Meet 1989 Michelle. 

This is my senior portrait. Back in the 80's, this is what we did. No leaning on brick walls or posing in the middle of a field. We went to a studio with a pull-down background and hot lights where we were posed by strangers while our mothers coached from behind.

Do you see the pain in her eyes?

It's not because she was holding the rental cap at a strange height ("That's too high," one argued. "That's too low," said another. It finally landed in a position that made it look like she should be serving that someone tea on it.) And it's not because of the orange-toned makeup job that made her look like a chipper Oompa Loompa, either. It definitely wasn't because of her hair.She'd had short hair the first three years of high school, so her chin-length mane of hair was my glory. 

The pain in this senior portrait came from somewhere else.

In fact, this isn't even her, or my, senior portrait. This is my the "proof" from which I would have chosen to order my official senior portraits from . . . if I would have graduated.

But I didn't graduate. And there is the source of her pain.

Actually, not graduating is a painful regret, but the pain started long before then.

I had a good life and was raised in a typical, loving home. My pain came from within. I believed lies the adversary told me, my peers told me, Hollywood told me, and I added to them my own.

I held onto these barbed lies firmly during my teenage years.

I was stupid.

I was ugly.

I was annoying.

I wasn't likable.

I wasn't lovable.

I wasn't important.

I was invisible.

I didn't matter.

These lies acted as rudders that steered my steps, the very steps that led me away from people and opportunities that could have blessed me, to a sad place inside myself.

No, it was not total misery. People I ask now tell me I was vivacious and outgoing, cute and funny, and well-liked. But the lenses through which I viewed myself and my life then, and perhaps the way I look back on it now, are tinted very darkly. Yes, I had joy and friends and fun. The pain wasn't apparent  or constant, but it was real and deep. 

I am sad for 1989 Michelle. I can see how she got in her own way. I can see how her fear of believing she could be something special only to be proven wrong kept hope at bay.

I wish I could go back and hug 1989 Michelle, and tell her she's okay. No, not just okay. That she is awesome. I wish I could tell her to not care what others think. I wish I could tell her to claim the power she had to decide her value, rather than giving it to other broken people who were just trying to figure themselves out. I wish I could tell her she was smart and college would be a wonderful and reachable goal. I wish I could tell her to trust God more, and to trust in herself more. I wish I could tell her to open her eyes and see the love that's around her.

1991 Michelle began to figure it out as she prepared for her mission.

1999 Michelle, married with two small kids, was strong on the path towards healing.

2009 Michelle, about to welcome a third child by adoption and just discovering a love of writing, was ever further along that path.

And now, 2019 Michelle has got a good grasp on things. I, now 48-years old, feel settled and happy in who I am. I am smart and kind and loving. I am confident and assured. I find joy in serving and don't seek approval for being. I like how I look and how I act. I love me, and because of that, I can love others more freely.

Life is difficult in other ways. I'm not perfect at all. But I have the ability now to recognize when I get in my own way and have the strength (thanks to God) to step aside.

I can't go back and take 1989 Michelle's pain away, but I can make sure I don't hold onto it. 

For her, I'll take all the good she didn't see in herself and see it in me and others now. 

For her, I'll find another girl, teen, or woman that can't seem to get out of her own way, and gently take her by the hand and help her step aside.

For her, I can love me now and her then.

For her, I can dismiss regret and thank her for being brave in the darkness.

For her, I can be happy.

Messpirational

Way-too-long-vulnerable post warning ahead:

I have a new term: messpiration. 

I discovered it this weekend when I thought I broke. 

As many of you know, one of the things I do is write and speak on inspirational topics for women. I am all about perspective and choice laughter and the power of will and resilience and God. 

This can be a tricky thing, for teaching about inspiration and empowerment means I know a lot about it. And in my mind, I equate knowledge with performance. If I know these things, then I shouldn’t struggle with them. 

But I do. 

Not all the time. But I sometimes I do. 

Sometimes I wonder if I am enough. I wonder if I’ve failed my kids. I wonder what people think of me. I hurt and doubt and am afraid.

Then I beret myself because I feel like I should know better, and this means I should do better. I should think and feel better. 

I do. But sometimes I don’t. 

So then I feel like a fraud. How can I advocate and inspire when I feel like this way? How can I have anything to offer when I have moments of struggle myself? Why can’t I keep it all together all the time?

I was talking to a friend the other day and I said, “You know, after all this time studying and writing and speaking, I’ve realized something. I’m a mess.”

