The Mind Fuckery of it All

Written on December 14, 2024 : Monday marks 23 years since my dad’s mother, Grace, passed away at age 92. I’ve thought of her and prayed to her a lot- more than usual anyways- over the last two months.

Thursday Dec 5 I had to leave my dad’s hospice center to drive my son up north and tend to some of my largely neglected personal and professional life. My dad was stable and alert and the goodbye was one that brought bile into my throat, knowing it was the last time my boy would hug his beloved Papa goodbye.

On my drive back down this past Wednesday I realized that my mind was aware this was my final drive down to see my dad alive. The idea of this thought process really bent my mind in ways never before experienced. Dad was somewhat lucid when I arrived that afternoon, I’m grateful for those few hours with him alert. Since then he has crossed over in to his final phase of life- the active dying phase. Since my arrival I’ve noticed my mind wondering… Will this be the last sunset I see while my dad is still alive? Is this the last moon rise I will witness while my dad is still here? Is today the day that will for the rest of my life be the anniversary of my father’s death? Honestly, how is our brain designed to be able to think these thoughts and to also process the realities of them coming to fruition? The mind fuckery of it all is real.

The day after we moved my dad into this beautiful facility, just two weeks ago, we had a family of deer walk by outside his window, a mama, a young doe, a young buck and a large buck- interesting that the bucks were with the does. They were hard for my dad to see, camouflaged against a frames swatch of dense forest. Over the next week, a man and a machine came in and clear cut all the trees besides a few- my dad doing research into why discovered that the city was going to restore it to a wetland… but the beautiful privacy of the forest and the home to our deer friends disappeared before our eyes. Much like my world has been stripped bare over the last two months, the last year… the last four years really. It makes me curious as to what all this loss, destruction, all this death is clearing space for in my life….

1/13/25

My Fathertook his last breath on December 15, 2024 at 8:37 AM, as I was in the process of writing this post. Now, a month later, I am just starting to revisit and reflect on the entirety and enormity of 2024 for me. You can read what I wrote about his death here. A year of great loss - my marriage began its long overdue descent to an end, and with that my business went took a massive hit, I lost the house I built and called home, my studio, my income security, my best friend, and time with my father, who was dying rapidly unbeknownst to me. I was thrown from one type of Fight or Flight in to an entire new dimension of sympathetic nervous system dysfunction. I took on 3 jobs, worked way too much, and scrambled to find a foothold, which I never really did. In October, I lost my dog of 14 years the same week my father told me of his terminal diagnosis with Stomach Cancer. I abandoned my responsibilities and work and spent as much time as I possibly could with him over the next two months while he withered away. I returned home to uncover behind the scenes while I held my father’s hand as he died I had been double betrayed, most of what I had been relaying on for comfort now was clearly a lie.

I am not one to really share the depths of what I am going through while I am processing, until I’ve navigated some of the healing and gleaned some lessons from the harshness of life. So I will end this writing here. But once I have resurfaced from the muck and mud, I will share more of my story and how I made it back from the dark.

No mud, no lotus.

Wishing you all a 2025 that is full of healing, empowerment, stepping in to who the fuck you really are, and finding love for your self that is so powerful that you are unshakeable.

Love you. Hilary

The Three Ds.

Dad. Dog. Divorce.

It is a bitter cold week in Minneapolis.

We moved my father in to a lovely facility, how surreal it was to walk in to a space knowing that my father will not walk out of this place with breath in his lungs. Just that thought was enough to feel all the breath pressed from my own lungs, a long slow exhale of agony. How cruel and overwhelming life can feel sometimes.

The timeline for the last two months is a blur , but I know this: I gave my dog a big hug the day after my dad turned 74, I cried and held him while he licked my face - internally knowing this was our last time together-, and then I left to go see my father and head south for a much needed break from the chaos of navigating divorce. My sweet Bacon, my best friend of 14 years, lied down the next day and never got up. I was not there for his final breath. I have not been to where he is buried, as I am somehow still waiting for him to run up the steps and bark at the door.

So many endings. Too many at once.

My father’s diagnosis came to us that same week. A very late diagnosis after months of unknowns, and in the 8 weeks since he was told he had terminal cancer, his decline has been shockingly swift. We have barely had a moment to process the diagnosis as we tried to navigate the onslaught of doctors visits, while watching the rapid decline in his weight and wellness. It has been a daily battle to try to get calories in to his cancer ravaged stomach, a battle that he was never meant to win. I have known a few people to lose their battles with cancer in one form or another, but I have never witnessed the ravages so intimately.

Cancer is a thief, it steals life from bodies, hope from loved ones, robs you of time, of years, of memories that will never come to be. I have watched it steal the pounds off my dad horrifically quickly. There has been no time to process the diagnosis. No time to research if there was any possibility of beating this disease, of prolonging his life. Just chaos. A whirlwind of appointments and hard conversations, and visits from friends and family, of medication lists and tubes and poking and prodding his sweet body. Of 4 hour car rides between my home and his where I sob so uncontrollably I have to pull over to let my body and emotions calm down.

It is easy to be mad about things. Easy to be mad at the doctors for not knowing what was wrong sooner. To be mad at the cancer itself for ravaging my father’s body. To just be mad. But what I truly am is soul crushingly sad. Helplessly sad. Agonizingly sad.

Navigating so much tremendous loss at one time, so many endings, so many deaths. I feel as though I am standing in the middle of a vast space completely stripped of all my clothes. Facing the harsh winter days with the bare bones, spinning in circles trying to find anything to hold on to, trying to steady my bare shaking legs and gather strength to take a step towards whatever new beginnings surely must be on the other side of so many harsh endings.

Despite the sadness and overwhelm, I feel immense gratitude and have had to lean in on that to pull me through the darkness.

Thank you to everyone who has sent messages or called or stopped by. Or simply thought of my family. Thank you to the staff at all the hospitals- especially North Memorial Cancer Floor, to the oncologists and their work in this world. To the staff at St Therese… so kind and wonderful. Thank you to my mom and sister for holding down the fort at home while I am back and forth so much. Thank you to my sweet kids for just being. Thank you to the remarkable man whose path crossed mine at the perfect time, your presence and grounding are beyond words.

Thank you to my Dad, Glenn Joel Olander-Quamme, for being one hell of a human being and the best father and Papa G anyone could ever imagine.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my Daddy you’ll be. ..”

Robert Munsch, from the book I’ll Love You Forever

Dad looking out his window at St Therese. There’s two good sized bucks eating acorns out there.

