These last two weekends, I have gone into "holy shit we're moving away so I need to do all the things" mode. First, I took a solo trip to Boston to spend the night with my brother and sister in law, and second, a trip to New Hampshire to spend some time alone with my dad (a.k.a The Dadster). Both trips were refreshing in their own way, especially when you have two kids and three dogs at home; it was a rare treat to only have myself to take care of for the first time since becoming a mother. No emergency snacks to pack for the endlessly hungry Hannah, no cringe-worthy body talks with Lyla, no massive dog crates to pack up or #2's to clean up - just me, the music I chose for the drive, the snacks I didn't have to share, and the uninterrupted conversations that actually got completed. It was time cherished, especially with those views from the mountain top, but as much as I enjoyed the rare alone time, I couldn't wait to get back to my family, which I realized was the best part about getting away.
It was easy to go to bed alone, without any bedtime routines or dogs to let out, but I didn't prefer it. I missed how many things the girls would rattle off as I tucked them in, as if we would never speak again. I missed climbing into bed with my husband, taking forever to decide which show to put on, only for us to fall asleep within minutes. I missed warm cheek kisses in the morning and smoothing out little bed heads. I missed the kiss I get on the shoulder before sunrise when my husband gets out of bed before me. I missed it all, which actually made me feel really good. I could recognize how different and often easier things could be without a marriage to nurture or children to raise, and yet I'd take the difficulties of daily life over not having that life any day.
In a way, I was relieved to feel that I truly loved my life; that I didn't regret having children or getting married young once I got a taste of freedom for the first time in 10 years. There was a part of me that feared different feelings once I could step away and take a deep breath, that I would wish to be able to do things like that more, that I would envy a different life, but no freaking way. My husband and I missed each other as if we were newly dating and counting down the hours until we could kiss again. My kiddos would FaceTime each day and text throughout to keep me updated on their activities and "miss you" moments. I believe part of what made my time away so great what knowing what I had to come home to.
So, I guess the whole point of this post was to surrender to a cliche: home is not where your house is, but where your heart is. I thought I would feel waves of depression coming home to Massachusetts when we thought we would be settled in North Carolina by now, when really, the location didn't matter because it's where my family was waiting for me. Through the frustrations of recent renovations, the struggle to sell our house, the inability to plan, and, really, a lack of control, coming home showed me that we can wade through the moving bullshit and still be happy now. There was nothing like those big hugs and wet kisses I got when I pulled up to the curb, or that one of a kind hug that's tailored just for me, making me feel so safe and loved - I will have that wherever we are, and that's what coming home is.
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
Embracing Change
Throughout my childhood, I didn't experience an exuberant amount of change. I lived in the same childhood home until I was 19 and moved into my first apartment. My parents didn't divorce until I was 16, leaving all holiday traditions, family gatherings, and yearly vacations in tact. There were no sudden deaths, no wild illnesses, no major house renovations, no change in careers for my parents...just a life of consistency and stability for this girl. Most parents strive for this life style for their children, always pleading that "children need stability", but I found that it set me up for failure when it came to change.
First, it was minor things, like my best friend's parents renovating parts of their home; with every rug torn up I mourned over my memories of rolling around on it, for every piece of furniture replaced I remembered the crazy amounts of peanut butter MnM's shared on it - it was a little ridiculous, and not even my house!
Then, naturally, changes became bigger. Motherhood, marriage, moving away from home - big changes that, yes, warrant tears and some struggle, but I was still effected by the lesser changes, like when my husband would switch shifts at work; the thought of changing my work, exercise, and kiddo routines always sent me into a fit of bitter tears. Recently, when my father moved from Worcester to New Hampshire, I became what I believe to be a bit depressed after he sold my childhood home. I would climb right into bed after work, and allow those childish crocodile tears to slide down my face while I snuggled my daughters and convulsed over memory after memory. And of course, there was then the added change of my father being nearly 4 hours away; no more popping in for lunch, no more day trips to swim in the pool, no more inviting all my high school friends over for a visit when we were in town. That change was a rough one.
It was rough, anyway, until I realized that this change played a big role in my ability to put my big girl pants on and actually embrace change. I was able to see that, although we saw my dad less often, our time together when we did visit was cherished much more. Quick lunches turned into weekend hiking trips, afternoons spent swimming turned into lake side fishing, and quick catch-up chats became more in depth conversations. I was devastated, and yet, I was okay. Knowing I was okay after such a big change made me feel strong, and aided in my willingness to move to North Carolina when the opportunity came our way.
Now, instead of fearing change, I am looking forward to it, because what is change other than an opportunity to learn, grow, and discover more about yourself? I am not naive enough to think this move will be easy; we will miss our family, friends, familiarity, clients, and so forth like crazy. We will struggle with feelings of loneliness, we will question ourselves, we will have doubts. And yet, I'm looking forward to the struggle. I can't wait to see what it's like to only have my husband and kids in my corner, and see how we deal with the balance of our own needs while also being there for one another. After 30 years of living close to family, I can't wait to see how our relationships grow fonder with distance, and our time together more be cherished on visits. I can't wait to discover strengths we never knew we had, to see our ability to overcome something so difficult, to show our children that anything is possible, and to strengthen the bond with my husband and daughters.
My hope for myself as we get closer to the big move is to appreciate what I have right here, right now, and to not look back once we are settled 15 hours away. I hope to be able to engulf myself in all the feels such a big change can create; I want to feel the sadness, I want to feel the nerves, I want to feel the fear and the anxiety and the worry, because sitting with those feelings and truly allowing myself to have them will only make those better feelings of excitement, hope, and dream chasing all the more enticing. My hope for my girls is that this move will teach them that despite where they grew up, despite where your family resides, despite the hardships big change can bring, that they can be anywhere they dream of being. I look forward to showing them that yes, this will be hard, but yes, we will be okay. Because, after all, change is inevitable, and that's life.
First, it was minor things, like my best friend's parents renovating parts of their home; with every rug torn up I mourned over my memories of rolling around on it, for every piece of furniture replaced I remembered the crazy amounts of peanut butter MnM's shared on it - it was a little ridiculous, and not even my house!