I love a perfect God and His perfect plan and principles. But, man do I trip all over them. I love hope but sometimes I lose it. I hate fear but sometimes I cling to it. I trust Him but sometimes I get frustrated and impatient. I understand I have control over my reactions, but sometimes I want to ram my car into the guy in front of me who cut me off (just a tap, really.) Damn slips from my lips too often and I love sleeping in and eating ice cream for breakfast. I think waaaay to much and over analyze everything-except the dumb things I do and say without thinking at all. I’m complicated and messy. 

Circumstances were a bit challenging and I dipped pretty low this past weekend. The weight of fear and pain pushed my thoughts down. I began to doubt my contribution to my family, my church, my writing and speaking. How can I help anyone when I feel so broken? (I have soooo many thoughts on “broken”, but that’s for another long-winded post.)

I was bemoaning my state of messiness to my daughter who, after listening to me whine and cry said, “So, you’re human then?”

I suppose I am. Very much so. 

You won’t find anything close to perfection here. I’m no example.

But, I believe in God and what He can do for and with me. I get excited when I think about progression and problem-solving and who we really are and second and third and thousandths chances. I love that the Savior gets me and has the power to ease my pain and strengthen me if I let Him. I love laughter and cookie dough and organizing. I love to make people happy. And I love real. 

So often we see people trying to inspire us with perfect appearances and programs (for a small price). They post their best as proof their answers will solve all your problems too. 

But here’s what I’ve discovered. We are all a mess. Even them. And anyone who tells you differently is trying to sell you something. Sometimes literally. 

We buy into the idea that happiness and joy are the “right” places and if we feel anything other than complete faith and serenity somehow it’s wrong and we are deficient. Pain and struggle have turned into sources of shame. We see them as weaknesses, proof we can’t cut it. Proof we aren’t enough. 

Look, life sometimes is really hard. It’s messy. And we struggle. This is part of our experience. We don’t wallow in it, glorify it, or use it for attention. But we shouldn’t be ashamed of it either. Pain is pain. It’s not our enemy or our friend. What we do with it is.

I’m almost always happy, but when I’m not, I’m really not. 

In my lowest moment this weekend after I had cried on the shoulder of my 21-year-old daughter, I looked at her and said, “I want you to remember this moment- the moment your mom broke.” 

She nodded. 

Then I said, “And I want you to remember what I’m going to do next.”

She nodded. 

“I’m going I let you help me today. I’m going to wipe my tears. I’m going to seek God’s help because there is some pain that only He can lessen and some strength only He can give. And I’m going to chose to be okay.” Then I smiled and got up. 

Even though I’m a mess, I’m going to continue to teach and write inspirational stuff because I believe in Who I’m teaching and writing about. I’m not an inspirational person. I’m messpirational. And I like it. And I love Him. 

So, why share all this? And why post this pic of me that’s not smiling and joyous? Why not keep such personal matters to myself?

Because I hurt still. It’s getting better- but there’s still a struggle to be had. And maybe you’re hurt or are struggling too. And because I hope we can still believe that we all have something to give even when we feel like we are small and broken. 

I don’t think we need to be happy and perfect all the time to contribute or inspire. I just think we just need to be real about it all. Life is hard and wonderful and painful and lovely and scary and fantastic. 

We don’t need to bask in the low times, allowing our struggle to define our capacity or value. Acknowledge it. Accept it. And move on with it. Wipe our tears. Let others help. And choose to keep going. 

I choose to believe we all have something to offer, in happiness and pain, in joy and sorrow. 

I believe we are all messpirational.

Five lessons writing taught me about life.

A few months ago, I received a strong impression to write a booklet on a specific topic. It was a welcome revelation because as far as my writing has gone it has seemed that God has had no real strong feelings that past few years. I know He cares, of course. But as I’ve prayed about what to write in recent years, passing ideas by Him or asking for direction, it’s almost been as though His answer has been, “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. You could do that. Whatever you feel you want to do is fine with me.”

Not always the answer I want, because honestly, sometimes I want God to tell me what to do. I want Him to give me an idea, who me a direction.  Not because I can’t think of my own ideas. I can. But because there’s a part of me that is perpetually checking and rechecking that I am doing His will, not mine. I want to write what He wants me to write, not what I want to write.

When specific impressions regarding what to write didn’t come, I was concerned and talked with my husband about it. Was I praying wrong? Not being specific enough? Did God not want me to write?

