Forgetting Jesus

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Jesus has long been my confidant when God just seems too big, too busy, too far away. Jesus has always made sense to me. He lived on this earth, experienced the bittersweet that is life. He cried (more on that later), got sick, was betrayed by friends. He was fully human. And so when I feel like maybe God is just a little bit out there, Jesus always makes sense.

And yet today I forgot about Jesus. Not completely. I woke up thinking about how it was Good Friday and how I should probably carve out some time to rest in the presence of God or to sit at the feet of Jesus, something Good Fridayish. But then Lilah woke up screaming, I burnt my eggs at breakfast, Eric got home around lunch time to let me escape. And all of a sudden my to do list was way more important. It was Loooonnngggg and I was itching to check off all my boxes (literally).

I just happened to be texting with my cousin this afternoon who is one of my mama peeps-she keeps me sane, and on track, and in the know since she’s seasoned. She told me about a beautiful service she had gone to this morning and I immediately thought, “oh right, Jesus. I should probably make time for him today” and then I literally cringed at myself. Ugh. I’m doing it again! My to do list is light years ahead of my desire to sit with Jesus.

But despite the fact that I might have missed the mark a little bit today, there are two things that I found myself thinking about all day today:

1. Jesus wept (okay this isn’t technically the Easter story, but who cares)

2. Jesus had help carrying his cross.

“Jesus wept (John 11:35)” has always been one of my favorite verses. It’s even proudly displayed in our living room. People give me all sorts of odd looks when they see it and the bolder ones ask if it’s an inside joke. Seems a little bit dismal, huh? Well not to me. This little verse screams HOPE to me. I feel like a kindred spirit with this Jesus, the one who cries when life is scary and sad just like me. I can get behind a God who cries, yes I can.

Similarly I love the image of a man from the crowd, carrying Jesus’ cross for him. Hallelujah, it’s not just me, the God of the universe has help when times get tough!

Last week was a nasty one for me for many many reasons. One of those weeks where you’re just barely bobbing above the surface of the chaos. I had a few meltdowns, and then a few more. I begged Eric not to go to work, and cried myself to sleep. That kind of a week. Eventually I called upon my friends, although it took me a while to get there. And they came through so beautifully! But I wish I would have remembered this piece from the Easter story-that Jesus needed help too. He couldn’t carry the weight of the world on his own, he was tired. I hope that I will remember this next time (because for sure there will be a next time) and I won’t hesitate to call on the people around me when I feel like I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.

People, religion is messy, scary, really disappointing a lot of times. But I can honestly say that Jesus has always been a constant. He gets it, he’s been there, he knows. And so when nothing else makes sense, I will call on him.

Done With the Mom Thing.

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My sweet girls’ smile, her excitedly kicking feet, her laugh, those big observant eyes. When I’m not near her I want to be, I crave holding her little body close. That same little person requires so much of my energy, time, and patience. The nap struggle, feeding from me like I’m a dairy farm, does she need more tummy time or less, google this symptom and that. The mom thing can be exhaustingly beautiful. And so when I need to I’m learning to say “I am done with the mom thing. ”

Heaven forbid that as mothers we choose to relinquish titles and responsibilities to spend time doing our own thing. GASP! Don’t worry, Lilah is well cared for when I take time off from mamahood. I never do so at her expense. But oh how desperately I want my little girl to know how to love and care for herself. And I can show her how by knowing when I need to be done with the mom thing.

Last night I went to a friend’s musical. And as I watched, I felt this passion rise inside me that has been resting for over a year. How I love to perform. And how I love to do so many things outside of my role as a mom. I might even argue that pursuing those passions in tangible ways is just as important as being there constantly for my little one. Because as much as she needs my attention and affection and my boobs, she also needs my example. The example of a woman who follows her heart, whose driven, and dynamic, and multifaceted.