Then, naturally, changes became bigger. Motherhood, marriage, moving away from home - big changes that, yes, warrant tears and some struggle, but I was still effected by the lesser changes, like when my husband would switch shifts at work; the thought of changing my work, exercise, and kiddo routines always sent me into a fit of bitter tears. Recently, when my father moved from Worcester to New Hampshire, I became what I believe to be a bit depressed after he sold my childhood home. I would climb right into bed after work, and allow those childish crocodile tears to slide down my face while I snuggled my daughters and convulsed over memory after memory. And of course, there was then the added change of my father being nearly 4 hours away; no more popping in for lunch, no more day trips to swim in the pool, no more inviting all my high school friends over for a visit when we were in town. That change was a rough one.
It was rough, anyway, until I realized that this change played a big role in my ability to put my big girl pants on and actually embrace change. I was able to see that, although we saw my dad less often, our time together when we did visit was cherished much more. Quick lunches turned into weekend hiking trips, afternoons spent swimming turned into lake side fishing, and quick catch-up chats became more in depth conversations. I was devastated, and yet, I was okay. Knowing I was okay after such a big change made me feel strong, and aided in my willingness to move to North Carolina when the opportunity came our way.
Now, instead of fearing change, I am looking forward to it, because what is change other than an opportunity to learn, grow, and discover more about yourself? I am not naive enough to think this move will be easy; we will miss our family, friends, familiarity, clients, and so forth like crazy. We will struggle with feelings of loneliness, we will question ourselves, we will have doubts. And yet, I'm looking forward to the struggle. I can't wait to see what it's like to only have my husband and kids in my corner, and see how we deal with the balance of our own needs while also being there for one another. After 30 years of living close to family, I can't wait to see how our relationships grow fonder with distance, and our time together more be cherished on visits. I can't wait to discover strengths we never knew we had, to see our ability to overcome something so difficult, to show our children that anything is possible, and to strengthen the bond with my husband and daughters.
My hope for myself as we get closer to the big move is to appreciate what I have right here, right now, and to not look back once we are settled 15 hours away. I hope to be able to engulf myself in all the feels such a big change can create; I want to feel the sadness, I want to feel the nerves, I want to feel the fear and the anxiety and the worry, because sitting with those feelings and truly allowing myself to have them will only make those better feelings of excitement, hope, and dream chasing all the more enticing. My hope for my girls is that this move will teach them that despite where they grew up, despite where your family resides, despite the hardships big change can bring, that they can be anywhere they dream of being. I look forward to showing them that yes, this will be hard, but yes, we will be okay. Because, after all, change is inevitable, and that's life.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Let's Sell This Thing
I woke up today feeling optimistic, after a few rough weeks of nothing but negativity.
A couple of weeks ago, a client shared her story of house selling struggles, and told me about this statue; you bury it upside down in your front yard, and it brings your home luck in order to sell. I hadn't given it much thought, thinking it was a religious something-or-other that I'd be unfairly dabbling in for the house to sell, until Hannah came home from class last night with the same statue-story from a classmate's mother. After nearly 8 weeks of our Acushnet house on the market and not a single offer (despite what seems to be endless "interest"), I am willing to try anything. Amazon Prime will be delivering our new little friend tomorrow, where I will hope and wish and pray as I bury it with crossed fingers.
I don't know if it's new hope from the statue stories, or just my body being exhausted from all the unknowns, but today is a day I will focus only on the thought of our house selling; not the what-if's, not the unknowns, not the preferable timeline or our bottom dollar or our current financial struggles - just the thought of that perfect family coming in, falling in love with our home, and presenting us with our first offer. According to our realtor, it's all or nothing; she says that you either get no offers or a lot at once. I'm focusing on the ladder. Now that the summer holidays are settling down, maybe it's time for buyers to get serious. Maybe our next open house will be our biggest success, with multiple showings and multiple offers. Maybe all this worrying was for nothing, because we're being impatient and controlling and anxious. Maybe this is a time we will look back on and think "remember when we thought that house would never sell and this move would never happen?"
We've been realistic, too realistic, about what not moving would look like. We've put our minds through hell thinking of how we can't afford not to move, how I will feel having to endure another New England winter, how utterly disappointed, angry, and devastated we would be to watch this dream slip away simply because we can't sell our house. And today, I feel like I have thought about all of that quite enough. It would royally suck, and I am aware of that, but focusing on the potential suck-factor isn't selling our house. It's preventing me from enjoying summer, the season I wait 9 months each year for. It's filling our house with negative vibes, and that can't be helping the process at all!
This house will sell. It will sell to the right buyer, in the right time frame. Do I hope that time frame is this summer? Absolutely. However, if it's one thing the fear of not moving at all has taught me, is that the ultimate goal is just to make it to North Carolina; even if that means losing the house we're under contract with, even if that means the kids have to start school here, even if it takes longer than we had hoped for...we just want to be down there. And so we will be, because it's what we want, what we've worked so hard to achieve, what we've spent the last 4 months planning for, drained our accounts for, and turned our lives upside down for.
Our relationship has always been based on signs, and all the stars have aligned for us in terms of this move so far. Our only stall has been the house selling, and as people keep reminding me, 8 weeks on the market is still not that long. We are being impatient, that's simply it. We heavily believed that the house would sell in days or weeks, not months. We had high expectations (fuck expectations) that failed us and we let it get us down. No more. Today I choose optimism, positivity, and encouragement. THIS HOUSE WILL SELL. It will because it has to, it's our dream, our adventure, our life. We will get down to North Carolina, and possibly (hopefully!!) with the help of our new little statue arriving tomorrow. The shovel is ready and my hopes are high. Let's get this thing sold!!!
A couple of weeks ago, a client shared her story of house selling struggles, and told me about this statue; you bury it upside down in your front yard, and it brings your home luck in order to sell. I hadn't given it much thought, thinking it was a religious something-or-other that I'd be unfairly dabbling in for the house to sell, until Hannah came home from class last night with the same statue-story from a classmate's mother. After nearly 8 weeks of our Acushnet house on the market and not a single offer (despite what seems to be endless "interest"), I am willing to try anything. Amazon Prime will be delivering our new little friend tomorrow, where I will hope and wish and pray as I bury it with crossed fingers.