New Levels. New Devils.

(( Wednesday Dec 28, 2022 ))

Today I am 2 weeks sober, again. It is way better than day 1, and I have had far less week twos than day ones, but every time I find either I truly pray it is the last time I have to say those words. Every milestone in recovery is something to celebrate and also comes with the humbling truth that if you aren’t real with yourself, it you dont stay honest and true to yourself, day one is always one drink away. .

Reovery is no small feat. It is an ongoing process that, for me, must be met with grace, surrender, understanding and tenderness. I have learned that when I avoid writing, I am usually not in a good place. I have been avoiding writing for the greater part of the last 3 years, so…. I do not know how many day ones I have had in that time, but it is many. Yet, with every attempt to walk my self home I learn so much. I have regret, but I also know that what I learn along the way is not lost, even when I am.

It really comes down to the stories I am telling my self. I can have a drink, just one, to celebrate, to relax, to fit in, to have fun, to… whatever it is. Unfortunately for me the way that story begins is generally the same, and thus far the way it progresses is generally the same, but that low point, that bottom, the night or event that sparks the ‘this has to end moment’, well that gets a little bitt lower, a little bit deeper, a little bit darker every time. And that is fucking terrifying.

And yet it is taboo to talk about this shit.

And yet talking about these things makes people uncomfortable.

And yet that is how we loose so many bring lights.

So, just an FYI, this is not comfortable for me. I feel exposed. And raw. And scared. I do not love being vulnerable. But so far, on this journey, I have found over and over again that vulnerability is the only road to true compassion, and that compassion is my truest companion on my path to healing.

With this last relapse, which began in May, my self esteem took a massive hit as I overrode my true nature and healing with numbness and escape routes. I projected my internal struggles on to other people, generally my partner or those closest to me, and focused on what was wrong with them. This is the story, the dangerous story progression. Its ok to check out for a drink, leads to checking out for a few, leads to shame which leads to browning out for a night, which leads to more shame which leads to complete lapses in my memory, leads to a new lowest low, leads to a shitty story about how I am a craptastic human, leads to not wanting to feel craptastic so I project that crap on to others, leads to it is their fault not mine. I am fine. I’M FINE. This is the story on the way down. Look at what they need to fix in their life not me/mine, look at how their shitty crap actions make me have to respond in shitty craptastic ways, look at how they are avoiding themselves. Codependent avoidance much?

And then by the grace of god, whatever god is to you, so far, every time I have been given the chance to wake up from that downward spiral. I am often shocked that I have managed to keep waking up. But here I am.

So, that is where I am at in this moment. In this awkward space that is the last week of each year. In that familiar yet different space of ‘early recover’ once again. I am tender. And raw. And pretty sad. But I am also hopeful, and proud of my self, and giving myself grace. I am slowing down and listening to the monologue in my mind, and choosing to change the stories. I am being vulnerable in order to find compassion for my self and for others.

Its an ongoing process. An evolution. One day at a time as it goes.

(( NOTE from Author on 1/1/2023 ))

I did not publish this last Wednesday on my 2 week date. It felt stupid. I felt inadequate. And to be real, I have shame around my relapse. I also have not even advertised that I am writing/blogging again, so I knew that if I didn’t share this week, no one would notice.

But, also it felt inauthentic, and unhelpful. So, I am just going to add on to what I wrote last Wednesday, and start my year off with openness. The Saturday after my last day one I went to a local meeting. AA is not really my jam, but I respect it and honor that it has saved millions of lives, and that for many it works. I appreciate it and go for the community and to not feel alone, to know that other people suffer with the same things I do, and to know that they also recover from the same things that I do. Anyways, if you have never been to a meeting, when you introduce yourself, you say My name is _______ I am an alcoholic (or addict for Narcotics Annonymous/whatever); I have always felt awkward with those labels, with having to say that about myself. Sure, I had a tumultuous relationship with both alcohol and cocaine. Sure, I know that I am unable to consistently regulate my self when I consume those substances. But an Alcoholic? An Addict? Nope, not me. That meeting I was really shook. I was fucking embarrassed of my self, still had the war marks of my last suarre with booze a few days earilier, and I was very emotional. When I said Hi,, My name is Hilary and I am an Alcoholic/Addict, it was the first time I ever felt the embodiment of those words. I felt them in every cell of my body, vibrating through me to my heart space. It was so clear in that moment how I had dissociated and hid from those labels. I don’t believe that you have to label yourself to assess your relationship with alcohol, or really anything that you question the benefits/detriments of in your life. But when I said those words that night it was like claiming part of my self. Instead of feeling shame around them, I felt like I was addressing my self. And that was fucking powerful. Claiming all the parts of ourselves, especially the dark parts of our selves, gives us the agency to befriend these parts, have compassion for them, and to help heal them. You do not have to label part of your self as Addict, or Victim, or Controlling, or whatever it is; but I now believe that you must feel where they live in your body, acknowledge the role that they have played in your life - ie, numbing helped me from feeling pain/shame, to help me fit in, to help me just not be me cause it is too undcomfortable - thank them, and then let those parts know that they don’t have to do that job anymore, that its ok to just rest now.

Thinking about why I did not post this on Wednesday I guess it felt too vulnerable. My sobriety journey began in 2020 after years of being sober curious,; and my relationship with alcohol and substance use/abuse is complex and deep rooted. My husband is an addict as well. Our marriage has undergone two of his relapses, both of which were emotionally and financially devastating. More shame. I remember starting a blog a few years ago about needing to get sober and my mission which I took down after starting drinking again. I think I still have that post. I am going to share it if I do. Shit I am gonna bring back all the blog posts I have written and taken down and post them here. Because, why not. They are part of my story. I may not align with what I have written in the past, but it is still part of me.

I am learning that in order to heal I have to own all those parts of me, and I have to be vulnerable, which for me means to share my story in writing. I listened to a podcast episode my husband sent me this past weekend with Jay Shetty (what a guy) and Gabor Mate (also, what a guy) having a conversation around addiction and healing. At one point Gabor was speaking about the root word of the word vulnerable and he said that, “Vulnerability is our capacity to be wounded.” Without allowing ourselves to acknowledge and own our wounded parts, how can we ever heal them? We cannot. So here I am, showing up. Still pretty raw. Always pretty emotional. And definitely vulnerable.

I will keep showing up here to share.