So be bold my mama (and daddy) friends! Follow your dreams and your heart. Make your children a priority But don’t make them your entire world, because really that is doing them a disservice. To my Lilah lu, I hope that you always know how much your mama loves you and also how much your mama tries to care for herself. I love you little one❤️

Naps Change Everything

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I’m obsessed with sleep these days. Constantly thinking about my warm comfy bed, or more often, how to get lulu to stay asleep long enough for me to close my eyes. She’s a professional sleep fighter like her mama. Not sure why, but sleep feels like letting go, which is hard for me, and apparently my poor daughter has inherited her mother’s odd sleep habits. Sorry babe!

But oh how a good nap soothes the soul, both hers and mine. We’re different people when we rest, kind and gentle. When I’m tired, I can barely make a sandwhich, I snap at everyone, use flowery language because no filter. I’m really a mess without sleep.

It’s gotten me thinking a lot about rest. How our culture leads us away from true rest, and yet how much we all need it. I don’t know about you, but I get anxiety when I don’t have my phone. For years before we had Lilah, I needed the TV on to fall asleep. The quiet rest is what is missing. It’s hard to shut off our brains isn’t it? A little boring to meditate or sit in silence. One of the reasons I love to run is because it’s a rest for my soul, yet my body is still moving. I think that’s as close to real rest as I’ll ever get.

But I wonder how our lives would change if we rested more. And I don’t mean naps or Netflix binges (although nothing wrong with a little Greys anatomy). What I mean is a break from all the noise. Driving to work without the radio, doing chores with just our minds to occupy us, taking a walk with just ourselves-phone away. As silly as it sounds, many of us are fearful of being alone with ourselves. Our thoughts and feelings can feel scary or overwhelming. But it’s a disservice to not know ourselves. Every corner of our heart and minds should be explored. How can we love well if we don’t take the time to rest and know who we truly are?

In a world where there is so much noise, so much doing, so much chaos, my soul craves true rest. I find myself floundering when I can’t find that. And while I know true rest is found in the presence of God, I also know that the noise all around me makes it hard for me to hear God, see God, follow God. And sometimes I’m too angry about life’s hardships to seek and so I just rest, and that is enough.

Connection to self is connection to God. Knowing God is knowing self.

Even if the sight of the word God on this page makes you cringe and roll your eyes. Know that is my journey and my truth. Whether you bring God into it or not, rest your soul today.

Parenting-amazingly exhausting

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It’s like everything worthwhile in life. Beyond amazing, yet beyond exhausting. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, and yet I’d give anything for just one day to myself.

When I look back on my life so far I see this pattern. The things that are most worth it are the ones that stretch my every limit and leave me wondering, “can I do this?”. Author Shauna Niequist would call it the “bittersweet” of life. The real, raw, intense, excruciating is also the most beautiful, the most rewarding.

I love the bittersweet in life. I love the challenge and the uncertainty, the deep joy, and peace. But I also don’t. Because anyone who knows me knows that uncertainty when it comes to what’s next is NOT MY THING. I spend a lot of my time clinging to the illusion of control (working on it).

So God gave me Lilah Grace. The most beautiful little person I’ve ever set my eyes on. She is pure JOY. And yet she fights sleep like I’ve never seen. She won’t take a bottle. She knows exactly what she wants and my schedule is out the window. It makes me chuckle. There’s that bittersweet again. All the best things in life have it.

And if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m unbelievably exhausted both physically and emotionally. And I’m ridiculously happy. In the same day I’m texting Eric to “please for the love of god get home right away I’m going crazy” and sending him videos of our little lulu cooing away. I find it amazing that the two can go together even at all.

When I hit the bittersweets in life I always know I’m going to be learning and growing. Here’s to parenting, the most bittersweet thing I’ve ever done.

You’re a Good Mom If…

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For years I have heard mothers labeled as “good moms” and “bad moms”. As a middle class white Christian woman, most of the people I know are labeled by society as “good moms” (which is a whole other issue of discussion). However after working years in foster care, I have also gotten to know the ones that many call “bad moms”. And oh it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart that there’s this division between who is a good mom and who is not. A “good mom” is really one step away from a “bad mom” if we take away her resources. Could any of us really do it if we had a colicky baby in a one room apartment with no partner or family to support us, barely any money for food, and an addiction that has gripped us for years? And yet some of us have all the resources and struggle still.

