VJ – Page 217 – One Woman's Quest

Day 150 “Daily Loss”

I was just twenty-two when I met my children’s father. With one failed marriage behind me, I was grateful for this man that considered me worthy of sharing a house and raising his family, so when he took me home for the first time, as a new wife and mother, I wanted to make a good impression.

Stewart’s mother had passed away the year before we met, and his father had been to visit prior to us making our vows, but his siblings were a mystery. We arrived unannounced, having flown eight hours with our four-month-old daughter. His father greeted us with open arms, thrilled that we made the trip. We had barely settled in when his first sister and husband arrived. I waited, out of sight, giving Stewart a chance to say hello.

Squeals of delight accompanied the greetings, and I gathered that the couple had just returned from a vacation in a sunny locale. In response to a question about their trip, Stewart’s sister responded: “It was lovely, except for those bloody northerners.”

I felt my face begin to flush. My father’s family came from the north of England. I had no time to compose myself before they were ushered into the kitchen to make my acquaintance. Thrusting out my hand, I declared: “Hi, I’m your new sister-in-law – one of those bloody northerners.” It was not a good start.

The day progressed in much the same way. When my husband’s older brother arrived, I noticed that his loafers were missing one of their tassels. Trying to inject some humour into an uncomfortably stuffy situation, I blurted: “Nice tassel.” All eyes were immediately upon me.

“Pardon me?” the tone was incredulous.

“You are missing a tassel. I was just trying to be funny.”

My new brother-in-law looked at me with a glint in his eye. “Do you know what the word ‘tassel’ means to us?”

I didn’t know, but I was certain it wasn’t good.

“It means penis” his wife chirped in. “You’ve just admired his personals.”

If I hadn’t felt so close to tears, I might have found it funny.

Stewart’s youngest sister just came right out and said what she was thinking. “We don’t honestly know what to think of you – we never thought Stewart would marry, and now here you are and with a baby as well.”

After a night’s sleep, I was ready to try anew. Having settled the baby, I busied myself in the kitchen, making a hearty breakfast for the others. The smell of bacon and sausages lured them in with murmurs of appreciation. Freshly brewed tea was sipped in anticipation of the feast to follow. I heaped the food onto plates, added fresh toast, and watched as my new family happily consumed my offerings. Brushing aside yesterday’s disappointment, I felt renewed hope. When the food was all gone, and everyone was sated, Stewart’s youngest sister offered to clean up. I went to retrieve the now waking baby.

“You’ve ruined a perfectly good pan,’ my sister-in-law confronted me when I returned. “What kind of an idiot are you that you would use a steel spatula on a non-stick pan?”

I didn’t know, was what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t risk responding – the tears were threatening. I had never used a non-stick pan before. At home, we had cast iron. “Sorry” was all I could blurt out.

“I should think so!”

I knew in that moment that I would never be good enough for this family, and I felt and all the guilt and shame that had shadowed me all my life, as the daughter of dysfunctional parents.

* * *

“You must look back and forgive that young woman,” my therapist advises. “See it from a new perspective.”

Let go of some of your clutter, Derek Lin writes in today’s reflection. Let go of something everyday.

The clutter I need to clear out is emotional and psychological. Every time I cook eggs, I am reminded of that day and how I was such a disappointment to that family. We are divorced now, and they are no longer a part of my life, but the guilt and shame obviously live on.

Today, I will let go of the guilt that serves no purpose. I will recognize that making mistakes does not make me a bad person, and let go of the shame.

Today, I will let go of those emotions that stop me from enjoying life, and make room for self-acceptance instead.

Day 149 “Meridians”

By the time I took myself to Emergency, human touch was unbearable. I could get no relief from the swelling that affected me head to toe, and my heart was continually racing. Emotionally, I felt out of control: cranky, teary, and desperate.

The heart palpitations got me admitted directly, but the tests they ran showed the problem was not my heart. An IV drip was started, but the painkiller they were infusing me with did not touch the pain. Two doctors came in and touched me in certain places, setting off cries of agony.

“Your blood tests showed that your liver counts are out,” one young doctor explained. “We don’t know why that is, but it is consistent with someone experiencing your level of pain. We suspect you have fibromyalgia, but you will need further tests. We are referring you on to Urgent Care.”