For anyone out there that may somehow stumble upon this. If you are struggling in your life in any way, take a deep breath, feel your heart beating, and please, reach out. You do not have to struggle alone. I know a lot of people go fo “Dry January” and that is awesome, I too have done so in the past. If at the end of these 31 days, possibly starting day 1 with some sort of hangover, you feel that removing alcohol from your life added more than it removed, maybe consider that you can keep going.

Switching my mindset from lack to abundance as far as sobriety goes has been immensely helpful and maybe a game changer. It is hard to quit anything when you focus on the fact that you can NEVER have that thing again, when you approach it as depriving your self of something. What if instead you could approach that situation from the perspective that you have so many goals to reach on your wellness journey that keeping alcohol in the mix will prevent you from attaining them. Think of how much more time you will have if you are not spending it drinking, thinking about drinking, buying alcohol and recovering from drinking. I can say that sobriety has been a rollercoaster for me, but even when I have slipped off the track I have not lost any of the countless things I have gained from showing up for another day one, even if there were several of them in a week. Living with a clear mind has allowed me to find myself under all the rubble of pain and shame and depression and fear. It has given me presence. And truth. And commitment. And I have taken as much from my losses as I have from my gains.

So, if you resonate with any of this, know you aren’t alone. Feel free to reach out. Be gentle with your self. And if you need to just take things one moment at a time if a day seems like it may be too much.

I am posting this unedited. So I apologize for any run on sentences, spelling and grammar errors. But I just wanted to get this out there and be real.

Happy 2023. Love you.

When you’ve walked out of your own darkness, it’s great to turn the light on for others.

- Jay Shetty

humanness

Being human is wild.

I recently was lucky to spend several days amidst the chaos of NYC. Staying in the Lower East Side and navigating the wild concrete jungle and its complex and mind boggling subterranean circulatory system. The small, remote island I live on is roughly 14 miles long by 3 miles wide, and Manhattan island is 13.4 miles long and 2.3 miles wide according to Quora.com. Here our year round population hovers around 300 going up to 2500 or so in the summer, plus gaggles of tourists coming and going. Manhattan on the other hand has its population of roughly 1.6 million with tourism returning after lock down to be around 5 million visitors a month. I couldn’t help but have gratitude for living amongst as many trees as there are people there. What a wild opposition and a refreshing dose of humanity.

While wandering down crowded streets, in the shadow of enormous feats of human creation I was simultaneously overwhelmed and in awe. A city is an amazing feat of human’s ability to create and build. The metro in NYC alone employs the same number of humans as the whole population of Duluth MN, the nearest ‘big’ city to my home. That is wild. It, to me, is more wild than the secluded wilderness on a massive Lake where I live. Wild in its ability to function without more routine catastrophes. Wild in its ability to sustain (for now) so many humans from so many ethnic backgrounds. Wild in how it is ran and organized, simply how it functions day to day. Wild in its soaring buildings, it’s cacophony of sounds at every second of the day, the millions of smells inundating your nostrils at any given moment. Wild in seeing a person living on the street, overlooked amidst the bustle on a block where the apartments are selling for 7 figures. Wild in how people’s nervous systems can sustain them while living amongst so much stimulation. Wild in how unwavering New Yorkers absolutely love their city, and rightly so.

Amidst all that beautiful chaos I kept wondering what the point of all this is? What does it really mean to be human? Where do I fit in to all of this? What is my purpose for being here? I, in essence, had my Carrie Bradshaw moment.

As a human who, for as long as I can remember, has been a very emotional and empathically sensitive being- overwhelm has been a recurring theme throughout my life. I don’t recall a time or place in my being where I truly felt in my bones, “yes, this is where i belong”. I have always felt other, outside, awkward. Being an introvert in an extroverted world is hard. Constantly trying to portray in some way on the outside what and how I feel to be inside, hard work, endless work, And adulthood… wow. How are we supposed to adult when nearly every adult I know is still very much stuck in some age between 2 and 16 years old? Somehow we do, and we raise children and pass along our unhealed versions of our selves. And the overwhelm of the last 3 years…. for all of us humans who have endured this ongoing pandemic and the onslaught of repercussions, unknowns, heartache, loss we all have felt, witnessed, read about, listened to, stressed over and somehow lived to tell the story of. Since 2020 I have been brought to my knees many times, I’ve sought relief in drowning myself in alcohol or whatever substance was offered my way, I’ve watched my partner spiral into despair after we endured our first parental death. I’ve been lied to, betrayed, and have many times been put in situations where I questioned my sanity, I’ve reacted in ways I am certainly not proud of. I’ve endured crippling anxiety, physical manifestations of trauma stuck in my body, depression, a nervous system on the verge of collapse, PTSD, and also Post Traumatic Growth. In what seemed like a moment, but was really years in the making, I witnessed the home and life I had built for a decade shatter and crumble into a pile of unrecognizable rubble and ash. From the smoldering ruins of what I had convinced myself was a happy life, I struggled yet tried, and still try, to rise. With a shattered confused heart, I moved my family far away from our external sources of pain, to deeply heal, even amid the confusion and stress of relocation, even with the hovering judgements and rumors and self doubt and shame. And with my still healing heart… I came back home again; navigating what at times still feels like a minefield of trauma triggers in each moment. Through my pain I have created things I am immensely proud of. Worked hard to grow a business that has brought me success and failures, and within that I’ve found a community of humans who support me for whom I am, no matter if I fail, and for that I am so deeply grateful. I have realized how quickly children grown, and I’ve watched them change, and wiped my tears at the beauty and fleeting feeling of it all. I have held it together and fallen apart in front of my children, I have had hard conversations, and have broken their hearts and cried more because I hurt them. I have gathered my self and gone to the darkest places within my self, and always at the depths of those dark places I have found little Hilary, 12 year old me, curled up and crying and scared. I have comforted my sweet inner child, and regularly check in on her and give her all the things she longed for and never received. I have suffered, I have realized that all of my suffering is mine to heal. I have lived through it all and for that I am grateful every day.

Amidst the chaos of that big city, I felt all of this. I felt that very same chaos that surrounded me was the same within, the city a metaphor for my being. My thoughts like the millions of people roaming those streets, always moving, always a sense of urgency, go go go, never stopping. At times all the thoughts in my mind, deafening like the sounds that surround and engulf you in the whirlwind of the streets. Sometimes it seems they are in multiple languages, messages I cannot translate and struggle to understand. Like the subway trains rushing through the world down below the streets, my anxiety and worry pulse through my veins. The overstimulation, a reflection of my need to care for my nervous system. The man on the street, with a can at his feet and a sign that says “I know I am a piece of shit, but I am also hungry”… a reflection of my own inner dialogue and longing. But yet, the city survives. It endures tragedy and hardship, it weeps, and mourns. For better or worse, it accommodates change, it rebuilds from the rubble, it sparkles in the darkness, it keeps going through it all.

