A Little Bit Brave

Audio recording of poem. Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts. Dear Hadley, you screw up. you broken wreck. you somehow have  the audacity to get up in the morning. Dear Hadley, don’t get up. sometimes, you remember what it’s like to feel the sun and feel rain and feel like you want to keep going. Dear Hadley, Don’t keep going maybe you don’t, but your skin remembers the name of every blade that has crossed your hands remember the steering wheel. your eyes recognize every overpass. your neck and fingertips are well acquainted from checking your pulse and trying to stop your pulse the body keeps the score and you are lit up with numbers what happened to your arms, Hadley? what did you to your arms, Hadley? what have you done, Hadley? Hadley, Hadley say your name until it’s meaningless. turn out the lights until you only see an exit sign. you can list your friends’ names imagine your family’s te...

“I like what you wrote on your band-aid.” My face flushed. On my left hand, a band-aid read worthy of love  in thick black sharpie. My coworker and friend tilted her head. “What happened, by the way?” *** Last week, I went to one of my favorite coffee shops with one of my favorite people. Hannah is a dancer, singer, photographer, and one of the kindest people I know. Before we left, she pulled out her camera and snapped several shots of me. She edited them, and when she sent them, they fast became some of my favorite photos of myself. In the photos, like in many others, you can clearly see several of the scars on my arms. Part of me hates that. Hates the red and white lines on my body. Hates the story they carry. But part of me sees hope in those scars. Because they are scars. All I have right now are scars. That means that the injuries are not new. And that’s a victory. I am learning that my scars are not my shame. It’s still hard, though, to wear shorts or ta...

Sanctuary it must be me. the verses are there, this room is called “sanctuary” for a reason, with glass as stained as me depicting a savior as anxious as me. whom shall i fear? of whom shall i be afraid? i don’t know and it’s not important. i’m still shaking trying to be still and no matter what i don’t know who He is. God, you say that darkness is as light to you but i can’t see my hands in front of my face. i’m swimming in shadows, used the last of my oxygen cursing myself.  and i’m afraid of what i’ll see if i turn on the lights this sin demands payment in blood so i pour myself out. i am the one who deserves these lines carved over and over yet you are well acquainted with pain and panic you have seen the earth you created stained with your fear you are scarred with the reminder of all the weight you chose to carry because somehow, you love me you named the worthless worth dying for. now i look in the mirror, at rib...

Dear Competitor, You don’t know me, but I know you. I know the debate boxes you pull across this windy campus. I know the heels that rub blisters into your pinkie toes and the speeches you deliver to the wall. I know the nerves and joy and community. It’s been two years since I was you. I competed at my last tournament in March of 2017, my hands shaking and heart ready to leave behind the sport. I know that’s hard to hear when it’s something you love so much. I hope you won’t lose that love. This sport you participate in is fantastic. But be careful. Though I’m only a bit older than you, I hope you hear this advice. Be grateful. Thank first your parents, who gladly take you around the state and country to do what you love because they love you. Thank your coaches, who take the incredible potential within you and refine it into skills that you’ll always use. Thank your friends. This is such a special, strange place to make friends. Your similarities have brought you ...

I’m glad you were born.  I’m glad you are alive.  I want you to stay alive.  These are the words we mean when we say, “Happy Birthday.” Today I turn 20. It’s weird because I wasn’t sure I’d make it this far. And I know so many others aren’t sure if they’ll make it to their next birthday. Some of you aren’t sure if you’ll make it to next week. You’ve stopped making plans, stopped looking forward to graduation, the end of the semester, the end of the week. Friend, you are alive. You have fought so hard to make it here. And I know it doesn’t feel like you’re fighting, but the fact that you are here proves that feeling wrong. Life hurts and it seems like the hurt will never give way to joy. It seems like you’ll never feel alive again. Please trust me when I say you will feel alive again.  There will be moments that you want  to be alive. You’re not out of time. Tomorrow needs you . There are songs you will listen to and love, hands you w...

