different now. The best way for me to do it is to write two different letters and let you decide which category you fall into.

To those who knew me before,

I wish that you could see inside my head.  That you could feel how I feel so that I wouldn’t have to put words to it. Putting words to it makes it feel so much more… real… rather than just a figment of my imagination that will eventually fade away. Most of the time I feel crazy. It’s painful. I am painfully aware every day of my difference. I don’t get jokes anymore, (they often go right over my head). It takes me longer to process anything that’s said to me, so I am unable to make quick decisions or have those quick witty comebacks you’ve grown to love from me.  I don’t remember ANYTHING. I write everything down, and even then, I often need to be reminded. So if you’ve told me something important and I don’t remember, it’s not because I’m careless with your information from you or your heart, I honestly probably don’t remember.  I also am unable to follow conversations as quickly, which means that the glazed over dazed and confused look you often find on my face now is real. I have no clue what you just said to me.

However, probably the biggest change: I have trouble being grounded now, and providing grounding for anyone else.  I have trouble getting my bearings, finding and feeling secure. I feel like I’m standing on a wire that’s stretched out between two very tall buildings and with one little blow will topple over and go plundering to my death on the concrete below (graphic.. painful… it’s what I’m experiencing  daily).

This has come along with a significant amount of anxiety.  I struggle to go into crowds or places where there will be more than 3-4 people, especially alone.  I am less likely to go anywhere alone, and will often only go places when someone is accompanying me who I feel completely safe with. And by that I mean, someone who can read what’s happening by my body language and can quickly get me out of a situation if I start to become too overwhelmed.  Usually I just stay home. It doesn’t feel worth the risk.

I’m sure this is all very hard to imagine, especially about me. The outgoing, performing loving, karaoke singing, joke telling me.  Trust me, most days I can’t swallow it myself.  It makes me angry. Angry that in an instant, me… the me I know... the me you know… is changed.  And while I keep telling myself, it’s just a season.  The doctors keep saying, have grace, be easy on your brain, it needs to heal, it will heal.  I just don’t see it… not yet at least.  So I need all of you to see it for me.

I need you to see me.

To those who didn’t know me before,

When I tell you that I’m different now, that I don’t understand what’s going on; when I get frustrated easily, go from happy to solemn or crying at the drop of the hat. THAT IS NOT ME! When I say no to being invited places, or bail at the last minute… THAT IS NOT ME! I’m sure you’ve realized by reading my first part that I’m experiencing a lot of change. Change that not only did I not anticipate, but that I don’t know how to regulate.  You probably experience me as “normal” because you don’t know the me from before.  

My entire world has turned upside down. I’m learning how to adjust to that. But just as I feel I’m getting into a groove, something else changes, or something else that I rely on goes.  

You’ve probably seen me carrying around multiple packages of lined post-it notes or calendars. If you work with me, you’ve probably had a good chuckle at my “sticky note computer screen.” I know it seems funny, but in many ways, it is a cold daily reminder of an area that I am greatly lacking and adjusting to. Your grace and kindness is greatly appreciated.

To you all.

It may seem trivial to you. It may seem like a mountain out of a mole hill.  I strongly encourage you to think of something that you greatly depended again, and imagine it gone, or greatly damaged. How did it function then? How did you function with it? And, as much as I hate to say it, temporarily at least...  start seeing me that way. 

The real me is temporarily out of order.

Johnny

I remember very little about my early childhood. I have pieces of memories that are hard to fit together and most times I don't try. Those memories are dull, dark.. Almost gray if that makes sense.

But I have a few memories that are sharp, bright and vivid. Those are memories that are forever etched in my heart.

Johnny was born on July 4, and the entire pregnancy for my mom had been traumatic. (That's not really my story to tell) but I can say that... It was amazing that she survived it let alone delivered a living baby.

They were in the hospital the entire time Johnny was alive.  I was too young to understand what was happening. But I have a few memories from that time that always creep up this time of year.

I remember visiting my mom in the hospital. I remember her being so weak.

I remember the look of worry and concern on my dad's face, which seemed to take up permanent residence for several weeks.

I remember Danny and I trying to be as quiet as we could. We were both very afraid. We thought if we were very quiet maybe people wouldn't see us or how scared we were

I remember the tubes... there were lots of tubes. And the machine that he lived in. I remember taking the machine for a walk and being able to push it slowly down the hall of the hospital.

Then I remember crying... Not me crying... But my mom... She cried a lot.

I don't remember what it was like when Johnny died. I don't remember how they told us and actually I don't even remember if there was a service.

For what seemed  like a long time time, Fourth of July was a sad time in our house. My brother and I slowly learned that it was just best to keep that day as normal as possible and to be as well behaved as we could be. We knew it was hard for mom and dad.

Mom used to wear a locket for Johnny. I remember I found it once cleaning the bathroom after she thought she'd lost it.

Even now, twenty some years later... I still think about Johnny today. Not necessarily in a sad way, it's almost nostalgic now. But I still remember. I remember how the hospital sounded, how it smelled, how it looked.

My words to Johnny this year:

We never really got the chance to know you. Your traumatic entry into this world is forever etched in our minds. We wish we would have had more time, to know you, to love you, to be family together. I remember very little other than you being here... And then you were with us no longer. But you will always be our brother, and son. Our hearts miss you. And one day... We will know you again. A healthy you, a happy you. A whole you.