I don't know if it's new hope from the statue stories, or just my body being exhausted from all the unknowns, but today is a day I will focus only on the thought of our house selling; not the what-if's, not the unknowns, not the preferable timeline or our bottom dollar or our current financial struggles - just the thought of that perfect family coming in, falling in love with our home, and presenting us with our first offer. According to our realtor, it's all or nothing; she says that you either get no offers or a lot at once. I'm focusing on the ladder. Now that the summer holidays are settling down, maybe it's time for buyers to get serious. Maybe our next open house will be our biggest success, with multiple showings and multiple offers. Maybe all this worrying was for nothing, because we're being impatient and controlling and anxious. Maybe this is a time we will look back on and think "remember when we thought that house would never sell and this move would never happen?"
We've been realistic, too realistic, about what not moving would look like. We've put our minds through hell thinking of how we can't afford not to move, how I will feel having to endure another New England winter, how utterly disappointed, angry, and devastated we would be to watch this dream slip away simply because we can't sell our house. And today, I feel like I have thought about all of that quite enough. It would royally suck, and I am aware of that, but focusing on the potential suck-factor isn't selling our house. It's preventing me from enjoying summer, the season I wait 9 months each year for. It's filling our house with negative vibes, and that can't be helping the process at all!
This house will sell. It will sell to the right buyer, in the right time frame. Do I hope that time frame is this summer? Absolutely. However, if it's one thing the fear of not moving at all has taught me, is that the ultimate goal is just to make it to North Carolina; even if that means losing the house we're under contract with, even if that means the kids have to start school here, even if it takes longer than we had hoped for...we just want to be down there. And so we will be, because it's what we want, what we've worked so hard to achieve, what we've spent the last 4 months planning for, drained our accounts for, and turned our lives upside down for.
Our relationship has always been based on signs, and all the stars have aligned for us in terms of this move so far. Our only stall has been the house selling, and as people keep reminding me, 8 weeks on the market is still not that long. We are being impatient, that's simply it. We heavily believed that the house would sell in days or weeks, not months. We had high expectations (fuck expectations) that failed us and we let it get us down. No more. Today I choose optimism, positivity, and encouragement. THIS HOUSE WILL SELL. It will because it has to, it's our dream, our adventure, our life. We will get down to North Carolina, and possibly (hopefully!!) with the help of our new little statue arriving tomorrow. The shovel is ready and my hopes are high. Let's get this thing sold!!!
Sunday, June 2, 2019
North Carolina Bound
This decision to move has been absolute craziness.
Despite the fact that my husband has talked about moving to North Carolina since I met him, there were two big factors this year that solidified the decision for us; one was being on a beach in Florida during the winter, and thinking "hmmm...this not being cold thing is pretty nice". The other, was a co-worker of my husband who was about to enter retirement and found out he had cancer with a limited amount of time to live. These two different perspectives on both location and living life gave us the permission we needed to really look into this move for ourselves. And, as excited as we were to take this risk, it's been anything but easy.
No one wants to see their children, grandchildren, best friends, or massage therapist (wink) move away, so telling people our news hasn't quite been filled with hugs and congratulations, but more with tears, disappointment, worry, and lack of support. Understandably so, but not the best feeling nonetheless.
And of course we are scared ourselves! We are leaving everything and everyone we've ever known. It's an even bigger leap for my husband who has lived in this same area for 32 years, and has a state job with all the bells and whistles. But, at this point, it's scarier for us to not try. After all these years of talking and wondering and wishing, we have to make the jump and just see. Even if it means falling on our faces. Even if it doesn't turn out to be what we've imagined. We have so many questions that can only be answered by just going for it. There are no failures, just lessons learned. Because it could be everything we want it to be, and could be the perfect decision for our family - and there's only one way to find out.
Our incredible therapist has been instrumental in this big decision by showing us what a gift it is for our children. He explained how we tend to feel stuck where we are raised; our family is there, our friends our there, our familiar doctors, gyms, restaurants - you name it - it's all in one place. And the longer we stay, the harder it is to leave; family member's get sick, children become more attached, work ladders are climbed - the thought of leaving it all can seem impossible. And that's exactly why we are doing it. Our daughter's are young enough that they can make new friends and adapt, and yet old enough that they need babysitters less and less. Our parents are in good health and don't rely on our care. Our relationship with our friends has become so strong that we don't doubt they'll visit - and vice versa. We can't thank our therapist enough for shining light on these realities and supporting us throughout the process.
The strength in our little family of 4 has never been more visible, as we know we are all each other will have for those first several months of moving and adjusting. We communicate with the kiddos every step of the way, and have each others backs when support is limited. We talk endlessly about our fears, the potential struggles, the what-ifs, and together come up with a game plan for when those tough times hit. We talk with excitement about our new possibilities (the girls are particularly excited about learning to surf), and all we could make possible in our new southern life together. If it weren't for years of personal growth, a willingness to work hard, growing along the same path, and supporting each other along the way, this move wouldn't be possible. I am so proud of my husband for taking such a big risk to live out a lifetime dream, and the work he's put into himself as an individual, a husband and a father. I am so proud of my daughters for voicing their doubts and desires about the move, and for being our little buddies through it all. I'm excited for our 3 dogs to have the outdoor life they deserve, and for myself as a runner to have less mitten-wearing months on the pavement.
This move is terrifying, heart breaking, stressful, anxiety-ridden, and yet despite all of that, still something we want more than anything. Here's to risk taking, the strength of our family, and to figuring it all out as we go.
Despite the fact that my husband has talked about moving to North Carolina since I met him, there were two big factors this year that solidified the decision for us; one was being on a beach in Florida during the winter, and thinking "hmmm...this not being cold thing is pretty nice". The other, was a co-worker of my husband who was about to enter retirement and found out he had cancer with a limited amount of time to live. These two different perspectives on both location and living life gave us the permission we needed to really look into this move for ourselves. And, as excited as we were to take this risk, it's been anything but easy.
No one wants to see their children, grandchildren, best friends, or massage therapist (wink) move away, so telling people our news hasn't quite been filled with hugs and congratulations, but more with tears, disappointment, worry, and lack of support. Understandably so, but not the best feeling nonetheless.
And of course we are scared ourselves! We are leaving everything and everyone we've ever known. It's an even bigger leap for my husband who has lived in this same area for 32 years, and has a state job with all the bells and whistles. But, at this point, it's scarier for us to not try. After all these years of talking and wondering and wishing, we have to make the jump and just see. Even if it means falling on our faces. Even if it doesn't turn out to be what we've imagined. We have so many questions that can only be answered by just going for it. There are no failures, just lessons learned. Because it could be everything we want it to be, and could be the perfect decision for our family - and there's only one way to find out.