I have not found the answers to my questions, but that city gave me clarity and new insights on some of my wonder. To have questions, and longing, and perseverance, and doubt, and heartache, and loss, and overwhelm and fear… to have it all within us at one time. To never have the answers, but to always seek them, to wonder what our purpose is, even if we never feel we have one, to each of us feeling alone amidst 8 billion others… to feeling the surge of anxiety pulse through our veins, seize up our stomach, and to be able to take a deep breath in, pause, and sigh it out. For me, that is the humanness that New York showed me within my self. For me, the awareness of my humanness is part of my purpose. The not knowing but showing up is part of my purpose. The breathing through the fear is part of my purpose. The forgiving through the ongoing pain is part of my purpose. The not regretting but learning from the past is part of my purpose. The letting go is part of my purpose. The being wild is part of my purpose. That trusting that even amidst the chaos, I will be OK, that is part of my purpose. Creating beauty from my hardships, that is part of my purpose. Sharing, with vulnerability is part of my purpose. Rebuilding from the rubble…. For me, going into the darkness without fear, knowing that light cannot exist without it, that is part of my purpose. Keeping curious even if I do not find answers, that is part of my purpose. And maybe, never feeling that I have “A Purpose”…. maybe being OK with that is also part of my purpose.

Thank you New York. Thank you to the crazy, wild city and all the beautiful people, sounds, smells, history, energy and chaos it holds. Thank you for giving me a sense of understanding purpose amidst your grandeur and wild and noise. Thank you for your humanness, and showing me my own.

I offer heartfelt gratitude to you for taking time away from your wild life to read my thoughts. I hope you found some value in the time you spent reading this. And thank you for showing up for yourself.

always love - Hilary

But in the face of confusion, uncertainty, and low morale, one possibility remains untarnished. We are likely to become even more self-aware. That's the pattern that has held good for all of recorded history, and despite every catastrophic setback and horrifying turn of events, the march of awareness continues.

-Deepak Chopra

Just take a step.

For years I have felt the universe pulling me in the direction of sharing my story. I have shared pieces throughout my journey as a creator in the realm of jewelry making. But the nudge to write the words has become stronger and stronger. I have started blogs and started memoirs and started email lists as time went on, but have never stuck to it; taking my writings off the radar of the public sphere, archiving posts and not keeping my circle in the loop. The message I am getting now is that this is no longer an acceptable option.

I have had no other choice but to look in the mirror and ask my self, why?

Why do I start and not keep going? Why do I post and then hide it? Why do I show up and then fade away into the background?

Fear.

That is what is there when I look in the mirror, when I feel in to the emotion behind my lack of action, fear is what is there.

Fear. Backed by limiting beliefs. Negative feedback patterns. Self doubt. Trying to think my way through everything.

I had to move through awareness of those internal issues. .

I acknowledge and honor these feelings and internal events for doing their job, for allowing me a feeling of safety, even if just a veil.

Then I must consciously let them go, every time they arise, acknowledge, honor, let go.

I know I have been complacent. I hesitated and hesitated and got more and more frustrated. I felt farther and farther away from my self.

Action was the only way forward through the fear.

So here I am. I am showing up without expectation. I am holding my self accountable to come here and share my feelings and my story. I am writing what comes through me so that it doesn’t stay and churn within me.

I woke up early today, way earlier than I wanted to, but I couldn’t sleep because the words were there. It was a deep internal knowing that this was the step. The step towards what thing, I do not know, but the step towards feeling a deeper connection to my self is what I am taking.

There are parts of me that have been suppressed under the layers of conditioning over the years, and I have begun the process of unearthing these parts. Piece by piece, day by day, feel by feel, word by word.

Perhaps my process will be helpful to others, perhaps not. If I have found one little nugget of gold among the rubble in my self, it is that the process is what matters. If I am not enjoying the how, even the not knowing how- especially the not knowing how- I am not living my life, I am only trying to plan and control it.

Exhale the fear. Exhale the control. Inhale deeply and do the next best thing. Especially if it scares you.

I cant see a way through…

said the boy.

Can you see your next step? ...

Yes. ...

Just take that.

said the horse.

- Charlie Mackesy

sorrow

For the last 3 days I have operated on adrenaline, anxiety, an overwhelmed sympathetic nervous system. Heart racing. Hands trembling. Unable to concentrate, or process thoughts. Exhaustion.

Now today, I feel sadness. I weep for those who are dying alone, without the care and touch of their dearest. I ache for the loved ones who feel powerless and must stay distanced from their loved ones as they lay overcome with this illness.

Today, I take pause. I take time to cry. I take time to breathe. I take time to sit and listen to my breath, to be present.  I acknoledge the energies around me, and consciously block the ones that will overwhelm my system. I give thanks for my health, for another day of living free from the chains that have bound me. I take time to pray for those afflicted with this virus, and for their loved ones. I pray for those who are struggling at their homes, alone, or with kids, or with people they do not care to be isolated with. I pray for those of us who are healthy, may we remain so. I just pray.

Find something that brings you joy, that makes you laugh. Call a friend, a loved one. Take this time to remember who you really are, especially if you have never remembered.

I send love to you all at this time.

SEPARATE

Well. Here we are.  What a place I seem to always return to. This time it is different. This time it is raw. The gravity is heavy, inescapable. The only way through is forward.

I am in this space that is so deeply uncomfortable. The recurring signs and symbols are at times frightening, but if I am honest it is because I am scared by their truth. Scared by my truth. I am on this path. I cannot get off of it.

It feels awkward to say I feel called to do something, but I do not have other words for it than that at this time. I feel called to share this experience. It is through sharing we can heal.

So, I reopened these words I wrote 3 years ago, and find myself in such a similar but vastly different space. I still feel the same What the Fuck am I doing? But now it is a different what the fuck, more what the fuck else am I supposed to be doing? I have tried to fight my path, calling it my ‘mid thirties crisis’ when I felt this discomfort creeping in 4 years ago. I blamed this edginess on my husband and his path through addiction and recovery and the way it effected me. I used his recovery as a means to justify my own numbing down, to continue down the path of not facing who I am, because I wasn’t an ‘addict’ or I didn’t have a ‘problem’. When at the center of it all, was me, this person I have never really meant. And there it was, my problem, my addiction. I have fled the realities of my path over and over again, For the last 25 years I took my feelings of separateness and sorrow, and I drowned them, cut them, snorted them, chased them with whiskey, saw them peaking through, and numbed them again. I pushed that sweet girl who felt she had no-one to talk to, no where to go but down, and put her in a dark room to cry on her own. I hear that girl as the ringing in my ears and she is screaming, screaming at me STOP. Just. Stop. Sit down. Take a deep breath. And another. And another. Feel those emotions? You are at the threshold. That seed has been planted and now it must grow.