A battery of tests and doctors followed, checking my kidneys, my heart functioning, and so on. Always the liver counts came back as suspicious. No explanations. Fibromyalgia, each doctor deduced.

“Take pain medication,” the Internist said.

“Your heart can’t tolerate pain medication,” the Cardiologist countered.

“Go see Dr. Li,” a good friend advised.

I called Dr. Li. A tiny, Chinese woman, half my size, Dr. Li had a reassuring presence. She listened intently, and asked specific questions. “I don’t know fibromyalgia,” she said in her broken English. “I will check your meridians.”

I held something in my left hand, while Dr. Li ran a rod connected to a computer over my right hand. The machine squealed and reacted as she clicked buttons, and read the computer’s reactions. At the end, she handed me a printout.

“The body has many lines of energy flow,” she tried to explain. “This tells where there are problems in the flow. Green is good. Red means there are danger spots; yellow is chronic.” I had two green lines; my printout was a sea of red and yellow.

“Each imbalance is scored 1-4. A four means you already have cancer. You do not have a four, but your numbers add up to four. Not good.”

Thus I began my course of treatment – weekly acupuncture, a drastic change in diet, and cleansing with Chinese herbs.

My health improved.

I continued to see specialists, ensuring that I wasn’t missing anything. A year after starting my treatments with Dr. Li, they found the abnormal cells aggressively growing in my right breast. Surgery followed.

I asked Dr. Li about it. She confessed that she had been a medical doctor before coming to Canada, but that she found that by the time traditional medicine finds something, it is usually too late. She prefers to work on preventing disease, where she can actually help the patient.

I escaped the threat of cancer with only a fading scar to remind me, and I credit my work with Dr. Li. Her knowledge, combined with an uncanny instinct for what a body needs, promotes well-being.

It’s all in the meridians, apparently.

Day 148 “The Stream”

There are three ways to get to my favourite place.

I can go out the gate at the back of the yard and cross the farmer’s field, but this only works when the soil is firm and dry, ’cause the ruts are deep and my feet are small.

The second way is through the backyards that border the field. This is tricky sometimes, because not all the neighbours want kids in their backyards, and two doors down there is a family of mean boys. I can take any of them by themselves, but if all three decide to gang up on me, I’m in trouble.

The third way is to go around by the street, but I never feel safe doing this. I am only a little kid, and not supposed to be on the road by myself.

But I will take I whatever risks I need to take to get there.

Once I get past the houses and the fields, there are woods. A path runs through them, but it doesn’t go there, so I have to step off the path. I usually look for openings between the trees, and push branches back to step over fallen limbs or stumps. Sometimes, I stumble, but that’s okay.

Once I am out of sight of the path, and everything is quiet, I listen for it – the bubbling, laughing, trickle of water. The sound makes me giddy, and I push harder through the brush, hardly noticing the branches scraping my skin.

My heart dances when I see the light of the clearing ahead, and as I break through the trees, I see it: my stream! The water is so clean and clear, I can see right to the bottom!

Digging my heels into the rock bed, I squat down, preparing for a long sit. I can watch the water for hours. I love how the stream flows constantly, swirling around rocks, catching twigs and leaves as it rolls, carrying them along until they become snagged again. I imagine that I am the water, cool, crisp, and clear, flowing, constantly flowing. It makes me feel carefree, and alive.

I study the bottom of the creek, looking for life, and if I am patient enough, I will spot a crayfish, white-bodied, translucent, diligently making its way, holding its ground against the current, in constant search mode. Sometimes, I will sit on my bum and dip my toes in the water, tempting the crayfish to nibble, but it never does. It scurries away, as if I am something to be afraid of.

Mostly, I am still like the praying mantis: quiet so that nature won’t notice me, and go about its business.

Everything about this place makes me feel good all over: the constant, soothing rhythm of the water, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, the gentle summer breeze, the mingling scents of earth and flora, and the unabashed chirping of the birds. In my stillness, I belong here, and a sense of harmonious wonder fills me.

And then the wind will change, and I will notice that the sun has shifted and the shadows are growing longer, and I will know that it is time to return home. As I emerge from the trees, back onto the path, I feel a tug of regret for having to leave the stream behind, and enter once more into the everyday unpredictability that is my life.