Our incredible therapist has been instrumental in this big decision by showing us what a gift it is for our children. He explained how we tend to feel stuck where we are raised; our family is there, our friends our there, our familiar doctors, gyms, restaurants - you name it - it's all in one place. And the longer we stay, the harder it is to leave; family member's get sick, children become more attached, work ladders are climbed - the thought of leaving it all can seem impossible. And that's exactly why we are doing it. Our daughter's are young enough that they can make new friends and adapt, and yet old enough that they need babysitters less and less. Our parents are in good health and don't rely on our care. Our relationship with our friends has become so strong that we don't doubt they'll visit - and vice versa. We can't thank our therapist enough for shining light on these realities and supporting us throughout the process.
The strength in our little family of 4 has never been more visible, as we know we are all each other will have for those first several months of moving and adjusting. We communicate with the kiddos every step of the way, and have each others backs when support is limited. We talk endlessly about our fears, the potential struggles, the what-ifs, and together come up with a game plan for when those tough times hit. We talk with excitement about our new possibilities (the girls are particularly excited about learning to surf), and all we could make possible in our new southern life together. If it weren't for years of personal growth, a willingness to work hard, growing along the same path, and supporting each other along the way, this move wouldn't be possible. I am so proud of my husband for taking such a big risk to live out a lifetime dream, and the work he's put into himself as an individual, a husband and a father. I am so proud of my daughters for voicing their doubts and desires about the move, and for being our little buddies through it all. I'm excited for our 3 dogs to have the outdoor life they deserve, and for myself as a runner to have less mitten-wearing months on the pavement.
This move is terrifying, heart breaking, stressful, anxiety-ridden, and yet despite all of that, still something we want more than anything. Here's to risk taking, the strength of our family, and to figuring it all out as we go.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
FeELinG FuNnY
I think I'm having my mid-life crisis early.
And no, I don't want to go out and buy a fancy sports car or leave my family to travel the world. But I do think I have an idea of where it's coming from: really thinking about who the heck I am.
Nearing 30 has me stopping to think how did I even get here? Married, 2 kids, 3 dogs, home owner, successful business - sure, all good things to be grateful for. But who was the person inside who lead me to those decisions and, am I still that same person today?
So much of my life could be defined as trying to be like someone else, or impress someone else.
I remember being in middle school, and was so insecure about fitting in and who liked me, that I made my parents buy this one girl a load of gifts for her birthday simply because I was convinced she was having a birthday party and not inviting me. Manipulation seemed like a solid choice. I never found out whether or not she had that party, because if she did, I wasn't on the guest list.
I remember being in high school and spending 2 hours straightening my hair because everyone seemed to have this perfectly shiny, amazing straight hair. Even though my outcome was more like a burnt-to-a-crisp, static-ridden flat mess, I still killed myself over that hair style. I also remember spending nearly $100 on Abercrombie and Fitch jeans that were so tight I could barely breath in them, but hey, being a size 00 was a thing, too.
I remember visits from my brother, my one sibling who is 13 years older than me, who I looked up to like a God. I hated being like an only child when he was away, but I loved having this cool, musician, smart as hell older brother to brag to my friends about. I remember him asking me for shoulder rubs and him telling me how good I was at them, and, I remember this being a big part of my decision to apply to massage therapy school after high school.
I remember an 18 year old relationship that I stayed in longer than I should have just because other girls were interested. I remember the drama and the fabrications created to keep us together for as long as it lasted.
I remember the choices I had when I found out I was pregnant at 19, and how I cared more about what others would think rather than what this meant for my life and my future.
I remember being a great mom, sometimes even too great with my helicopter parenting and my homemade organic baby foods, because I had to prove that getting pregnant young and becoming a mother at 20 didn't mean I had to suck at parenting.
*I remember not wanting to relive parts of my childhood where there was endless screen time and distracted parents, and to this day am still overbearing about TV and devices.
I remember meeting Eric, and how quickly we fell in love and got married. I remember everyone telling me to slow down, take a step back, and think. I remember promising we would prove them all wrong.
I remember getting pregnant with Hannah on our honeymoon, and how nervous we were to tell people because we knew we wouldn't get the reactions we wanted. I remember a friend asking "is this a good thing?" and needing to tell an in-law after a comment about waiting for more children. I remember, once again, being determined to prove everyone wrong.
I remember signing up for my first marathon, because my parents had run 70+ combined marathons, and why not follow in their footsteps?
So, when I look back and remember all of these things, it makes me question my motives in a lot of very big decisions.
Could I have had friendships with a better foundation had my insecurities not gotten in the way?
Could I have learned that I looked way better with my wild, wavy hair and embraced a part of who I was?
Would I have been a stronger partner in relationships if I was in them for the right reasons?
Would I even have applied to massage school if my brother didn't make me think it was cool?
Could I be a more relaxed parent had I not made it such a habit to over-involve myself in my kids lives?
Would I have been able to enjoy my first pregnancy, planned or not, if I could have let go of what others were saying behind my back?
I know for a fact that Eric and I would have had a very different wedding with very different guests had we been a bit more established and further along in our lives together before walking down the isle.
I know I would have loved to announce our pregnancy with Hannah and received hugs and excitement.
And maybe I would have run a marathon, but who knows.
These unknowns drive me bananas. There's so much I would go back and change. So many questions I would ask my younger self. I feel like I really had no idea who I was growing up because being like others or doing things based on what others think mattered more at the time.
And now, months away from turning 30, I want to know who I am, what choices I could and would make for myself with only me driving those decisions, what clothes I would wear or what hobbies I would take up, which books I would like or places I'd want to travel. I want to rediscover myself as myself.
So yeah, when you question your motives behind each and every decision that got you here today, the person you've identified yourself to be all this time, it gives you quite the shake. Quite the "crisis" feeling; like living with someone all this time and realizing you don't know a thing about who they really are.
And now there's nothing to do but become my own blank canvas. A clean slate. Start with the basics, like loving my husband and our marriage, my children and the relationship we have, and our 3 crazy dogs, and the rest will be an endless journey of discovery. I feel all "hey, Lauren, nice to meet ya!"
And maybe a new sports car would help a little.