I must move forward without the old sturdy crutches which have allowed me to drag my legs behind me on the ground.

I am leaning into the Unseen. Asking for guidance. Revisiting parts of my self that are buried deep beneath the layers of despair, loneliness, depression, self harm, problematic tendencies, substance abuse, and separateness.

So far what this looks like for me is a lot of tears. Early mornings feverishly writing to get the words out. And starting each day, no matter how impossible it seems, sitting with myself in meditation.

All signs point down this road.

Most days I feel squirmy. Like I want to run, so I do, I go for a run. I cry when I feel like I need to, which is more than I will admit. I laugh at myself. I put on music and dance and sing. I listen to the words of those who have walked similar paths to mine, Laura McKowan, Elena Brower, Holly Whitaker, Augusten Burroughs…

I sit in this open wound I have created and breathe in the air that will help to heal it. I call on Spirit, and talk to God, even though I do not really feel that I know how to. I ask for help. Am I doing this right? Is this how I pray? Can you give me a sign? And always, there is a sign. Each day I add a new tool to my tool box, or make something useful out of a broken one.

There is only one way to proceed down the road less traveled by, forward, and it will be dark. and bumpy, and uncomfortable. I will trip over rocks and skin my knees. I will cry out in pain. And run through the sorrow, lungs burning with life. I will feel each rock, each pebble, each scrape.

The underlying current which I which I have swam against and numbed for as long as I can remember, is this. This discomfort, this separateness. Who I am in on the other side of that, and the only way to get there is through it.

This is fucking hard. I don’t necessarily want to do it, but I must.

Thank you for reading my words.

“It is from the grit that the pearl arises.” - Kim Krans

more is just more

I had this idea that I could be a weekly or bi weekly blogger when I started this project.  Then as time moved forward I realized how difficult it is for me to do most things if they don't come organically from my heart. Looking back on the things I felt I failed at this past year, all of those things that didn't work out were creations of my 'more is better' driven mind. 

How was this year for you?  To me, I cannot justify complaints as I end the year with a happy and healthy family surrounded by love, and without having endured much trauma or loss. Through dedicating myself more fully to a yoga practice this year, I made it out of the clutching grip of a 4 year battle with depression; instilling a new sense of lightness and appreciation in me. Through this practice I have come to  recognize, and from there work on the release of, toxic resentment, chronic pessimism, and debilitating negativity.  Out of the many little things I felt at the time were failures, in hind sight they were all minute and passed without much stigma.  The two things I felt were big accomplishments (running 26.2, completion of 200Hr RYT) left me with lessons in patience, determination, perseverance, passion, that pain and trauma both physical and mental take time and dedicated work to heal,  if you are recovering from pain, take time to sit with the discomfort and listen to what your body is suggesting you need to do to heal, and the understanding that More is just More, it does not always mean better (thank you Christina for instilling these words during a lovely, sweaty, yoga practice you created).  The more miles I put on my body, the more damage I did.  The more I focused on quality over quantity of my actions, the more I began to enjoy things, and the more I began to heal. 

I will say, the one exception I have personally found to this concept, is that the more time I put into taking care of myself, the more I enjoy life. More love makes for better quality of life. 

 I'm heading into the new year with this mantra into my head.  

Move from a place of more quality, rather than more quantity.  But remembering that More is just more, it is not better.

Many blessings to you and those you hold most dear in this coming year.  

Be well. 

home

Well.  It took me a while to decide on what I wanted to write about this week. Naturally I surpassed my self set deadline, and got a little down on myself.  Lots going on in the old brain, over stimulated and over pressured I suppose, aren't  we all? 

So, Home.   What I kept coming back to is the concept of Home.

That comfortable place in your life can help one heal so much.  

What constitutes a home?  What makes one feel at home? Is it a structure? A community?  Specific people? Comfort?  Regularity? Is it the place you grew up? Is it a place you came to find on your own?  Does it provide a  feeling of safety?  A feeling of love?  A feeling of something else?  Or is it really just something you can't really describe?  How did you find your home? Where is your home?  

Where is my home? 

In my instance, my home is not where I grew up, though I still call that place home.  I was raised in your standard American Midwest Suburbia, which has now blossomed into another analogous exit of the highway of corporate American towns.  My upbringing was fine.  I  feel lucky to have memories of that home before it was enveloped by concrete and stoplights and any store you could possibly ever need to go to. Sheltered, safe, privileged, white.  

The man I came to marry grew up passing between a similarly suburban utopia and this small town Northwoods community, surrounded by water.  

To make a long story short, our suburban upbringings united us in our youth, and over the years brought us back together.  But the first visit I took to his other home, at age 19, changed me.  Once my tires rolled onto the ferry boat on the chilly April day, I knew that this place was magic.  The magic enveloped me once on the island.  I remember having trouble sleeping that weekend out of this pure excitement, shivering in a tent as the waves crashed against the shore and the wind howled through the pines.  Every person I met welcomed me with a warmness you just really do not find growing up in a big city, everyone had a story to tell, some many.  The beauty of the place itself is breathtaking. The soul of the island is magical, still gives me goosebumps at times. 

Right away, I more or less knew I wanted to stay there. I knew I had to stay there.  

So, I did.  I moved there a month later, for the summer, which melted into fall, which turned to winter, spring summer again... I came and went over the years, moving here and there, going to college, but at any moment I could, I ran back there.  It was the place my heart longed to be whenever I was away. I actually remember a boss of mine in college telling me I "needed to get off the island,"  and my response was, WHY? And I still feel that way.  Part of me feels like he was jealous of my unending love for this place, perhaps so, perhaps not.  I do know, now since having came an gone from there for 15 years, that I am certainly not alone in this feeling I get when there and this longing I get when away.  

And in the midst of personal crisis 2.5 years ago we moved away, but not far away, certainly not far enough away.  At every opportunity, we make a dash to the ferry, seeking shelter on the shores encompassed by that clear, cold, powerful water. And here we are, realizing, yeah... this place we moved to, so close to our home, just isn't our home.  We love our house, our neighborhood, the school up the road, we have friends on this side of the pond; but it just isn't the same. It just isn't our home. So, yes, what does make that my home?