Day 147 “Existence”

We are not islands: isolated, insulated, to be ignored.

We are humans dancing through relationships,

weaving our tales,

intertwining stories,

with lovers, friends, families, enemies,

and our selves.

Yearning for love’s repricocity

Delighting in wonder of discovery

slugging through painful demise

striving to be better.

I dream of walls, and towers

and paths that lead nowhere

and these are the nature of my relationships –

artificial barriers,

lofty ideals,

dead ends.

Then I dream of hands that hold me

and gentle waters, soothing

and warm, passionate kisses

and I remember love’s rewards.

I exist.

Not for the possessions that I accumulate

but for the gifts I receive

when my heart opens and

my mind expands

in relationship with others.

Day 146 “The Spiral”

“Remember that night I went missing when I was a teenager?”

“Yes,” my mother replied. “You went off with a man. Your father was so livid.”

“What you don’t know is that I never went voluntarily. I was abducted and raped.”

Mom let this sink in.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

I have wondered the same thing. In retrospect, I must have been severely traumatized and was likely in shock.

“I was just glad to be alive, I guess. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me.”

“He penetrated you?”

I felt my ire rise. My mother’s attitude towards inappropriate male behaviour was that boys will be boys.

“The memories of that night are only starting to surface, Mom. I don’t remember it all. He took me to a deserted farm house, and assaulted me over and over. I remember shaking uncontrollably, and having an asthma attack. I wondered if I was ever going to get out alive.”

“But he didn’t penetrate you?”

“Mom, this man took me against my will and forced me to repeatedly commit sex acts. That is sexual assault. Do you think it’s only sexual assault if there is intercourse?”

“Why would you dredge this up now? Why not just leave it in the past?”

I couldn’t believe what my mother was saying. I had disappeared one night fourteen years ago. After being left at the side of a highway, I walked miles to return to my sister’s home where I had been staying. The police were waiting for me and knew the perpetrator. They asked me if I wanted to press charges, but I was tired and just wanted a bath. One of the officers told me frankly that I had asked for it, given the tight jeans and halter top I had been wearing. I had no fight in me at that moment. They put me on a bus for home instead. When I arrived, my parents expressed their anger and disappointment in me and I was grounded for a week. There was no discussion.

“It hurt me that you and Dad never asked me what happened. You just assumed I was at fault.”

“Your father was so upset, he never thought you were that kind of girl. It broke his heart.”

His heart, I thought. What about mine?

“Well, I just wanted you to know what happened to me, Mom. I needed to clear the air.”

“I don’t what difference it makes now. It’s in the past.”

“Because whatever happens to us remains a part of us. It is important to understand in order to heal.”

* * *

Two days later my mother dropped by.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she started. “You think that what happened in the past can continue to affect us?”

“I think that what we experience and how we react to it creates patterns that repeat themselves until we learn to break those patterns, yes.”

“Well, I’ve never told anyone this, but I was assaulted, as you say, by an uncle when I was six.”

I waited for her to continue.

“Mom and Dad got a new car, and they took me for a ride with Dad’s younger brother. Dad was so proud. My uncle and I sat in the back and he pulled his penis out of his pants and made me touch him.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I knew that my mother would blame me.”

“What! Why?”

“She always said that boys will be boys, and girls are responsible for not inviting trouble.”

“Mom, that’s terrible!”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I’m sixty-three years old and never told a soul.” The eyes that met mine were troubled, full of pain. “There’s more. Grandma and Grandpa lived in the little house on the farm and we kids would have to go visit them, but I hated it. Grandma would be cooking at the big woodstove, and she’d tell me to go on back to the bedroom and check on Grandpa. Grandpa would want to do things to me.”

“That is sick!”

“It was sick, but Grandma just said that was Grandpa’s way of loving me. He dragged my sister out behind the barn and raped her one day. My younger brother tried to stop him – got a gun and everything, but it didn’t do any good.”

She continued: “Even my older brother Leo was a bugger like that. He’d try to get in bed with us girls and have sex. We were always pushing him out.”

“And no one protected you?”

“It was just our way of life. Neighbours were the same. We had to run past the farm next door to us every day on our way back from school, in fear that one of the boys would catch us. My little brother got caught one day, and the boy made him perform oral sex.”