And no, I don't want to go out and buy a fancy sports car or leave my family to travel the world. But I do think I have an idea of where it's coming from: really thinking about who the heck I am.
Nearing 30 has me stopping to think how did I even get here? Married, 2 kids, 3 dogs, home owner, successful business - sure, all good things to be grateful for. But who was the person inside who lead me to those decisions and, am I still that same person today?
So much of my life could be defined as trying to be like someone else, or impress someone else.
I remember being in middle school, and was so insecure about fitting in and who liked me, that I made my parents buy this one girl a load of gifts for her birthday simply because I was convinced she was having a birthday party and not inviting me. Manipulation seemed like a solid choice. I never found out whether or not she had that party, because if she did, I wasn't on the guest list.
I remember being in high school and spending 2 hours straightening my hair because everyone seemed to have this perfectly shiny, amazing straight hair. Even though my outcome was more like a burnt-to-a-crisp, static-ridden flat mess, I still killed myself over that hair style. I also remember spending nearly $100 on Abercrombie and Fitch jeans that were so tight I could barely breath in them, but hey, being a size 00 was a thing, too.
I remember visits from my brother, my one sibling who is 13 years older than me, who I looked up to like a God. I hated being like an only child when he was away, but I loved having this cool, musician, smart as hell older brother to brag to my friends about. I remember him asking me for shoulder rubs and him telling me how good I was at them, and, I remember this being a big part of my decision to apply to massage therapy school after high school.
I remember an 18 year old relationship that I stayed in longer than I should have just because other girls were interested. I remember the drama and the fabrications created to keep us together for as long as it lasted.
I remember the choices I had when I found out I was pregnant at 19, and how I cared more about what others would think rather than what this meant for my life and my future.
I remember being a great mom, sometimes even too great with my helicopter parenting and my homemade organic baby foods, because I had to prove that getting pregnant young and becoming a mother at 20 didn't mean I had to suck at parenting.
*I remember not wanting to relive parts of my childhood where there was endless screen time and distracted parents, and to this day am still overbearing about TV and devices.
I remember meeting Eric, and how quickly we fell in love and got married. I remember everyone telling me to slow down, take a step back, and think. I remember promising we would prove them all wrong.
I remember getting pregnant with Hannah on our honeymoon, and how nervous we were to tell people because we knew we wouldn't get the reactions we wanted. I remember a friend asking "is this a good thing?" and needing to tell an in-law after a comment about waiting for more children. I remember, once again, being determined to prove everyone wrong.
I remember signing up for my first marathon, because my parents had run 70+ combined marathons, and why not follow in their footsteps?
So, when I look back and remember all of these things, it makes me question my motives in a lot of very big decisions.
Could I have had friendships with a better foundation had my insecurities not gotten in the way?
Could I have learned that I looked way better with my wild, wavy hair and embraced a part of who I was?
Would I have been a stronger partner in relationships if I was in them for the right reasons?
Would I even have applied to massage school if my brother didn't make me think it was cool?
Could I be a more relaxed parent had I not made it such a habit to over-involve myself in my kids lives?
Would I have been able to enjoy my first pregnancy, planned or not, if I could have let go of what others were saying behind my back?
I know for a fact that Eric and I would have had a very different wedding with very different guests had we been a bit more established and further along in our lives together before walking down the isle.
I know I would have loved to announce our pregnancy with Hannah and received hugs and excitement.
And maybe I would have run a marathon, but who knows.
These unknowns drive me bananas. There's so much I would go back and change. So many questions I would ask my younger self. I feel like I really had no idea who I was growing up because being like others or doing things based on what others think mattered more at the time.
And now, months away from turning 30, I want to know who I am, what choices I could and would make for myself with only me driving those decisions, what clothes I would wear or what hobbies I would take up, which books I would like or places I'd want to travel. I want to rediscover myself as myself.
So yeah, when you question your motives behind each and every decision that got you here today, the person you've identified yourself to be all this time, it gives you quite the shake. Quite the "crisis" feeling; like living with someone all this time and realizing you don't know a thing about who they really are.
And now there's nothing to do but become my own blank canvas. A clean slate. Start with the basics, like loving my husband and our marriage, my children and the relationship we have, and our 3 crazy dogs, and the rest will be an endless journey of discovery. I feel all "hey, Lauren, nice to meet ya!"
And maybe a new sports car would help a little.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Born To Run, Built To Break
My parents have raced over 70 combined marathons in their lives. Because of this, growing up, my pantry was packed with power bars. Banana halves and orange slices were the highlight of my weekends. Dinners were perfectly portioned protein-carb-veggie plates. And, I kicked off my own running at the age of 6 with an adorable half mile race around our local park. I guess you could say that running is in my blood; if only my body could get the memo.
As I always like to say, I am not put together well. My knees buckle in and face each other when my feet are together, causing a windmill looking stride when I run. This is a nicer way of saying that I look like the scarecrow from the Wizard Of Oz while running, which my high school cross country coach actually said. Despite my awkward stride, I was naturally fast. I could place fairly easily in our team's 5k races without much effort, but was endlessly injured. At the age of 14 during a meet in Boston, I fractured the growth plate in my hip - without falling. Four years later, after experiencing constant knee pain, an MRI revealed a tear in my left meniscus, even though the pain was in my right. After the left was repaired, they humored my complaints about the right side by agreeing to go in and "clean it up", where they found another meniscus tear so severe it had twisted itself around several times. All I remember from that experience was waking up from the anesthesia and telling the surgeon "told ya so". And, finally, a non-running related injury (aka idiotic teenage trampoline shenanigans) totally wrecked my ankle, wiping out what would have been my senior year on the cross country team. So, that was my (lack of) running career up to that point. And to be honest, I didn't care much. I didn't have any true running goals at the time, and I wasn't a reliable team member since I could practically sneeze and injure something else, taking any responsibility or pressure off the table.
Motherhood gave me a reason to run again: lose baby weight, gain freedom - yes please! This was all good and fun until I decided to train for my first half marathon where the shitty body mechanics decided to strike again. Enter metatarsal and Achilles tendinitis, and I had to drop out. This was a particular bummer because my dad had also trained for this race, and it would be his last long distance race in his running career. The following year, I did make it to that 13.1 mile finish line injury free. So what does this smarty do? Decide doubling that mileage would be a fantastic idea. Marathon training, here I come! And what do you know? I did it. I did it 4 times, and decided to add a few more miles to my running resume and toughed out a 50 mile trail race too.