i point to the line of trees and say we can stop there. she says we can keep going. this week, i did not want to hurt myself. i say  i’ve finally reached the other side she says we can keep going. it is warm outside and i take off my flannel; i am wearing short sleeves underneath. she is not afraid. she has never been afraid of me. today, recovery is yoga mats and coffee mugs and hiking a mountain. more than that, recovery is discovering that i can go so much further that I believe. maybe this is what it means to be alive. spring comes late here. maybe i am on colorado time. april is almost over and i am still thawing out, but this weekend reminds me that snow and sun can live in the same month. maybe being alive is more than waiting for life to happen. maybe getting better is more than having answers for every question. maybe becoming who i am meant to be is more than figuring stuff*   out. looking out over boulder...

(friday morning, april 12) 6:00am is soft and grey and music a morning without pressure, only to breathe and be present. Rain and spring are tied together here. But I know: a harsh winter doesn’t promise a mild summer.  As the cold in my bones thaws, no one can promise easy. Meredith sings along and maybe this is grace— daring to sing before sunrise. There is no perfection here. This is so much more. Here is songs in the dark with rattle heartbeats, holding each other with earthquake hands The storms and the drought and the ice come, and  most of the time I don’t understand. The older I get, the more confused I am. How is this God’s will for me? Where is hope when I’m not sure I want a future? But here is morning and coffee with struggle turned pretty by facing the dawn. And no, I don’t know how to keep going. I don’t know how to say “I love you” without stuttering or if I will every truly feel the sun a...

Remember who God is, who He has shown Himself to be to you. How has God shown Himself to you? My friends sat on either of the table, their attention trained on me. I wished we were in a dorm room lit by fairy lights, sitting on the floor with finals to worry about. Cafeterias don’t have the same level of comfort or aesthetic. I wished we could go back in time, to when I lived across the hall or in the same dorm as these friends. But here? I could barely remember that time. My memory was narrowed to the last three weeks. And the last three weeks were not good. In the last three weeks, I couldn’t see very many reasons to keep going. As those three weeks stretched into five months, there were moments I couldn’t see any reasons to keep going. I knew a lot of Bible verses. One stuck out, glaring and obnoxious: Jeremiah 29:11. Now, I’m not one to drag the Bible, seeing as how I believe in it. I know that God knows the plans He has for me, plans for a hope and a future. All that goo...

Sometimes, I read my old blog posts, and I’m like “dang, she’s wise.” When I was in high school, I was really good at church. In small groups, I was the one who read books and Bible passages. I gave input and advice that impressed youth leaders. I had a scripture for every problem my friends had. And it was genuine. I shared from my heart. I didn’t have a secret double life. Tonight, as a sophomore in college, I went to a church small group. I looked at the passage we went over in group, and fear rose in my throat. For awhile, I focused on what we were talking about. But as time went on, my anxiety grew. I squeezed the hell out of my stress eggs, curled in on myself. The other girl, one of the group leaders, asked what I got out of the text. My mouth went dry. I didn’t want to share. I didn’t want anyone looking at me. I wanted to leave. After managing to spit out a sentence, I went back to the swirling thoughts in my head. It didn’t help that we were talking about anxiety a...

sometimes i wonder why i write. when i get to the end of poems, i usually just feel more emotional. i wonder why i have such a strong desire to share my poems with other people. what’s the point? it can’t be beauty, because these poems are storms, rarely sun showers. this art isn’t about wrapping my experiences and emotions in pretty metaphors and hoping someone gets impressed with the result. i carry a flashlight in the dark, praying that if i am not scared by my own shadows, someone else might join me here, and i won’t be alone anymore. maybe that’s all anyone wants. to find someone unafraid of the darkest shadows. sometimes i think poetry is hiding, using metaphors to give the illusion of vulnerability. perhaps the truth is that poetry is that flashlight. i start with my own shadows, letting the light find me. and when the light shines, you know that you’re not alone.  there are a lot of reasons i write poetry, but the reason i share it is so that you know you’re not alone. vu...