He reminded me of a truth I knew, but somehow had forgotten it applied to me. He said something like, “Maybe God really is okay with whatever you write. Or even write at all.” I have always been a firm believer that God is extremely invested in our lives, that we have a collective purpose and an individual purpose, that all we do is important to Him. So, it had not really occurred to me that there were some things in this life that He could go either way on.

And it was . . . scary. What do you mean, I could write or not write? It’s a huge part of my life. Why wouldn’t He care?

We had many conversations after this one where I’ve come to realize a few things.

First, He does care. But God does not want to, nor intend to, script every moment of our lives. He gave us agency and expects us to use it.

Secondly, He trusts me more than I allowed myself to believe. I think often times the heavens quiet down not because God is far from us, but because we are closer to Him. We don’t need to be told to turn right or left, to wear the purple shirt or blue, to write or not write. We can think and pray and consider and choose what we feel is right for us. Then we can take it to Him for confirmation.

Thirdly, God wants me to be happy. Sometimes we are asked to do hard things because they are the right thing. Because of this, it can be easy to equate righteousness and His will with suffering. Sometimes the right thing is simply choosing what brings us joy.

Fourth, as I considered all of these things, I came to believe that God wasn’t going to tell me what to do in every facet of my life—that I could and should choose for myself, that He did have faith in me, that if writing made me happy, I should do it, and if it didn’t, He’d be okay if I stopped.

But—and this is a really big but—these things only worked if I kept my communication with heaven wide and open and often. Rather than asking Him for constant direction and validation, I realized that if I focused on staying close to Him through obedience and prayer, and I strived to become like Him, that, by default, much of what I wanted was already what He wanted for me. He could give me the space to learn and grow because, even though I stumble, I was stumbling in the right direction.

If I turn my back on Him and fly solely by my own gauges, and decide that God doesn’t care if I keep the commandments or dive off the deep end and leave my family to follow my dream of being a parade dancer in Disneyland, then I could very well get into dangerous territory. I could easily learn to (and love) the quest of “finding my own truth” and “doing whatever I want as long as it isn’t hurting others.” 

The difference is the direction we are facing. It might seem like a spiritual nuance to you, but it is so much more. When we are facing God and moving towards Him, our desire for and ability to choose the life that is best for us grows. We can make choices—even really important ones—without His constant handholding. We can be spiritual grownups as we begin to walk by His side, not in His shadow. And it can bring us joy because we—He and us—are a team, working for the same purpose, the same intention, the same goal. Facing any other direction takes us away from His side and His goal.

I am not saying we don’t need to pray for direction. We should pray to Him in all that we do, everything. But we do not need to be immobilized when specific revelation doesn’t come. It doesn’t mean He is ignoring us, or can’t even hear us. It doesn’t mean He doesn’t care.  Sometimes, it simply means that He knows we can choose for ourselves what He would have chosen for us, and He wants to give us that chance—that freedom to do it.

So, I sat down and had a serious talk with myself about what I wanted to write. I checked my desires and decisions against what I thought He would want for me, then I did it.  And guess what, it brought me joy. And not only that but eventually I received confirmation that He was truly pleased with me and my direction.  I learned my life wasn’t a scripted path I had to follow. Yes, the way to heaven is straight and narrow. But the path can be colorful and filled with things that bring me joy. And He’s okay with that. As long as they accompany me on the path and not lead me from it.

This brings me back to the impression I received a few months ago, and the fifth lesson I learned from writing.

I was plugging along, writing what brought me joy, when, as I mentioned, I received an impression to write something very specific. I welcomed it and begin writing at once. The words came to me easily and joyfully. I knew I was writing what He wanted me to write, and I was happy. I submitted it promptly to my publisher, knowing they would offer to publish it on sight. After all, it was God’s idea and He approved. Why wouldn’t they?

It took them weeks and weeks to discuss the project. Waiting was easy because I knew they’d pick it up.

But they didn’t.

They rejected it, and I was left to ponder about the entire thing. Did I not feel impressed to write it? Was this not the home it was destined for?

After some internal deliberations, I came to realize my fifth lesson: Just because we feel the Spirit guide us to do things, it does not mean the way we hope or think it will end is how it’s going to end up. I’ve been guilty of this in the past, thinking that if I feel impressed to do something, then that confirmation is the same thing as a promise of the outcome. But it’s not a guarantee.

When things don’t turn out according to our expectations, we might question God or doubts ourselves. But the truth is, sometimes He has other plans and needs us to take two steps towards one thing so He can lead us to another. And, sometimes, things just simply don’t work out.

And it’s okay.