Motherhood is NOT easy.

I want to scratch “good mom” and “bad mom” from our vocabularies. Because it produces shame, plants guilt, fosters hopelessness. I think many of us wonder if we are truly a good mom, regardless of how the world labels us. We wonder if we’re giving our little one everything they need, supporting their development, creating a healthy bond. But there are so many colors and shades of those colors when it comes to motherhood. We all do it differently. And that is more than okay-it is a gift.

You’re a good mom if you breastfeed or bottle feed, or whether you get milk from a donor whose producing like a farm cow. You’re a good mom if you vaccinate or don’t vaccinate-because both can be scary and the choices can feel hard. You’re a good mom if your baby sleeps on you all day or if they have a beautifully designed sleep schedule. You’re a good mom if your hair looks nice every day or if it’s in a greasy messy bun. You’re a good mom if your house is a mess or if it’s clean and organized. You’re a good mom if you lost all that baby weight upfront or if it’s hanging on for dear life. You’re a good mom if you struggle with a mental illness or if your seratonin functions like a champ. You’re a good mom if your kids have never had a Dorito or if it’s Dino nuggets for dinner every night. You’re a good mom if your little people get baths every night or once a week (if you’re lucky). You’re a good mom if your kids go to private school, public school, or are homeschooled. You’re a good mom if you’ve lived in the same house they’re whole lives or moved around a bunch. You’re a good mom if you back delicious treats for your kids or if you use your oven as storage. You’re a good mom if you’re up in the morning with a pep in you’re step or if you need 75 cups of coffee not to yell everything that comes out if your mouth. You’re a good mom on the days you have patience and the days you do not. You’re a good mom if your kid ends up in rehab, or if they struggle through a mental illness, or if they defy everything you’ve ever taught them. You’re a good mom if you love your kids and are doing your best-whatever that looks like for you. And sometimes that means dumping the kids on someone else for a few hours and crying under the comforter. Sometimes it means taking 3 buses to get to a one hour visit with your kids, trying not to cry as you wonder how you lost them. Sometimes our best is barely breathing. And sometimes we’ve got to pull up our bootstraps and do the things anyway. But we’re all different. Motherhood looks different for all of us. And at the end of the day all of our kids will need therapy anyway.

Mom Expectations-No Thanks

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Yesterday I got out of the house AND took a shower! Double win!  I spent my time out getting myself a 2018 planner because I’ve been without one for over a week now and I’m barely surviving (type A personality problems). When I am out on my own, I feel like I can breathe again. Lilah needs so much from me that sometimes I don’t even realize that I’ve neglected myself until there’s someone else watching out for her and I can just take a minute to be fully in my body. I don’t know whether it’s my own personality, or the pressure of our culture, or just this overall sense of fear that these moments will disappear and I won’t be able to get them back, but I often feel mom expectations strangling me.

It started when I was pregnant. The pressure to adorably capture every single week with a bump picture was suffocating. I never remembered, and part of me just didn’t care about doing it. But I would see other pregnant friend’s posts on social media and I would immediately panic because I wasn’t doing that. Was I missing something? Was I neglecting to capture these memories for my baby girl? And now she’s here, and the pull to capture every little moment, and document every smile, is even stronger. Sure I take a lot of pictures (have you seen that sweet little face?), and I journal most days and include Lilah milestones in that, but not a lot of planned memory capturing going on here. Of course I had high hopes going into this mama thing that I would create an organized online photo album and write all about Lilah’s day every single evening. But instead, our pictures of Lilah are hanging out somewhere in the cloud, and sleep is much more important to me at night than anything else.