The beauty, the magic, the people, the community, the trees, the spirits, the stories, the feeling. All of it. 

I feel so lucky to know this feeling.  To have found a place that captured my heart while simultaneously welcoming me into its community with open arms.  I feel even more lucky that we are able to move back there, to make a life there, to raise our children there.  It certainly is not for everyone. It, perhaps, doesn't provide the most 'opportunity', but this is relative to what you strive to achieve I suppose.  The Northwoods island life is not necessarily a walk in the park, it takes planning, and the ability to live in an isolated place. It takes creativity to make a living, and community to support you when you struggle.  If you're all about your regular trips to the movie theaters, yoga classes and shopping malls; well... that isn't gonna happen here. It makes me enjoy the big city opportunities that much more when I have them, and I am always ready to retreat to the woods after a few days of relishing in the jungle of modern city civilization. For me, I enjoy the purity. The realness.  The randomness of the qualities of the people who call this small place home.  I cherish the silence.  The sounds of the Lake and the woods.  It is a life more in tuned to the natural world, and certainly with water and its forces.  It's a life you have to physically work for to make happen, at least we, not blessed with a large bank account, have to.  I love the connection to the past, the indigenous spirits that roam the land are undeniable.  At the heart of it, it is just a magical place.  If you get it, you get it, and you will never be the same. For this place, and the discovery of this place, the path that lead me to this place, I feel the depths of gratitude on a whole new plane.

I am not saying that home is perfect.  I can't deny that at times in the depths of harsh dark isolated winters, or even in the chaos of tourist filled summer days, that I don't feel the need to escape. That is a natural occurrence. But, after being just close enough to home, but not actually home for the last few years, it has made me realize what it is I truly value in a home, and where I do in fact feel just feel at home. 

So, for you I ask, Where is your home? What makes it home?  How did you come to know this home?  Do you live there? If not, why?  

I'd really like feedback on this one.  Even if it is just the seven of you I know for sure have read my previous posts, I am grateful for you 7 and your comments!  And if you don't care to respond, I hope this makes you think about the questions, and about what matters to you, and about where feels like home. 

Also, shout out to the podcast Dear Sugars, and the episode Location Location Location, for their inspiration to dive a little deeper into this concept that has been lingering in my brain.  It's a great podcast with a plethora of subjects, have a listen on your way up to visit me on the island :) . 

Happy Sunday.  Be well.

Recovery

recovery:

(1) a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.

(2) the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost.

(Definition from google.)  

The first mentions returning to a "normal" state of mind, and I think that definition is awkward.  Returning to 'normal' after a traumatic event, usually is not going to happen, but generally, we try.  We end up returning to a new level of comfort perhaps, a new normal maybe, but not a return to what was normal before.  We are all recovering on some level, from some sort of trauma.  With the chain of tragic events of the last month, it is clear so many of our fellow humans are recovering from unimaginable loss; loss of a loved one, loss of function, loss of independence, loss of financial stability, loss of pets, loss of home, loss of belongings and keepsakes, loss of hard earned achievements, loss of businesses, loss of livelihood, loss of dreams.  There are so many things to recover from:  diseases, addictions, broken hearts, tragedies, poverty, sexual abuse, death, injury….  I find myself, in the wake of these devastating losses, feeling egotistical or selfish even writing a blog about, essentially, the pursuits of happiness and humanity.  Even thinking about my own issues seems a little absurd as I currently have healthy kids, a loving husband, a warm home and some money in the bank to buy food. But we all have our own things we carry.  We all have had a traumatic event.  We have all recovered, or are and will be forever recovering.  All of these things negate who we are, how we act, react and interact with the world around us, and how we continue on trying to regain that possession or control of whatever it is that was stolen or lost.  And that is why I write,  to continue my recovery, in hopes of regaining pieces of the person I once knew, and in order to better serve and understand my fellow people and their efforts to recover. 

I suppose this concept has been on my mind in rather spotty fashion since June of this year. After talking with a good friend this weekend (you know who you are <3) I realized there were so many words that I have never let leave my body in the last 3 years (& 4 months).  Not onto paper. Not verbally. Just fermenting inside me, haunting my brain and tormenting my heart. In the grand scheme of things 3 years isn't that long, and in hind sight of course it seems to have flown by, but it is a long time to live feeling angry, resentful, confused, depressed, struggling; at times those dark moments seemed as though they would never end.  It is a long time to go on in a more or less constant state of oppressing true feelings, and scrambling desperately to control anything in my life I can possibly harness control over.  It is a long time to be bitter inside.  It is a long time to be told regularly that I am a negative human, and even worse, to start to feel that I genuinely am.  It is a long time to not feel like myself.

So, here I am, after almost 3.5 years of feeling all these chronically negative things, trying so hard to understand, to come to terms, to make amends.  Trying so hard to recover.  It took that long, but now the process has begun.

My personal struggle erupted in the late Spring of 2014.  My life was seemingly ideal.  Hard, with an almost 3 year old and an infant, but I had a good solid life as a young mother, with a young family, trying to do the best I could. I loved the home we had made on this little island in the Big Lake, and we were working hard trying to buy it, or trying to buy some home.  Between the long nights of broken sleep, nursing sessions, diaper changes, potty training sessions, the food making, the tantrum calming, the skill teaching, the book reading, the song singing... we made time for raising chickens, growing food, taking walks on the shore or in the woods, having friends over for dinner or brunch, making art. Life was good.  Until one day, I realized, it wasn't.  My life was fine I guess. My oblivion proved to be a protective seal around my heart.  But that seal shattered into billions of pieces, along with my heart, when I realized the darkness that my husband was living in.  When I realized a warm blanket of lies was all that had been keeping me comfortable, and that blanket was abruptly ripped off of me. Right in front of my sleep deprived eyes, this whole other dimension of abuse, depression and incomprehensible addiction was going on.  And in an instant, as it normally goes, your world is flipped upside down.  One clue after the next surfaced in rapid succession, leaving me dumbfounded as to how I simply did not notice ANY of this, how could I not know?  And more importantly, what do I do?  

In a nutshell, after alerting the few people I felt could help me and needed to know. I, not so gracefully, confronted my husband.  It was seeking help and keeping the kids and me, or the end of the relationship.  He chose help.  Off he went, 6 weeks away from family in a treatment facility.  And he has been sober since.   He made the best choice.  I am 100% proud of him, 100% grateful that he chose that path, and thus far has been stable in his own, often difficult, recovery.  