That’s what I’ve learned through all of this. Trust God. Keep close to Him and try to be like Him. Choose the best I can what I feel is right and what will bring me joy. Communicate with God every day. And accept what happens.

So, I keep writing. I am prayerful and doing what I can to stay close to God and seeking His guidance. But when it doesn’t seem to come, I step ahead in the confidence I feel He has in me, and keep moving forward towards Him and the things that bring me joy. And it is not only okay. It’s good. Really good.

A real anything

This has been my view for the last three days. I'm here at my annual writers retreat in the beautiful Northwest.

The ocean, the people, the creativity. . . they are the balm for my soul and the sugar for my muse.

The great and wonderful Kaylee Baldwin was the special guest. She is kind and witty and wise. She was also my roommate. And I have to tell you, she is authentic--the same person when she is "on" in front of a crowd as she is in her pajamas at midnight chatting away.


Kaylee gave three presentations for our lucky group. The first was a brilliant class on editing. Seriously. I will never edit the same. Her second presentation, which she called "Writing for Such a Time as This" not only changed my writing but how I see myself. Her last presentation was on hope--which we all need--and how it begins in the darkness.

She is a lovely person and a fantastic writer. You should go by her books now. Like, right now.  HERE.

In her presentation last night she talked about something that resonated with me, not just as a writer, but as a person.

She talked about the word "real'. Especially when we attach it to our worth.

She said, "I wish we'd all stop using the phrase 'real writers.'  It has too much baggage. It doesn't matter if you have a dozen published novels or write poetry no one will see beyond yourself. Real writers write. It doesn't matter how much or when. If you write, put words on a paper or screen, you are a writer."

I stopped and thought about how often I have used that phrase myself. I wanted to be a "real writer". And I never felt like I was. 

In my true spirit of self-analysis (flirting with a healthy dose of borderline neuroses), I tried to figure out why, why didn't I feel like a real writer and would I ever be a real writer.

At this time, I had been writing blogs and books for a while. I had "proof" I was a writer, but I still didn't feel like it. Why?

Kaylee's words last night echoed and confirmed my conclusion.

The problem wasn't in my goal or desire of being a real writer, but it was my definition of what a real writer was.

I took the beautiful word "writer", opened it, and packed it with all my own things: my interpretations, my definitions, my perceptions. My baggage.

And that baggage changed as changed. It got heavier as I achieved more.

In the beginning, I had decided being a "real writer" meant to have people read my words.

When people began to read my words, the definition changed to putting my words into a book.

When I put my words into a book, the meaning changed to publishing a book.

When I published a book, the definition changed again to publish multiple books.

And when I published multiple books, it changed again.

Being a "real" writer became a goal I feared was unreachable.

What I couldn't see was why it was unreachable. I couldn't see that I was one the who was pushing it back farther and farther. I was the one who kept opening the words "real writer" and packing it with more and heavier expectations.

I was the antagonist in my own story.

It was a shocking realization. But empowering.

I put the baggage there, and I had the power to unpack the word.

I pulled out my expectations--which many were false--and changed the definitions. Until all that was left were seven words:  "I am a real writer because I am." No qualifiers. No goals. No benchmarks.

It wasn't about what I did, but who I was.

Who I am.

Most of you reading this aren't writers. But many of you struggle with being a "real" something.

A real:

mother
friend
artist
woman
daughter of God
ministering sister
baker
wife
person
________ (Insert your "real_____" here)


I am guilty of having packed doubt and fear and false expectations of perfection and success into a lot of these words on a time or two or hundred. It never works out well. The only "real" thing I feel like is a failure.

How sad I am what this happens.

I also know it affects the people around me. And I'm pretty sure it makes Heavenly Father sad. He celebrates with us when we celebrate, and He mourns with us when we mourn. Even if it's mourning our perceived failures. But, I believe He mourns not because we've failed, but because we are causing ourselves so much pain.

Women are that they might have joy.  But ladies, we often don't allow us to have joy. It's almost as though when euphoria and success permeate our lives, we must irradicate them, like pest exterminators, with lethal--but almost imperceptible--spray of doubt, fear, guilt, new definitions, harder goals, and unhealthy expectations.

You are real.

Let me repeat. YOU ARE REAL.

If you breathe, you are automatically a real person, a valid person--a daughter of God who is deserving of ALL of His love. All of it.  No qualifiers.

You have many roles who play. Some are similar to mine and some are different. I hope you can look at each of these roles through God's eyes, packing the word "real" with His definitions and expectations.

I hope you and I can strengthen our ability to allow ourselves to feel good about who we are and what we do. Imperfection is our expected mortal state. Growth is our goal.