Yesterday afternoon, after a particularly panicky moment in regards to my failure to organize my daughter’s memories, I found myself thinking about what is important to me from my childhood. My amazing mom kept journals and calendars for us and it really is fun to see what I was doing 2 weeks after birth, but honestly I can count on one hand the amount of times I have looked at those. But that picture of me running down the beach in my duck bathing suit? I look at that all the time. And that blanket I slept with until I was 10? It houses more memories than I can even explain. And above all else the most important things have been the things my parents taught me. The hours and hours a day my mom spent teaching me to read and write my name. The evenings when my dad would come home and wrestle with us until we could barely breathe we were laughing so hard. Those things above all else, I hold onto.  The other stuff, while sweet and fun to look at, isn’t a must. I don’t have to do it, and Lilah will be okay, I will be okay.

When wrestling against a certain expectation, I always ask myself if this would be important to the Ingalls family (you know, Little House on the Prairie). And what I mean by that is, was it something that they needed to survive or be happy? It’s my favorite way of bringing myself back to the basics. What do I need here? What does Lilah need here? Is this thing I am obsessing over really all that important? Did Ma and Pa keep endless memory boxes for Laura and her siblings? Nope. They didn’t even have photographs then and yet no one cared that they didn’t know what they looked like as a baby. And I bet that Ma spent way more time experiencing and way less time documenting. And hey, that’s not to say that I’m not going to bask in the beauty that is modern technology, but I’m sure I can learn a few things from the way that they lived their lives.

While I know I will forever battle these expectations of momhood- which bottles to use, or if co-sleeping is safe, or should you really give an infant Tylenol before shots-I am working every day to  create experiences whether I capture them forever or not. Documenting events will not be my obsession, but experiencing them. Lilah may not have a neat little picture album, and the journal of her first year of life may be filled with her mama’s own struggles and insecurities, but I will make sure that she has beautiful, challenging, comforting memories to hold onto for her entire life.

Making Real Memories-resisting the urge to capture perfection

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For many many years of my life I struggled with an eating disorder. Perfection was my goal and my expectations were unattainable, and yet I starved my body to try and reach it. Still years later as I live in recovery and continue to learn to love food and nourish my body, the need for perfection creeps in every so often. And when it does, I expose it. Because I will never go back to that place. I was made for so much more. My weight does not define my purpose or my beauty. But that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t try to pull me back to that dark place, where all that mattered was on the outside.  For me and many mamas I know, those months after childbirth, when everything is a little bit bigger and clothes don’t quite fit, can be a source of so much frustration, sadness, self doubt.

Two weeks after Lilah was born we had a photographer in our home to capture our new little family. I spent hours at the mall with Eric a few days prior, trying to find an outfit that would hide my new mama body. After lots of dressing room tears I found something that I thought would kind of work. Hopefully the photographer would get all of my good angles so that I would look skinny. The day of the shoot I cringed as I put on my outfit. As I put on my makeup I thought to myself, well at least my face looks okay, and I tried not to stare at the lumpiness spilling over the waistband of my jeans. The photo shoot itself was magical. I was on cloud nine, in my own little world with my Eric and my Lilah. I remember thinking, what could be better than this?

A few weeks later we got the pictures back and they were breathtaking. Our sweet little baby looked angelic, and all her tiny features were captured so perfectly. And then there were the family moments, the mama and Lilah moments. Those were breathtaking too, freezing those moments of connection in time. But my eyes couldn’t help but drop down to the thighs that were quite a few sizes bigger than what they once were, and the belly that hadn’t yet shrunk from housing my little girl. I cringed again. I decided I would just post the pictures that didn’t showcase my new size, that way no one would notice that I wasn’t “perfect” anymore. I would just frame the ones where I wasn’t one of the main subjects of the picture. That would keep me hidden.