I wanted to throw up. “I don’t understand how nobody did anything.”

“We lived on a farm. We saw animals doing it all the time. I guess we just thought it was part of nature.”

“But you do understand that it’s not right, Mom?”

“I guess I always sort of knew that, but I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I thought it was my fault.”

“You were a kid! How could that be your fault?”

Mom pondered this as if it had never occurred to her before. “Do you really think talking about it can help?”

“I think understanding what happened to us can help us break cycles.” I could see that you she wasn’t getting it. “For example, Mom, you thought that you were to blame for what happened to you. How many times in your life have you accepted abuse because you couldn’t stand up for yourself?”

We both knew the answer to that one. Two abusive marriages in which my mother was always willing to take blame for what was done to her.

“How do I break the cycle?”

“By catching yourself before you go into It’s my fault mode.”

* * *

“I did it!” my mother’s triumphant voice rang out at the other end of the phone. “I was at the doctor’s office and he told me I have cancer. I immediately thought of all the stupid diets I’ve done and that I probably brought this on myself, when I remembered your words. I stood right up and said: “It’s not my fault! I don’t deserve this!.” You would be so proud of me.”

“Good for you, Mom.”

“Now what?”

Mom told me that the cancer was in her bowel, and that they were going to do emergency surgery. She’d suspected cancer for sometime, but hadn’t told anyone. Unable to stand up for herself against my father’s constant abuse, she had contemplated letting the cancer take her life. Our recent conversations had helped her see new possibilities.

“Mom, you need to come through this surgery with a new determination to live – for yourself. You deserve to do all the things you want to in life, and you don’t need to put up with abuse. Choose life, Mom, and when you get better….. take assertiveness training.”

As a therapeutic touch practitioner, I was allowed in the recovery room. When Mom awakened, her eyes immediately locked on mine. “I thought about what you said! I am going to live for me! No more blame or shame!”

* * *

Life is a spiral dance. We don’t leave the past behind, we circle back around to the issues and patterns that have been a part of our experience – always from a new perspective, and always with a new opportunity for understanding and healing.

Day 144: “Seamless Deeds”

The woman on my treatment table was incredibly tense.

“You okay?” I asked. We were exchanging treatments, and this was her turn.

“No,” she said. “I am upset and I don’t seem to be able to shake it.”

“What’s up?”

“I feel like I give and give and I get nothing in return. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Sure. It’s called being a mother.”

We both laughed.

“But actually, that’s not true,” I added. “Children give back in other ways. Are you thinking of someone in particular?”

“My sister.”

I knew the story well. Carly’s sister was a single mother, who didn’t always make the best decisions in her life. Carly was always bailing her out, babysitting her kids, or having them all over for dinner.

“Just for once, I’d like it if she did something for me…. or even acknowledged what I do for her.”

I was reminded of my older sister, also a single mother, and someone who took advantage of others. “Some people are just like that,” I suggested. “At some point I guess we just have to let go of our expectations, or not offer help. You can’t change them.”

“No, you can’t, but it seems like I’m always the one giving and seldom getting back.”

Carly was one of the most giving people I knew and I told her so. “I have always been impressed by how compassionate and helpful you are – almost tirelessly so.”

“But where does it get me?”

Carly’s comment surprised me and made me think. How many times had she done things for me and I hadn’t reciprocated? Was she keeping score? I could see the physical agony that this perceived injustice was causing my friend.

“I always do the right thing, the good thing,” she went on. “When is it my time to receive?”

Carly’s outpouring of emotion made me question why any of us extend kindness. Is it only for reward or acknowledgement? Are we always expecting something in return? I felt sad for my friend, not because her sister was self-serving, but because Carly was so attached to outcomes. She wasn’t able to give just for the sake of giving.

Carly decided to withdraw her support of her sister, and let her struggle on her own. Then she dropped another friend, who she felt was just using her. None of these actions made Carly feel any better. She grew more and more resentful of others. Even her own husband became a target of her score-keeping.

Carly and my friendship also ended abruptly a few years ago. She sent me a letter asking me never to contact her again – no explanation given. I can only assume that I had wronged her in some way.

Carly taught me an important lesson in life. She taught me first the art of giving – as she was an incredibly gracious person – and then the importance of seamless deeds: giving without concern for anything in return.