What did I do though?  I went on.  I had two babies to care for, so I worked hard at that with loving support from family and community.  I had bills that had to be paid, so I worked more. I had a bazillion emotions inside my heart which felt it had been run over by large pieces of machinery, set on fire, chopped up finely, and discarded; so I suppressed them.  

It has been a really hard 3 years.  I guess I don't know the depth of struggle my husband has had, living a clean life, but for me, now reflecting back, it has been brutal.  I never processed the anger. The rage. The hatred.  The bitterness. It manifested itself inside me as extreme resentment, the constant need to feel in control, the depression that would creep in and leave me with no energy or drive me into manic fits which then left me totally exhausted, toxic levels of pessimism coursed through my veins.  I guess if you look at the stages of grief, the last three years I have cycled in and out of anger, bargaining and depression.   A series of pretty big life decisions followed, mostly out of panic and inability to handle stress.  I quit the job I loved.  Our family moved away from our home; due in part to just being a young poor family starting out after a recession but a lot also because financial difficulties incurred as a result of said addiction. From there I threw myself erratically into my work.  I moved from one obsessive decision that I could control to the next.  This was my new normal.   And it has really, really sucked. 

So, now here I am.  With June came the realization of many things, namely that I had been living in this shit storm inside my head for 3 years and things were not getting any better.  And that, through the focus on my husband's recovery, I had neglected to recognize the trauma I had endured and had never began my own recovery.  I feel I began the healing process over the summer.  I realized I needed to take way better care of myself, and moderate basically all aspects of my life.  I need to work on breathing, calming myself, and thinking before I speak.  I need to release this 3 year old desire to always have the last word, always be in control, or always be right; this was a bad habit I developed out of bitterness.  I realized I miss our home and desperately want to move back.  I realized I need to focus on things I like to do, things that make me happy and bring joy; not just things I can feel in control of.  I realized I HAVE been really negative, really really resentful, really bitter.  I am NOT negative, I just react negatively, and need to make a conscious effort to change this pattern.  Maybe not so simple, but definitely manageable. 

So, this is part of my recovery.  This is part of my pursuit.  You are all part of my journey, and I appreciate you being on it with me. 

My husband gave me permission to share his story. I did not reveal too many details about his struggle with addiction, but he encouraged me to share his story in hopes it would help other people.  And I am doing the same.  I am thankful for his willingness to be a better person, and to try to help others be better versions of themselves.

This is a space for people to read, but also for people to share.  If you have a comment, a story, advice... please share it.  We can never fully recover things that were lost or stolen, we can never return to the 'normal' we once knew, but we can move forward in our recovery and grow into something new. We can only do this if we have the courage within us toadmit our faults truthfully, recognize them and navigate around them.  It is my experience that this is an extremely solo and subjective journey, but that if we are open about where we are at, collectively we will heal and grow much faster.  You cannot quantify someone's grief, you cannot put a time frame on healing, but you can recognize your own struggles, try to grow from your mistakes, and use your experiences to try to help others in their recovery. 

My take away from all of this, in the darkness of all these tragedies we are left to recover from, is that it is in this struggle we must take utmost care to notice our  personal condition and be truthful with ourselves about what we need, to take time to take care of ourselves. Without this we cannot take proper care of one another and help one another on this path of life. 

"If we're gonna heal, let it be glorious" - Beyonce

the weight

The pattern must end at a certain point. Release the burden; let go of the heavy weight dragging you down. The cycle of reliance followed by the hollow drumming of regret and the anxious pounding of your dehydrated heart is done. Let it go.

'If you want something you've never had, you must be willing to do something you've never done.'

Thomas Jefferson

Satya

I started writing this a week ago.  Since then, the world is a different place.  The hearts of many were stopped at the hands of someone who we know little about, someone who knew little about the hundreds he  wounded, or killed.  The hearts of thousands more are now beating heavy with the grief off unnecessary and incomprehensible loss that will follow them in and out of consciousness until they take their last breath. And the world mourns, and shakes, and sobs. And so many remain silent. 

I am sick. I am devastated. I am confused.  I am heartbroken.  I am scared. I am ANGRY. I feel helpless.  I imagine most of you are right there with me. 

What I was writing about last week was trying to find my inner truth. And now, in the wake of mass destruction, it seems on the one hand so selfish and inappropriate to talk about, but on the other hand it seems like talking about this is also talking about where the core of many problems in the world lie. 

It is in times like this I retreat within.  Tapping into my consciousness and meditating, just being present in this moment Recognizing the deep burn of sorrow as an appropriate emotion to have, and letting my tears fall as needed. Trying to recognize my feelings and my state of being in each moment.  For that is all we are ever guaranteed.  I can't help but wonder if everyone tried tapping into their consciousness on a regular basis, and lived for the present moment, what type of world we would live in? 

I am not disregarding the seriousness, and complications, that come with having a mental illness, a chemical imbalance or any other disease or injury that effects the brain. I understand these are prevalent and very real and on many levels distort a persons concept of reality, ability to communicate properly (or at all), ability to process emotions and take a pause before reacting, they can cause deep states of depression, perhaps be treated with medications that cause other side effects, the list is long.  The reality is that there are so many people who live with these afflictions of the brain, and for them, their suffering may be their truth. They may not have the luxury of reading a book about how to calm the brain, or the ability to sit in meditation and mindfulness or perhaps even comprehend the meaning of those words and what they do if practiced.  

I dont have answers for why some people commit heinous  acts that shatter the hearts of loved ones and forever change lives of those left to go on living without their loves. 

I do believe, if all of us who are mentally capable, practice mindfulness, practice being present in this moment, practice taking a deep breath before we say or do something out of emotion, if we are able to separate the true energy of our being from our thoughts and emotions even for seconds throughout our day; if we do these things I believe we are all able to better help one another, to recognize the struggle, and to perhaps better help those who's brains do not allow for them the privileges our healthier minds offer us.

I believe that kindness and truth and pure love reside in mindfulness. And I do believe these things can greatly change our world.

I am currently reading the Yamas & Niyamas of Patanjali's Sutras, and The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle.  Both of these texts are brilliant, and have opened my heart and mind.  If you are on your own path  seeking your truth, I recommend both of these, and any work or video interview by Master Eckhart.  

My eyes burn and my heart slows to a deep dull thud when I think of the ripple of pain one person has caused to thousands of living souls, and the life he stole from 58 others.  I hope one day Love will truly find a way to break the evil that resides in some. 