Fast forward a few weeks, to right now, this moment as I sit in bed watching my baby’s chest rise and fall as she sleeps. The moments. Oh how precious they are. I want to remember as many as possible, bottle them up and save them forever. And then I realize, ALL the photographs we have of these first few months are so precious. The ones of us giving Lilah her first bath, where I still look pregnant and puffy, but my smile stretches from ear to ear with pure happiness. And still to come are the Christmas pictures where I am still 50 lbs over my pre-pregnancy weight, and nothing quite fits me yet. But am I willing to sacrifice the memories just because I am not currently meeting my own standards of perfection? Lord no. NO NO NO NO NO. I want to remember. I want to look back on these pictures and remember how my body grew this little person, and fed this little person, and spent nights rocking and burping this little person. I want to remember all the squishiness, every single pound.

And when Lilah is older I will resist the urge to mention how huge I was when we look through her baby photos. Instead I will say, “look how happy mama was to finally have you in her arms”, “look at her smile and the way she looks at you”. Those were the best days baby girl, the very best days.

The Birth of Lilah Grace.

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My blog has been under construction for over a year as I’ve been working to reset my heart and soul. I needed some time of silent reflection, and in many ways still do. But so many of you dear people have been asking me about Lilah’s birth story, so I’ve decided to share it here.

I used to find new mamas to be a little obnoxious-sharing their birth stories, posting a zillion pictures of their babes on social media, complaining about how nothing fits anymore. And yet here I am, wearing 1 of 5 pairs of oversized pants I wear in rotation, taking yet another picture of my little girl for instagram, and writing about my birth story! Who am I? But it’s true that once you become a mom your perspective really does change. The entire act of bringing an itty bitty human being into the world is humbling and amazing.

September 28th, my due date. No Lilah Grace. I had yet another doctor’s appointment. I was 4cm dilated and yet no sign of a baby. Going over your due date is like some special kind of torture. It is completely depressing. By 39 weeks you’ve been trapped inside your own body for long enough, your stomach hangs out of pretty much every shirt you own, and forget about tying your shoes.

DISCLAIMER: I had an annoyingly good birth experience and some of you may want to punch me as you’re reading this, so be prepared.

On Saturday September 30th I woke up at 4am with a new kind of discomfort, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But by 6am it was clear that I was in labor. I woke Eric up so he could help me get into the shower (because that’s what the birth class taught us), but having a contraction while standing in a slippery shower totally sucks, so back to bed I went. I called my doctor around 7:30 with contractions 3 in a row, every ten minutes. It was a weird pattern and he felt that I should wait to go to the hospital. But my body doesn’t really ever do anything conventionally, so around 8:30am we started preparing to go to the hospital anyway. I was afraid they were going to send me home, so I would scream “WE HAVE TO GO NOW” during a contraction and then sit on the couch and suggest we wait a few more minutes. Finally, when I was sure I was going to die, we decided to go. We arrived around 9:30am at the local hospital. It took us a good chunk of time to even get to labor and delivery because I insisted on walking, but had to stop every 2 minutes or so as my contractions got closer together. People passing in wheelchairs and rolling hospital beds looked at me with pity as I groaned my way down the halls.

When we made it into the initial exam room, the nurse began asking me questions about the kind of care I wanted, etc. I think I would have said yes to selling my child to her at this point, I was in no state to be in a conversation. The initial exam showed that I was 5-6cm dilated. My goal had always been to wait until 7-8cm for an epidural. Knowing how my body doesn’t follow the rules, and that it might take the anesthesiologist a while to get to my room, I elected to call him right away. No sooner were we up in my delivery room, he arrived. I was at 7-8cm.

It’s funny how much you don’t care about your own disgustingness during labor. I mean, it crossed my mind when I was sitting with my butt out towards the doctor, but he has the drugs so you get over it. After 3 minutes of complete and total hell, the epidural was in. By this point I was 9 1/2 cm dilated, it was 11:30am. Within another half hour, I was 10cm dilated (see, I told you it was annoying). However, my water had not yet broken, and I still needed antibiotics since I was strep B positive. So they started my IV and told me to hang tight…UM K? At this point my blood pressure started to drop and so did the baby’s, so in they came with an oxygen mask and some medication, speaking in doctor lingo. i remember tearing up a little bit, looking at those nurses hovering over me. I’ve never quite liked being a patient, and dislike even more not knowing what’s going on. But they were able to stabilize us and all was well. The transitional shakes started to set in. Eric said it looked like I was freezing cold, and was hard for him to watch.