Our job isn't to reach perfection here. If that's what we are striving for, we are missing the mark.

Our job is to trade our will for His and love others. It's a simple as that.

That included loving ourselves, and trading our definition of success, "real" anything, achievement, and expectations for His.

If we do this, I think we will find that we are more real than we ever knew.  And then we need to allow ourselves to claim that. To feel joy in that. Yes- WE CAN FEEL JOY IN WHO WE ARE AND WHAT WE DO.

Seeing ourselves through His perspective, coupled with our determination to learn grown and our efforts to seek His will and trade it for ours will lead to greater peace in our lives, a more accurate understanding of ourselves and God, and joy in our imperfect state.

This applies to any role in our lives.

For me, this weekend, it applied to me being a "real" writer.

I've allowed publishers to tell me I am the next big thing and believe them.

I've allowed publishers to tell me I'm gimmicky and believe them.

I've allowed the success of other writers to define my success.

I've allowed my definition of what God's expectations were for me to feed my sense of failure.

I've allowed so many things to be packed into that "real" word that there was no possible way to ever be a real writer.

But I am.

I write words. I am a writer.

And God doesn't expect me to get published. Not even once. He gave me a gift and He wants me to find joy in it. That's it.

And if I take this gift of a love of words coupled with righteous effort and healthy goals and expectations, topped with gratitude, I know I can have joy in saying "I am a real writer" now and always.

Thank you, Kaylee, for the real reminder.

Now I'm going to go write some more words. Because I am a writer. :)

The power of "could" (A.K.A Stop "shoulding" all over yourself.)

7th grade me, at the start of my educational decline.

Sometimes I feel really smart. Other times not so much.

I didn’t graduate from high school. I skipped classes, got bad grades, and hid behind humor. I got my GED two years later. I’ve gone to bits of college here and there but no degree. I’ve had jobs here and there throughout the years but no career.

For a long time I felt unsmart--stupid.

Writing has made me feel smart, made me realize I actually have something in my brain.

Most times I am okay, really. I understand that formal education doesn't translate directly to intelligence. I've met plenty of college graduations that can't think for themselves.

But, still, there are times when I feel dumb. And I HATE FEELING DUMB.

Case in point, a while ago I went on a job interview. I was nailing it. Eye contact, solid answers, confident smile. I had it in the bag.

Then, right in the middle and out of the blue, the interviewer says the worst possible thing could say, "We are going to have a math test."

Huh? First of all, what's this we? Is he going to take it with me? And second of all, a math test? Who gives a math test in an interview?

That guy does.

I felt sick. I never made it past Algebra 1 in school. Math is my kryptonite, right next to liquid eyeliner and cleaning the bathroom.

He smiles and says, “If you receive an invoice for $3248.56, which includes a tax of 0.917%, how much would the total of just the bill be?"

People. I froze.

I didn’t know how to do it. 

Not only was it a dumb question, but I felt like a dumb person. 

Time slowed down.

I stared at the calculator in my hand, then to him, then back down to my calculator. 

My mind was blank. Nothing. 

I punched some random numbers hoping the answer would magically appear, but nothing came.

I felt embarrassed, ashamed. Humiliated.

Stupid.

That wasn’t his intent. Numbers are a big part of the job.

Still.

I wanted to cry right there.

I really wanted to slide out of my chair and sneak out the door. Though, he may have noticed a skirt-clad woman doing the army crawl across the floor.

The was another gentleman on the interview panel. I glanced up at him, hoping he couldn't see me dying inside. 

My nearly tearing up eyes rested on the calculator in my hand one last time as I prepared myself for what I'd have to say next.

I looked up at the interviewer, breathed in courage, swallowed a huge slice of humble pie, and with a wide said, “I’m sorry. I can’t recall the specific formula. But that’s okay, because this is the perfect time for me to show you how honest I am when there is something I need help with, and what a fast learner I am as well.”

He laughed and offered to write the problem out for me. Once the equation was in front of me, the old brain kicked in and I knew how to solve it.

Now, I could stop here and talk about how we can take difficult moments and make something good out of them. Or I could talk about how our "control room"--that place we go in the time between what happens to us and how we respond, that I shared in my second book.

But I'm not. Not yet.

I wasn't thinking about any of that stuff. In fact, I cried the entire way home.

I’m 46. And I felt like a 15-year-old in high school again. Embarrassed. Stupid. Small.

And it stung.

The next day I received an email from the guy. He invited back for a second interview. His manager wanted to meet me.

