A Little Bit Brave

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 will hold, sunrises 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, i ask

(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 again. B

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 good st

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