Now, I may have made it to each of those races, performed well, and thanked my lucky stars for that running blood coursing through my veins...but my body constantly reminded me that I was not built for this nonsense. In order for me to train to this capacity, it takes so much work. It's exhausting, frustrating, and yet exhilarating and rewarding all at once. I limp around for hours after long runs, submerge myself in ice baths, endure painful deep tissue massage treatments, and worry about every little ache or pain. On the other hand, I feel a world of accomplishment, thankful for my wobbly body's abilities, and enjoy overcoming the challenges poor mechanics throws my way. But, man, this being-an-athlete stuff takes a lot of work, especially when you're as injury prone as I am.
My daughters have a pretty rough understanding of "no pain no gain" when it comes to running recovery as they watch me foam roll and perform cupping therapy with a harsh grimace on my face and watering eyes. They are my biggest supporters. Every day when I come back from a long run, they love to guess how far I ran, followed by rounds of high-fives. The best part is the fact that they never ask me why I keep doing this to myself, despite old lingering injuries or those new ones that pop up; they always tell me how proud they are of me, and take note of just how hard I have to work my body to keep it up. You'd think that seeing their mom head out for a 3 hour training run and come home to what seems like torturous ice and stretching routines would scare them away from running, but it's done quite the opposite - they love it. Our 5 year old will hop on our treadmill and follow it up with some foam rolling. Our 8 year old loves to run the local 5k's, and is a speedy little thing already. Instead of getting discouraged when they feel tired or the burn of their little muscles working hard, they always end their runs feeling proud of themselves. The littlest people in my life are my biggest motivators.
Distance running is a constant struggle. What makes it more tough is the mental games it plays along the way; I feel a twinge of pain and then start worrying about whether or not I should continue, followed by the frustration of that choice, which can make every step of every mile seem eternal. Motivational research has been one of the few things to keep me going. I am endlessly inspired by elite runners and am constantly trying to better myself as an athlete through their guidance; whether it's Shalane Flannagan's cookbook Run Fast Eat Slow, Meb Keflezighi's book Meb For Mortals, Eric Orton's book The Cool Impossible, or Matt Fitzgerald's book How Bad Do You Want It, I've been able to take something from each and every one of these reads and apply it to my own training, meals, and mentality. I've since been able to turn each injury into a learning experience (which subsequently helps my profession as a Sports Massage Therapist), inherit new breathing and form techniques that have improved my gate and cadence, use food as fuel on a daily basis, and when the miles get tough, remind myself that it's "mind over muscle".
I may not be built for what I do, but I have to work damn hard every single day to stay in one piece and accomplish the goals I set for myself. And, as long as my poorly-put-together body allows, I'll keep setting new goals and push myself toward further achievement. After all, thanks to my marathon-crushing parents, I was born to do this.
My daughters have a pretty rough understanding of "no pain no gain" when it comes to running recovery as they watch me foam roll and perform cupping therapy with a harsh grimace on my face and watering eyes. They are my biggest supporters. Every day when I come back from a long run, they love to guess how far I ran, followed by rounds of high-fives. The best part is the fact that they never ask me why I keep doing this to myself, despite old lingering injuries or those new ones that pop up; they always tell me how proud they are of me, and take note of just how hard I have to work my body to keep it up. You'd think that seeing their mom head out for a 3 hour training run and come home to what seems like torturous ice and stretching routines would scare them away from running, but it's done quite the opposite - they love it. Our 5 year old will hop on our treadmill and follow it up with some foam rolling. Our 8 year old loves to run the local 5k's, and is a speedy little thing already. Instead of getting discouraged when they feel tired or the burn of their little muscles working hard, they always end their runs feeling proud of themselves. The littlest people in my life are my biggest motivators.
Distance running is a constant struggle. What makes it more tough is the mental games it plays along the way; I feel a twinge of pain and then start worrying about whether or not I should continue, followed by the frustration of that choice, which can make every step of every mile seem eternal. Motivational research has been one of the few things to keep me going. I am endlessly inspired by elite runners and am constantly trying to better myself as an athlete through their guidance; whether it's Shalane Flannagan's cookbook Run Fast Eat Slow, Meb Keflezighi's book Meb For Mortals, Eric Orton's book The Cool Impossible, or Matt Fitzgerald's book How Bad Do You Want It, I've been able to take something from each and every one of these reads and apply it to my own training, meals, and mentality. I've since been able to turn each injury into a learning experience (which subsequently helps my profession as a Sports Massage Therapist), inherit new breathing and form techniques that have improved my gate and cadence, use food as fuel on a daily basis, and when the miles get tough, remind myself that it's "mind over muscle".
I may not be built for what I do, but I have to work damn hard every single day to stay in one piece and accomplish the goals I set for myself. And, as long as my poorly-put-together body allows, I'll keep setting new goals and push myself toward further achievement. After all, thanks to my marathon-crushing parents, I was born to do this.
Monday, May 1, 2017
My Boston Marathon
I am officially a humbled runner, and it took me 4 marathons to get here.
Ever since I began training for my first marathon in the summer of 2015, advice such as "respect the distance" or "the race doesn't start until mile 20" was handed out like candy at a parade, and fear of "hitting the wall" - the point in which you are mentally done and physically exhausted - was instilled. Still, training went on and race day finally arrived. In their day, my parents had, to me, untouchable marathon finishing times, so I set my own goals on qualifying for Boston instead of a little family competition. I needed a 3:35. I crushed it with 3:25, and finished with energy to spare. I couldn't help but think that this marathon stuff wasn't so bad. The wall never hit, mile 20 came and went without notice, and the distance was nothing more than my latest PR.
A few weeks later, I ran a trail marathon, and felt so great at the finish that I was talked into signing up for the 50-mile distance the following year. And, for the hell of it, the next fall I repeated my first marathon in an attempt to beat my time, which I did by another 10 minutes, putting me at a 3:15 finish and once again getting me into Boston for the following year. That 50 mile trail race was an entirely different animal, but up until that starting line for Boston on Patriot's Day, I had never experienced a "tough" marathon, and was able to get a humbling smack down out on that famous course.