Really?

I was stunned. I thought my embarrassingly obvious ineptitude had sealed my fate.

But it didn't.

I never found out why they wanted me back because I never went to the second interview. I took another job offer instead which, luckily, had me teaching special needs children--something I love doing that, luckily, doesn't require algebraic skills.

That moment in the interview, for me, was a seminal moment in my life. It was a moment I faced deep shame and regret and didn't give it power over me.

I took the power away from shame and regret.

I took the power and changed it into something good.

Even if I'd never been called back for another interview, I feel like I succeeded.

I still harbor some negative feelings about my educational past. I know I made mistakes. I wish I would have made better choices. But I cannot let regret keep me from progress.  You know the saying, "life is full of should-of-dones", right?

Well, I think I am tired of shoulding all over myself.

I loved that moment in the interview--the moment courage stepped past fear and doubt. The moment I could be confident when all the "evidence" proved otherwise. The moment I took control of who I was and want to be.

Yes, I should have taken school seriously. I should have had more confidence in myself. I should have gone to college after high school. I should have gotten my degeree.

Should.

Should.

Should.

See, shoulding on myself is easy.

But, I don't want to do that anymore. I need to stop shoulding all over myself. It stinks.

In that moment in the interview, I had to walk past should and grab hold of could.

I want to keep doing that.

I could go back to school now and get a degree. I could study worldly topics at home. Or I could simply realize I am really smart, even if I don't.

Could.

Could.

Could.

I like could. It's a nice word, filled with possibilities.

Could.

No regret or shame.

Could.

It's hope and choices and potential.

I could do so many wonderful things if I leave my should where it belongs: in the outhouse with the rest of the crap.

And I think I will.

Yoda lied. But not really.

Yoda lied.

My father is going to disown me for saying that.

He loves Yoda and thinks he's brilliant. Probably because he is. He is a master of emotion and force, knowledge and will. Aside from the Clone Wars where he, uncharacteristically and in poor CGI form, fought from a place of rage, he was typically spot on with the nuggets of wisdom he handed out.

I've heard one of his most famous quotes tossed around for years:"Do or do not. There is no try."

It's usually accompanied by a motivational speech about never giving up, putting forth your full effort, or succeeding at all cost. Here's a hard thing. Now do it. Don't try. Don't fail. Just do it.

That's a lot of pressure.

I really don't like these interpretations of this quote. I get the whole, "do or do not". Indecisiveness is not a strength. Do it or don't. Hot or cold. Make up your mind. God doesn't like it either. "So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold or hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth" (Revelation 3:16)

So yeah, I get the "do or do not part."

The part that I cringe at is the "there is no try." What the wha?

Of course there is a try.

MY ENTIRE LIFE IS ONE BIG TRY.

Even when I do or do not, my TRY matters.

Don't believe me? Take Elder Holland's word for it:

"With the gift of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the strength of heaven to help us, we can improve, and the great thing about the gospel is we get credit for trying, even if we don't always succeed."

Oh, sweet relief. Because I don't always succeed or do. In fact, if I'm being honest, I unsucceed more than I succeed. (Failure is such a negative word. I've decided to nix it from my vocabulary. That and kale.)


I understand that Yoda most likely meant that you should go into a scenario with confidence, with the intent of succeeding. That it was probably more about the mindset rather than the outcome. I'm sure he was trying to teach whiny Luke that our attitude can determine our altitude (that sounds like an Elder Uchtdorf analogy...)


Still. I wish Yoda would have had said something different Why couldn't he have said,  "Try or try not. You, it's up to."

That's what it boils down to, for me. Am I willing to try? And try? And try?

Because IF I am, then it counts.

I want my tries to count.


Perhaps Yoda wasn't lying, but was simply misunderstood. I think a new meme should clear things up. Because if it's in a meme, then it's true.

I love that I get credit for trying.

Yoda and Elder Holland are on same page as the Amulek. (It's a good page to be on.) When teaching the Zoramites, a rebellious and prideful bunch, he said, "I would that ye would come forth and not harden your hearts any longer. . . therefore, if ye will repent and harden not your hearts, immediately shall the great plan of redemption be brought about unto you."

There are so many things I love about this verse. I love that Amulek let's them know that

1- It's their responsibility. It's up to them to come forth and harden their hearts.

2- Just by trying, IMMEDIATELY the Atonements begins to work in their lives.

He didn't say, "after three weeks of perfect performance, you'll be blessed." No, he said immediately.