Questioning

Every Sunday, dressed in our church clothes (matching dresses that mom had sewn herself) we girls were ushered off to service. Dad rushed us so that he could get a decent parking spot – one that would permit a hasty exit when it was all over. He didn’t want to waste his day hanging around that place any longer than he had to.

At eight years of age, I marvelled at how different everyone was on this day. The crabby old lady from next door, who spent all week terrorizing the children of the neighbourhood, arrived in formal attire, with her little pillbox hat and matching gloves, and sweetness plastered across her face. Another neighbour, who everyone knew drank too much and beat his children, was greeted as if he himself was free of sin. On Sundays, I observed, we all became new people.

I chose to sit in the main church for the sermon as I never quite got the concept of Sunday School. Seemed to me we never learned anything, and most days we just coloured pictures related to some story that made no sense. That’s not to say I understood the sermon either. The minister kept referring to God as He, which would set my mind to wondering. My experience of God existed right back to my earliest memories, and that being was more feminine than masculine. I could not relate to the He the minister kept talking about. Could I have been so wrong? Is it possible that the minister had it wrong?

“What is the point of church, anyway?” I asked my parents one day. “Seems to me it is hypocritical.”

“Sunday is the day that we worship our Lord,” my mother said. “We dress up and show respect in His name.”

“Well, what about the rest of the week? Is it okay to be nasty the rest of the week? Doesn’t God watch us then? Shouldn’t we be living in respect of God all week long?” I didn’t mention the gender thing.

“She makes a good point,” my father added.

“That’s the way it’s always been done,” my mother shrugged.

We stopped going to church, but my quest for spiritual understanding didn’t stop there. I invited myself to my friend’s churches, and discovered stricter creeds, and attitudes of superiority and exclusiveness.

Organized religion, from my perspective, tells one what to believe, rather than encouraging one’s own relationship with the divine. As a child, I had a deep and very real connection with something that was beyond the ordinary – a loving, yet omnipotent power.

Now, I seek a return to the sense of wonder of life, to the simplicity of knowing that there is a presence or meaning that transcends the mundane, and the security of believing in that force. I crave goodness, and a harmonious state of being. I want to know inner peace.

Day 139 “The Sovereign”

While Thor recovered from his fifth surgery, I returned home for a short respite. Thinking I could catch up with sleep and household chores, I welcomed the break.
I looked forward to some ‘me’ time.

What I encountered instead was a tsunami of emotions – anger, grief, disbelief, desperation, and depression, among others. Caught off guard, I fought to keep them under control, distracting myself with mundane activities, trying to run from feeling.

I called up any available friends, and when that failed, I collapsed into myself.

What I couldn’t shake was the idea that my depressed state was completely selfish. The voice in my head said: “You have nothing to be upset about”, and I agreed. It was Thor who was in hospital and who would have to endure more procedures. It was Thor who was living through pain and myriad doses of medication. My job was to support him, and in my current state of emotions, I felt ill-equipped to do that.

Derek Lin suggests that we have power over ourselves, as our own sovereign. He suggests that when depression sets in we have to “(r)ewrite the meaning of the event.”

It will take me some time to work through this possibility. What I feel now is compounded not only by the reality we face, but also the extensive guilt that overwhelms me. My anxiety has clouded my ability to think clearly and cope with everyday tasks, sapping great amounts of energy, and as a result, I am off work. I am not accomplishing the things that I believe I should be able to do.

Thor will be having surgery number six before I am able to bring him home again. In that time, I need to find a constructive way to deal with my emotions. He doesn’t deserve, nor should he have to feel responsible for my emotional turmoil.

Day 138 “Cloud Hands”

Cloud Hands, Derek Lin explains in The Tao of Joy Every Day, is a tai chi technique which represents the proper way to deal with confrontation – with “softness and deflection”.

Today’s reflection brings to mind a funny story about Thor, who I consider to be an expert at diffusing and managing difficult situations.

My eldest daughter, Marie, lived in a cheap basement apartment during her last year of college. The building was not well maintained, and the landlord was haphazard about paying the utility bills. As a consequence, Marie and her roommate came home twice to discover that the hydro had been shut off and the food in their fridge was ruined. To complicate things further, the heat was shut off in the midst of a cold snap, and the two girls were beside themselves. They refused to pay any more rent until the situation was resolved.