The first miserable thing about the Boston Marathon is the training season. I had been spoiled with my previous fall marathons and summer training schedule, and now had to switch to winter training where the weather was watched like a hawk for snow, ice, and temperatures that dipped below 20 degrees - the point in which my training partners and I would gladly opt for the treadmill instead. The weather-watching only increased as race day arrived, where we learned to our horror that it would be a sweaty 75 degrees. After training in the 20's-30's for months, I knew this would be my first challenge. The second, better known challenge, were the hills that made their lovely appearance after mile 17 when you are already exhausted from miles of pavement pounding. I had also managed to rupture a bursa in my knee during training, so that was of concern too, but not nearly as intimidating as the course itself. Pain I could run through, heat and hills, I would learn, were another story.
The race took off with a very casual starting line; one minute you are walking up to your corral, the next you are running and the race begins. My nerves were calmed by pure excitement, and my eyes were fixed on the overwhelming amount of runners on that street in Hopkinton. I looked forward to my "check-point-goals" of shared stories with my running gals at mile 10, FaceTiming my daughters and mom at mile 15, keeping an eye out for my dad at mile 20, and crossing that finish line where my husband, brother, sister-in-law and friends were waiting.
From mile 1, the heat got to me. My breathing was heavy, my body felt exhausted, and despite my efforts to talk myself out of any negative mindset with the use of motivating self-talk ("you're part of THE Boston Marathon! Woo!") - my anxiety was building with each exhausting mile knowing that a rough series of hills lay ahead. Still, my two training partners and I trotted along, collecting miles as we went. The first 15, though tiresome, went the fastest. Stories at mile 10 never happened, despite the fact that my friends and I avoided each other like the plague in order to have fresh, detailed stories to occupy the time - we were simply too tired and out of breath to speak. I was thrilled to see the 15 mile marker where I excitedly called my tiny cheerleaders and mom before venturing off into the remaining 11 miles.
At mile 16, one of my friends fell behind. As we hit mile 17 and turned a sharp corner, my other friend warns me "this is the first hill" - I'm sorry, you mean that thing we just ran up and over wasn't one of these "hills" you speak of? Shit. Starting to tackle the climb, I kept my head down and could focus on nothing but the burning sensation in my quads. As my friend got a little further ahead, she kept checking back on me where the words "still here!" managed to escape me. One hill down, two to go. And still nearly 9 miles to the finish. Panic started to sink in a bit as the combination of hills and heat started to tear me apart.
On the 2nd hill, I fell behind. I was crushed as I watched the distance between my friend and I lengthen, but knew at this point it was not my race. Finishing, not time, was all that mattered now. I hit every water station along the way to refill the bottle attached to my fuel belt, and was sure to drench myself with every spraying hydrant or hose out there. As mile 20 approached, I knew that seeing my dad's familiar face would be just what I needed. 20 years ago, he ran his final Boston Marathon, and he was now spectating where his parents used to watch him. I saw his waving arms and ran right over to him to hold his hand. I wanted so badly to regress to a baby and just curl up crying in his arms. Instead, the only thing I could say was "it's hot out here, dad!" - and pushed myself to continue onto Heartbreak Hill.
Admittedly, this third and final hill was the easiest of them all. Maybe it was simply knowing that the dreaded series of hills was over, but even so, seeing those "you made it to the top of Heartbreak Hill" signs were the most amazing site. Piece of cake from here on out, I thought to myself. The hills were over, and I just had 4 miles to go. I could run 4 miles any day. I got this.
Nope. Not the way that went at all.
The hills, though nothing compared to the recent few, still rolled along. Every mile mark seemed to take (Sandlot reference) FOR-EV-ER. I had never wanted to stop so badly during a race. There were moments of panic where I thought I may not be able to finish. The only thing that was still able to motivate me was the $300 I spent on " yay go me I ran Boston!" attire at the expo - all in which would be pointless if I let this course take me down. And then, at mile 24, my legs decided they were done.
Still moving but what felt like barely, I tackled the last 2 miles with legs that felt like lead. I tried to go faster to reach that finish line sooner, but they wouldn't give. I yelled at them ("come ON!!"), I punched them, I willed them - nothing. I have never experienced a longer 2 miles. This was it, this was the wall. I officially hit the wall, and it sucked beyond all belief. I wanted to stop. I wanted to cry. I wanted a goddamn beer. But, I also really really wanted to rock my finisher's jacket and 15 other blue and yellow swag that burned a hole in my wallet. Then I realized that all of those things were possible - after I cross that finish line.
Reaching the 26 mile marker, I thought I was golden. That was, until you turn down that finishing stretch and realize that the final .2 miles to the finish still seemed like forever. I knew my friends and family were there waiting, but I didn't have the energy to pick them out of the wild crowd. I still wanted to stop. I actually considered it. Crawling to the finish sounded better than another moment of running. Slowly but surely, the yellow triangle hung high over the finish crept closer and closer until, finally, with my hands in the air, I stepped over that blue line, where my legs immediately decided they were all sorts of pissed off and collapsed.
After spending some time in the medical tent, I finally met up with my husband who showered me in hugs and congratulations, and I drank the best tasting, most refreshing, well deserved beer (or two) I've ever experienced. And that's exactly what this entire thing was - an experience. Maybe I was miserable for 26 miles, but I also accomplished something huge that day. And, the fact that I've always given credit to my natural running ability was knocked down a few notches; marathon-running parents or not, easy previous races or not, that was without a doubt one of the hardest things I've done. I now know what "respect the distance" truly means, what it means to not experience the hardships of the race until mile 20, and I definitely know what it feels like to hit the wall. The days that followed were filled with soreness and nausea, but I was glad to have those post-race aches while snuggled up in my overpriced 2017 Boston Marathon sweatshirt, because I did it.
Ever since I began training for my first marathon in the summer of 2015, advice such as "respect the distance" or "the race doesn't start until mile 20" was handed out like candy at a parade, and fear of "hitting the wall" - the point in which you are mentally done and physically exhausted - was instilled. Still, training went on and race day finally arrived. In their day, my parents had, to me, untouchable marathon finishing times, so I set my own goals on qualifying for Boston instead of a little family competition. I needed a 3:35. I crushed it with 3:25, and finished with energy to spare. I couldn't help but think that this marathon stuff wasn't so bad. The wall never hit, mile 20 came and went without notice, and the distance was nothing more than my latest PR.