The Zoramites got credit for simply trying to have a softer heart and repent allows the great plan of redemption to affect them.

And so do we.

The theory that we get credit for trying (and do I really need to specify that it is trying to do GOOD things with GOOD and HONEST intent?) is pleasing to me.

If perfections was achieved by perfect performance, I'd be in petrouble.

I'm the first to admit that I am faaaaaaaaaaar from perfect and never will be perfect, not in this life. I will never do that. If my only choice was to "do" perfect I would epically fail. But, I don't have to give up and "do not" perfect. I simply have to try.

And not even try to be perfect. According to Amulek, I simply have to try to have a soft heart and repent. That's what trying is.

Trying is the direction we face, a step we take, a choice of light over darkness, and the getting up after we fall down.

Trying is hope and kindness and love.

Trying is choosing to grow rather than wilt.

Trying is choosing is casting your eyes on Him.

Trying is our perfect desire in imperfect action.

Trying is the reflection of the contents of our hear.

Trying is the way we get to and become like God.

Trying is everything.

I love that we can try and try again. And then try and try again.

As long as I try to keep on trying, I'm going to make it, if we want to.

So, Yoda, I get what you're sayin. I'm gonna do. I won't do not. But, in the mean time, there have been and will be about a million tries to get me there.

And every single one of them counts.

Tiny Little Ropes, Deafening Silence, and a Choice

I'm going to really really honest here.

I hit the ground this weekend.

I went to a place I hadn't been in years. A tough, dark place.

And as I tried to figure out how I got there, I couldn't pinpoint one or two big things. It was a combination of small things that have accumulated over the past months and some over years.

I think of Jack Black in Gulliver's Travels, lying on the beach, tied down by tiny ropes.



That's what things have felt like for me. It wasn't just one big thing that weighed me down. It was a thousand little things. Responsibilities, obligations, job, the needs of others, callings...

But, there were more ropes than those.

Expectations I put on myself. Experiences that didn't turn out like I'd hoped. People not being what I thought they were. Me not being what I thought I should be. Getting hurt. Perceived failures...

A thousand tiny ropes that, in of themselves individually couldn't hold me down, but collectively had the power to take me to the ground.

Over the past couple of weeks I've had a few more ropes added to the bunch. Not big ones, but just enough to give all the ropes the strength to pull me down.

And down I went. Hard.

I could feel myself going down, and I decided I wasn't going down without a fight.

Saturday morning I got up early and went to the temple. Surely I would receive the strength, validation, and perspective I needed there.

But I felt nothing.

I drove home empty and confused.

I talked with my husband that night for a long time. I shared with him all that I was feeling. I talked about each little rope, and he listened patiently and lovingly.

I explained how I was failing at so many things. And how I was hurt by some things. And how I was afraid of some things. And how I really was just so tired of not being enough.

So tired of that.

And what made it worse is that I'm an inspirational writer and speaker.

I'm not supposed to feel this way. I should know better.

I mean, the project I'm working on now is about not believing the lies Satan tells us. So my guilt was even greater. And so was my shame.  I know the gospel. I teach it. I shouldn't struggle like this. And yet, I was.

According to my husband, many of the things that troubled me weren't reality, but my perception.

I can see that as a real possibility.

But still, down I went.

I went to church Sunday morning. There were reminders all around me and in my mind of my ropes--of hurts and unmet expectations and my failures by comparison. I managed to make it through Sacrament meeting without tears, but the moment the closing prayer was said, they started to come.

I secured a ride for my girls, then left church early, the tiny ropes all running through my head.

There was no room for anything else. They were consuming. And painful. And suffocating.

I cried and prayed. And cried and prayed.

Still no answers.

Silence.

That is what has seemed to be the heavenly M.O. for the past few months. Silence.

It was deafening.

And scary.

Most of my life has been with companionship of the Holy Ghost. I almost always received inspiration on major decisions, peace when I asked for it, direction when I sought it, help when I needed it.

But, for whatever reason, the past few months it's been gone. I've felt very alone.

And Sunday, I plead for it. I plead to feel the Spirit, to feel something. To hear something.

And nothing came.

A thousand tiny ropes and deafening silence.

Out of exhaustion, I feel asleep.

When I awoke, I didn't feel better. No miracle relief. No sudden strength or perspective.

Just heaviness, failure, and pain.

I kept the tears at bay the rest of the day, but my thoughts ran freely.

I had plenty of proof of my failures, my not-enough moments, the rejections...I had real reasons to feel the way I did.

I also had false reasons to feel the way I did, too. My own misinterpretations of God's will, my unrealistic expectations of myself, etc.