Thor advised the girls to take the matter to court, and allow a judge to decide how they should proceed. He and I were dating at this point, and Marie did not know him very well. He offered to accompany the two young women, which they readily accepted.

Mid-morning I got a frantic phone call from my daughter. “Mom,” she blurted. “I think Thor is about to beat up my landlord!”

I could not imagine Thor beating anyone up, so I asked her to explain further.

“When we got to court, it turns out that Thor knows our landlord. They exchanged a few words, and then Thor asked him to step outside so they could settle it. He’s going to beat him up! What should I do!”

“Calm down, Marie.” I assured her. “I am pretty sure he is not the fighting type.”

“Mom, you are not here! You didn’t hear it!”

“I know, Honey, but I know Thor. There is some misunderstanding. Call me back when you know what is going on.”

I hung up, wondering. “Step outside and we’ll settle this” is an invitation to fight; had I misjudged Thor?

Thor himself called me when it was all over. “Everything is settled,” he said. “The girls will be reimbursed for groceries lost, and he is giving them a break on the rent.”

“Ah, Thor, how did you get him to agree to all this?”

“When we got to court, I recognized John immediately. I didn’t know he was their landlord. I knew John and I could sort it out; we didn’t need the court process, so I asked him to step outside….what’s so funny.”

“When Marie heard you say “Let’s step outside and settle this”, she thought you were going to beat him up.”

Thor joined in with my laughter, as did Marie when we explained it.

“Violence doesn’t solve anything, Sweetie.” Thor told Marie. “It only compounds the problem. I really just wanted to step outside and settle the issue. And that’s what we did. Reasonably, as two adults can.”

Criticism Be Gone!

I was forty before I could finally ask my mother about her constant criticism of me growing up. We were alone together, in the car, driving out of town. I had her undivided attention.

th-4 “Help me to understand, something,” I prefaced the conversation. “When I was young, you always told me no one would ever love me. What was that about?”

“I didn’t say it to be mean,” she explained and I believed her. My mother was not typically a malicious person. “It’s just that you were so different from your sisters, and I was afraid for you. I thought I was helping you by preparing you for the inevitable.”

“But why, Mom? What was it about me that you thought was unloveable?”

“You were just so smart, and independent minded……” she trailed off. “I guess I thought that men don’t like smart women.”

“Do you understand that I heard what you said to mean that I was impossible to love?”

“Oh my God, that is not what I intended at all! Of course you are loveable. You are compassionate and kind, and you deserve to be loved. I thought I was preparing you, that’s all. You were just so different, and I thought I had to protect you. I never meant for you to think you weren’t loveable.”

She paused in reflection.

“When the school came to us and told us they had done some testing and wanted to send you to a special school for the gifted, I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle it. Your father was all for it, but all I could think about was how would you fit in, and who would ever love you. I guess I thought I was helping. You were an enigma to me.”

Mother’s criticism of me was born out of fear and ignorance; my acceptance of her harsh words was a reflection of my need for her approval.

I understood. Within the context of my mother’s upbringing and beliefs, I did not fit the mold. She was merely expressing fear related to her own limitations. Unfortunately, for the first forty years of my life, I lived out my mother’s legacy, choosing partners who were incapable of loving me.

My mother was not the only one to be critical of my intellectual abilities. “Everyone hated you,” a drunken cousin once confessed to me, then added, “but I don’t know why – you’re so nice.” Classmates called me Browner, implying that I only got good grades because I ‘kissed up’ to the teachers. Even close friends have commented that I’m not really that smart.

By listening to the criticism, I began to devalue myself. Driven by a need to be accepted, I started to act dumb. Better to deny self than to be criticized, right?

Wrong!

Embracing criticism and taking it to heart is ultimately a sin against the self. We are each uniquely created, and destined, and it is only through accepting our differences, and nurturing them, that we can truly be fulfilled.

th-3 Rejecting criticism is the first step to living authentically, and the only hope for living purposefully and to full potential.

Armed with this new understanding, I will stop apologizing for who I am. I will let go of the need for praise from others, and recognize that their criticism is more about their process than mine, and let it be. I will celebrate who I am by committing to my own process, and focusing on my goals and gifts.

I will finally start living.