I hope you enjoy your present moments, the only moments we truly have. Sending love. 

pursuit of happiness

Hi everyone. Here we go. Another day, another journey. 

On my run through the woods today, I realized a few things.

I realized that today I felt much happier than yesterday (day after election day was yesterday) which I am sure most all of us do; even if you voted for our newest President elect, there was at some point a little bit of stress on you during this whole election process.

I also realized that for a long time, like all of my life until today, I viewed happiness as something that came along with living, something that occurred. Today, somehow, I realized that yes, sometimes happiness does come to us organically, but more often than not it is something we have to make a pointed effort to find. For some people this is easy, a no brain-er. Me? I think of myself as a realist, but realistically I tend to err on the side of pessimism in most cases.  Not because I like to be negative, I actually really dislike it when I am negative, but that is just how my brain is wired. But today, as I jaunted through the woods on a trail I had never explored before, I realized it is all really about choice. And all of our choices basically come down to a simple choice of whether or not we choose to be happy, or a grump. I guess prior to this realization today, I was pretty grumpy most of my days. I took the world as coming at me, not coming from me. I had read uplifting things about changing my mood; I had gotten annoyed with the overly happy people in my life (seriously, HOW are you SO happy ALL THE TIME!?); I had told my children time and again to "change your attitude" when they were getting on my nerves, on and on, but somehow I let these things happen or come out of my mouth without really taking them seriously. My cathartic run turned this thought process around (running is the new black BTW).

The final thing I should mention I realized is that a lot of things that currently make me unhappy, or at the least do not give me happiness,  in my personal life are things and ideas that I have in my head that I store in a safe little corner. I think of many things throughout the day, and it's those recurring ideas, the 'I should do that' , or usually 'I should make that' or 'I should start that'  that I think about that make me feel excited, and then, because I don't do them, they weigh me down. I think I store things most often because I am scared to take new leaps, perhaps I don't feel like I have the time because life is busy, or I am scared because I don't think I know exactly how to do what I want to do, but mostly it comes down to am scared to do try things.  I have thought for months about how I should be writing down my ideas, my thoughts, my feelings, maybe even blogging about them. How it would probably help me sort things out, figure things out, get things going. But, I was too scared to just do it.  I was scared it would be awkward, or I would not do it "right" or whatever, I was just kind of scared of it. So, today, here I am. I am DOING IT.

So, on this enlightening run on this beautiful and unseasonably warm November day, I decided I would start to blog about my personal pursuit of happiness.  I am not a psychologist, or a master in meditation, or a behavioral specialist/therapist, I am not a life coach, or a counselor; I am a woman, a mother of two small children, who owns a small business, works miscellaneous other jobs to help pay bills, struggles with the reality of my life versus my dreams, and is not a naturally happy person. I don't expect to be happy all of the time. I am a very emotional person, so that would be impossible as I simply feel too many things.  However, it is an immediate goal to feel happy most of everyday, and to learn to laugh more, especially when I am being ridiculous, or when I am crying over something silly.  SO, if you care to follow along with me on my journey of what I do and think about seeking happiness, here we are. And thank you for being part of my journey.

What the F?

Ah, the eternal question... what the F am I doing?  But really?  What am I doing?  Perhaps it is not an eternal question for you, but it is one that frequently preoccupies my mind.  It seems to come in really strong waves, and then goes out with the tide and for intervals I am extremely content and my mind takes on the "YEAH! This is the path I am supposed to be on" motto.  And then, for reasons I am exploring now, here, and in time to come; something changes, perhaps suddenly, perhaps gradually, and that question creeps back in... "Hilary, what the F are you doing? Are you happy?  Is this what you are supposed to be doing?".

I have journaled privately about it, cried about it, meditated on it, tried to ignore it, stressed about it, over stressed about it, ran from it (both physically and metaphorically), breathed deep through it,  screamed over it, moved to other countries because of it, contemplated, pined after it, complained about it, beat myself up over it, got depressed about it, pretended I didn't care about it, cared too much about it, and now here I am... simply trying to confront it and understand it.

My response to this question of what the f am I doing is currently a stream of questions... What the fuck am I doing?  Should I even be asking that question?  Why do I feel I am supposed to do anything? Why do I feel so discontent sometimes?  Am I too much of a dreamer?  Do other people feel this way?  Isn't what I am doing more than enough? Aren't I enough? How do other people feel content?  How did they get to where they're at?  And why?  And why do they stay there? Are they happy? Content?  If not why?  And if not, why do they stay?  What the fuck are we all doing?

For background info, In a extrmely small nutshell (like pistachio sized) Flame & Stone grew from my love of metalsmithing which I randomly but organically stumbled upon in 2005 during my second semester at UW Madison for which I had intended to go and study various religious beliefs and paths.  It then grew from my holistic beleif that the pursuit of happiness should overflow into all aspects of our being, from the internal joy & soul satisfying passion (my flame) I feel from working with my hands and creating beauty,  and from the need to supply my family with some supplemental income while allowing me to be available for my children/family (my base, my foundation, my stone) as much as possible, while recognizing jobs are limited where we live and creating my own income is a viable option.  Sounds dreamy doesn't it?  Seems like it should be.

But yet I struggle. 

So, here I am.  Awkwardly trying to stumble down a new path while this little spark in the back of my heart keeps flaring up, saying, 'turn back, this isn't the way'. 

But, what is the way?  

I am reaching out here, to you, in my first blog post ever, and I would really love honest, raw, open, feedback to be shared without fear of judgement.

I am seeking knowledge, and ideas through your answers. I am seeking personal and universal and communal understanding.  I am seeking camaraderie. Encouragement. Inspiration.  I am seeking your stories, to enrich my own perspectives and to bring me to new levels of appreciation for the human struggle and new connections to other humans.  I am hoping these stories help us all.  That you can share and read with an open heart and mind and perhaps an answer you have been seeking will present itself here. 

SO.... I ask of you...

What is your story?  

How/why did you end up doing what you do?

 End up where you are?  

Are you happy?

Content?

If not, why?  

If so, how?  

What would you change if anything? And why do you not pursue that change? 

Please!  Contemplate.  Think about it.  Write about it.  Share it.  I really, truly want to hear it.  Without judgement. Without analysis. I just want to hear what you have to say.  

Share this blog. I want to hear what your friends have to say, and their friends too.  

 If you do not feel comfortable or safe commenting here on this post, please email me @ hilary.metalsmith@gmail.com. 

We are all in this thing together.  

Be well. 

H