Memorial Day

A reflection from a mother in the community on the loss of her son.

My son, Tech. Sgt. Matthew Schwartz, died January 5, 2012, in Afghanistan. He performed acts of heroism every day while he was away at war. Entering cities in Iraq,

clearing roads, feeding children who had become orphans, un-detonating bombs, rescuing people who were being held hostage in their own countries--all of those acts are scary to me… as his mom.  He would never tell me about that part of it, the scary parts; he was always trying not to make me worry. He was a very good son.

All these things made me think of Jesus. Did he not do these same exact things? Did he not pave a way for all to have a new beautiful life with him? Did he not feed the hungry and adopt us into his family making us a Royal Priesthood? Did he not defuse explosive situations with just the sound of his gentle voice speaking with wisdom?  Wow… what an example.

I think of the times Matt would reply, “It’s no big deal. It's my job.” Humble, always humble. He was always placing others before himself; and oh how he loved his family. Ten days before he died, he emailed his wife to express his love for her: "So Jennifer if God comes today and takes me home I will have had more blessings than anyone could have ever wished for." 

Many have described my son's death as "the ultimate sacrifice."  My response? "No, Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice; my son just followed in his footsteps. Thank you Jesus for being Matt's hero!"

As told to Charissa Kaschel by Cindy Schwartz.

Mother

This blog is dedicated to my mother.

To those who have stepped in as "mother" during my younger life; Roxie & Anne. 

To ones who have become "mother" me; Nancy & Kandy

To those who inspire me as mothers: Jennifer, Sarah, Jesi, Katrynia & Brandee

As I find myself reflecting on Mother’s Day this year, I became curious as to the origin of Mother’s Day along with. How do we determine who “mother” is? Especially if perhaps we don’t have a biological mother.

Mother’s Day is a modern holiday that was first celebrated in 1908, when Anna Jarvis held a memorial for her mother. After a three year campaign to make Mother’s Day a holiday inspired by her mother who was a peace activist who cared for wounded soldiers on both sides of the American Civil War, Congress rejected the bill. By 1911, all states observed Mother’s Day and in 1914, Woodrow Wilson designated the second Sunday in May as the national holiday we now celebrate as Mother’s Day. (Thanks wikipedia)

Webster’s Dictionary defines “Mother” in two ways. 1. A woman in relation to a child or children to whom she has given birth. 2. To bring up (a child) with care and affection.

I’ve been quite fortunate to have a biological mother who has always been present in my life.  Equipping me with many qualities and influencing me in many ways to help mold me into the woman I am today.  My mother is driven, strong, intelligent, snarky, a little, okay, A LOT Type A (shhh.. that’s a good thing, clearly I come by it honestly), wise, encouraging and always ready to give me a dose of reality when I need it. She taught me always to honor my commitments, speak my mind, have an opinion, and how to cook.

 As amazing as my mom was growing up, I was also provided with some women who filled the spots that my mom couldn’t.  I had a woman who fed my very dramatic, music and sequin loving girly side; and one who was loving, warm, nurturing and always had a kind word when I needed it.

I have four adopted sisters who experienced the trauma of a mother who wasn't able to care for them well which provided quite a contrast to my life as a teenager and young adult. As an opinionated (shocking I know) teenager, I couldn't understand how a mother, or what I knew a mother to be, could do things that left life long effects as she did. To this day it grieves me greatly.

As an adult, I’ve come to greatly value the saying “it takes a village to raise a child” combined with “there’s no love like a love for a mother.” As a single mom raising two boys, there are days where my “mom super powers” just aren’t enough to get through the week let alone the day. There are other women in my “village” who can step in and love and nurture my children when I’ve reached my breaking point.  Thank goodness there’s no love like a love for a mother, I mess up A LOT.

This year, as I experience my second Mother’s Day post divorce, it comes coupled with the strife a four year old grieving the separation and change and often knows no other way than to lash out with words such as “I don’t like you,” or “I hate you.” While I know that he loves me deeply, I also know he is hurting greatly and I am unable to fix that hole in his life right now. It’s been quite painful as a mom. To know that a decision I have made has caused such hurt and void in his life at such a young age.

I’ve always struggled with Mother’s Day as a mom and for a variety of reasons but mainly because I never have felt like I’ve actually done a “good enough job” to be celebrated as a mom. I’ve failed my children in so many ways, divorce, moving, being unwell, recovering from surgeries and accidents… and the list goes on.  Someone very wise once said to me: “regardless of how you feel about your mothering, there are those without mothers who would take you in a heartbeat;” which of course got me thinking about those who grew up without mothers or maternal influences.

So, no matter how you grew up or live now; whether you are connected to your mother, or someone who stepped in where your mother couldn’t. Whether your mother is no longer living on this earth, or whether you’re honoring her in memory this year. I encourage you to celebrate Mother’s Day this year by honoring those who influenced your life, or your children’s, in a way that maybe you’re only now recognizing as “mom.”

A very Happy Mother’s Day to you, and thank you to whose who have loved my children and I with reckless motherly abandon.