I spent the day trying to decode the real from the false. It was exhausting and brought me down further.

So many ropes. And still, so much silence.

Then, that evening, I had to ask myself some questions: If the ropes stayed, and the silence remained, could I still believe? Could I trust in myself when I felt so weak, so not-enough? Could I believe the positive things my husband told me about myself when I had so much proof otherwise? Could I trust in God when the heavens were so quiet for so long? Could I be okay if my circumstances didn't change?

Could I lie beneath a thousand tiny ropes under a silent sky and still be all right?


I realized I could.


But it would have to be a purposeful decision. A choice. My choice.

So, that is what I did.

I chose to be okay.

Now, it hasn't come all at once, the good feelings.

And the bad feelings, the pain, the fear, and all that crap, haven't left all at once.

I still feel hurt from open wounds. I still have some fear. I still feel bad.

BUT- a couple things did change.

First, hope entered in. I will feel better. I always have, and I will again.

Second, my eyes began to look away from the ropes to other things...to other people, people I can help. And that always helps me.

Third, as I awoke and went to work this morning, I realized that the sun did, indeed rise again, and that it will tomorrow and the next day and the next day. And I will be okay.

Fourth, I understand that the Atonement can work in my life if I choose to let it, even if it works in a way I don't recognize or am used to. And I choose to believe it's working in me right now.

I've felt this bad only a few other times in my life. But the significant lesson here was that even if many of the ropes are still there and I haven't felt the Spirit reach out to me,  I can choose to try to get up.

I can choose to believe. I can choose to be okay. I can choose to get up.

And I have. At least, I am trying to get up.

I cannot believe I am the only person in the world that has felt this way before. There must be others who have felt suffocated by the weight of a thousand tiny little ropes.

Maybe you're impacted by the deafening silence of heaven right now.

Maybe you have an arsenal of "proof" that you've failed.

Maybe you've been hurt by others.

Or maybe you are simply tired of never being enough.

If you feel this way, I get it. I get you.

It's awful.

And scary.

But it's not permanent. And it's not all real.

You have the power in you to choose what you will believe.

You have the power to choose to be okay.

And you can.

You will.

I am feeling better today. Not 100%. But getting there.

I'm slowly working to recognize and address each little rope.

I'm trying to adjust my life to give myself the space I need to get up again.

And, rather than waiting for the heaven to open up,  I am going to open up to the heavens today.

I can't hear God right now, but I choose to believe He hears me.

And man, do I have a lot to say.

Tiny little ropes. Deafening Silence. And a choice.

I'm going to be okay.

And so can you.


FOLLOW UP:

It's been a couple of days since I wrote this post. I've had time to reflect on it. I've had moments when I thought I would take it down. I mean, who wants to share their sucky times? Their struggles? Their weaknesses?

But then, I think we are so often willing and eager to share the successes that we begin to think that's what life is made of. And that moments like these, where we struggle or cry or doubt or hurt, that these are the exception.

But not only the exception, a bad exception. An embarrassing exception. A weak exception. A wrong exception.

And we begin to hide our struggles and apologize if they show, embarrassed as if we just accidentally mooned a crowd of tourists.

Now I'm not advocating we all share every pain and fear we feel. There's risk in vulnerability. Not to mention, the deep and tender things of our hearts are sacred.

BUT- we should not feel shame because we hurt or struggle or feel.

WE ALL HAVE TIMES LIKE THESE. It is normal. It is human.

It is healthy and good. A cleaning out of closets of sorts. An inventory and even reckoning.

A cleansing and opportunity for choice and a new chapter.

This is what this experience was for me.

I shared some deep feelings. Not all of them...I kept the very personal, sacred stuff to myself. But I shared enough to worry what readers would do with it.

Would they judge how I felt? Would they judge why I share?

But then, the driving force behind sharing was stronger than the fear of sharing.

We need to know that

• everyone struggles sometimes
• hard emotions--even pain- are not always bad
• we have the ability to sort through rather than stuff
• we have more power than we realize over how we feel
• and we can hurt and struggle, and will still be okay.

I am feeling much better. I knew I would. Optimism helps. Looking back at history helps. Perspective helps. But so does my determination to be happy--my choice to be happy. Even when conditions are not perfect. (Are they ever?)

I really am okay. 

No, I am good. 

I'm a bit tired. Still hurting a little. Still thinking a lot.

But I feel strong and balanced again. I feel optimistic and hopeful.

I feel happy.

And I hope you are too.