A few weeks later, I ran a trail marathon, and felt so great at the finish that I was talked into signing up for the 50-mile distance the following year. And, for the hell of it, the next fall I repeated my first marathon in an attempt to beat my time, which I did by another 10 minutes, putting me at a 3:15 finish and once again getting me into Boston for the following year. That 50 mile trail race was an entirely different animal, but up until that starting line for Boston on Patriot's Day, I had never experienced a "tough" marathon, and was able to get a humbling smack down out on that famous course.
The first miserable thing about the Boston Marathon is the training season. I had been spoiled with my previous fall marathons and summer training schedule, and now had to switch to winter training where the weather was watched like a hawk for snow, ice, and temperatures that dipped below 20 degrees - the point in which my training partners and I would gladly opt for the treadmill instead. The weather-watching only increased as race day arrived, where we learned to our horror that it would be a sweaty 75 degrees. After training in the 20's-30's for months, I knew this would be my first challenge. The second, better known challenge, were the hills that made their lovely appearance after mile 17 when you are already exhausted from miles of pavement pounding. I had also managed to rupture a bursa in my knee during training, so that was of concern too, but not nearly as intimidating as the course itself. Pain I could run through, heat and hills, I would learn, were another story.
The race took off with a very casual starting line; one minute you are walking up to your corral, the next you are running and the race begins. My nerves were calmed by pure excitement, and my eyes were fixed on the overwhelming amount of runners on that street in Hopkinton. I looked forward to my "check-point-goals" of shared stories with my running gals at mile 10, FaceTiming my daughters and mom at mile 15, keeping an eye out for my dad at mile 20, and crossing that finish line where my husband, brother, sister-in-law and friends were waiting.
From mile 1, the heat got to me. My breathing was heavy, my body felt exhausted, and despite my efforts to talk myself out of any negative mindset with the use of motivating self-talk ("you're part of THE Boston Marathon! Woo!") - my anxiety was building with each exhausting mile knowing that a rough series of hills lay ahead. Still, my two training partners and I trotted along, collecting miles as we went. The first 15, though tiresome, went the fastest. Stories at mile 10 never happened, despite the fact that my friends and I avoided each other like the plague in order to have fresh, detailed stories to occupy the time - we were simply too tired and out of breath to speak. I was thrilled to see the 15 mile marker where I excitedly called my tiny cheerleaders and mom before venturing off into the remaining 11 miles.
At mile 16, one of my friends fell behind. As we hit mile 17 and turned a sharp corner, my other friend warns me "this is the first hill" - I'm sorry, you mean that thing we just ran up and over wasn't one of these "hills" you speak of? Shit. Starting to tackle the climb, I kept my head down and could focus on nothing but the burning sensation in my quads. As my friend got a little further ahead, she kept checking back on me where the words "still here!" managed to escape me. One hill down, two to go. And still nearly 9 miles to the finish. Panic started to sink in a bit as the combination of hills and heat started to tear me apart.
On the 2nd hill, I fell behind. I was crushed as I watched the distance between my friend and I lengthen, but knew at this point it was not my race. Finishing, not time, was all that mattered now. I hit every water station along the way to refill the bottle attached to my fuel belt, and was sure to drench myself with every spraying hydrant or hose out there. As mile 20 approached, I knew that seeing my dad's familiar face would be just what I needed. 20 years ago, he ran his final Boston Marathon, and he was now spectating where his parents used to watch him. I saw his waving arms and ran right over to him to hold his hand. I wanted so badly to regress to a baby and just curl up crying in his arms. Instead, the only thing I could say was "it's hot out here, dad!" - and pushed myself to continue onto Heartbreak Hill.
Admittedly, this third and final hill was the easiest of them all. Maybe it was simply knowing that the dreaded series of hills was over, but even so, seeing those "you made it to the top of Heartbreak Hill" signs were the most amazing site. Piece of cake from here on out, I thought to myself. The hills were over, and I just had 4 miles to go. I could run 4 miles any day. I got this.
Nope. Not the way that went at all.
The hills, though nothing compared to the recent few, still rolled along. Every mile mark seemed to take (Sandlot reference) FOR-EV-ER. I had never wanted to stop so badly during a race. There were moments of panic where I thought I may not be able to finish. The only thing that was still able to motivate me was the $300 I spent on " yay go me I ran Boston!" attire at the expo - all in which would be pointless if I let this course take me down. And then, at mile 24, my legs decided they were done.
Still moving but what felt like barely, I tackled the last 2 miles with legs that felt like lead. I tried to go faster to reach that finish line sooner, but they wouldn't give. I yelled at them ("come ON!!"), I punched them, I willed them - nothing. I have never experienced a longer 2 miles. This was it, this was the wall. I officially hit the wall, and it sucked beyond all belief. I wanted to stop. I wanted to cry. I wanted a goddamn beer. But, I also really really wanted to rock my finisher's jacket and 15 other blue and yellow swag that burned a hole in my wallet. Then I realized that all of those things were possible - after I cross that finish line.
Reaching the 26 mile marker, I thought I was golden. That was, until you turn down that finishing stretch and realize that the final .2 miles to the finish still seemed like forever. I knew my friends and family were there waiting, but I didn't have the energy to pick them out of the wild crowd. I still wanted to stop. I actually considered it. Crawling to the finish sounded better than another moment of running. Slowly but surely, the yellow triangle hung high over the finish crept closer and closer until, finally, with my hands in the air, I stepped over that blue line, where my legs immediately decided they were all sorts of pissed off and collapsed.
After spending some time in the medical tent, I finally met up with my husband who showered me in hugs and congratulations, and I drank the best tasting, most refreshing, well deserved beer (or two) I've ever experienced. And that's exactly what this entire thing was - an experience. Maybe I was miserable for 26 miles, but I also accomplished something huge that day. And, the fact that I've always given credit to my natural running ability was knocked down a few notches; marathon-running parents or not, easy previous races or not, that was without a doubt one of the hardest things I've done. I now know what "respect the distance" truly means, what it means to not experience the hardships of the race until mile 20, and I definitely know what it feels like to hit the wall. The days that followed were filled with soreness and nausea, but I was glad to have those post-race aches while snuggled up in my overpriced 2017 Boston Marathon sweatshirt, because I did it.
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