For the next few hours we watched Home Alone 2 and waited.

2:30pm, my water breaks.

4:00pm, I begin to feel the urge to push.

4:30pm, In comes a midwife and off we go! I remember saying to myself “it’s just like a long run, just keep going”. I can’t even remember how many times I pushed. I had requested a mirror and so not only did I watch my baby girl’s head begin to crown, but I saw myself from a totally new and horrifying angle. Anyway, eventually she was close to being born and so I no longer was paying attention to the mirror and was pushing with all my might to bring this little thing into the world. And then at 5:18pm, out she came. Our little Lilah Grace. I wasn’t overcome with emotion like so many people say-I was kind of in shock. I remember thinking “what just happened?” “did that just come out of me?” “oh my gosh she looks exactly like Eric”. I couldn’t believe that she was mine.

When they put her up on my chest, I noticed how blue she was, and when her little body wasn’t pinking up, they took her to the table in the corner to examine her further. I watched as they put a little mask on her face. I felt uneasy, scared, sad that I wasn’t holding my baby. But I kept repeating to myself, as I have the entire 6 weeks she’s been alive, “she is a gift, not yours but God’s. have faith. deep breaths”. As the midwife stitched me up, I watched as a series of NICU doctors came in to inspect my baby. it was decided that she needed some help breathing and so off she went down the hall to the NICU.

A few hours later after I was fed and cleaned up and sewn together, Eric and I went to the NICU to see her. I had been there many times before, not as a mom, but as a social worker. It is a hard place to be. So many little lives fighting. So many mamas and daddys overwhelmed with sadness and fear. As they wheeled me over to my little girl, I was so humbled. So humbled that my little girl was okay. That she was born full term, healthily plump, and that she would be leaving the NICU in just a few hours to be reunited with us up in our hospital room. My heart ached for the mamas who would spend months visiting their babies in this sterile room, and ached even more for those who would never bring their babies home.

When the wheeled her into our hospital room a few hours later, I felt like I was really seeing her and holding her for the first time. Studying her little features, watching her chest rise and fall. This was the baby I had carried all this time. The little girl I had prayed over, sang to, talked to in the car on my way to work. Finally here she was.

So far on this mama journey that I have just begun, I am realizing that I will never survive raising my daughter if I cannot rest in the truth that God is in control and I am not. That no matter what may happen in this lifetime, no matter how much time I am given with my sweet baby girl, that God is good. I am doing all that I can to cling to that and to rest in peace and joy.

 

Nothing is done and I don’t care.

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It’s not in my nature to turn projects loose unfinished. I obsess over the little things until I am so tangled up in my own thoughts and feelings that I can barely function. So it is quite out of character for me to publish something on this blog of mine that’s still a major, slow, work in progress.

Yet here I am.

This morning when I woke up, it just hit me. I don’t care if this thing is perfect. I just want to write. I want to write for that piece of myself that needs to share my heart. I want to write for my baby girl, who will always know that her mama has dreams and hopes and stories. And I will write for all my friends out there who suffer in silence. Who carry burdens without saying a word. Who feel alone in a scary world, alone in the midst of a faith they can’t make sense of, alone in this world where expectations feel so high and grace feels so low.

What I am learning about myself is I am incapable of pretending. Of course there are times when I fake it-we all do. But in the general sense of the word, I just can’t. If I don’t live with my heart on my sleeve, something inside of me starts to shrivel. It’s always been one of those things that I could barely stand about myself. I always felt like the annoying girl who was prone to word vomiting all her life experiences. But then one day, Eric told me that is one of the things he loves most about me. My bravery with my words. How he never has to guess what’s going on in my heart and mind.

That changed everything for me.

So here I am. Messy blog, messy hair, messy house, messy life. I vow that this will be a safe place. Not only for others, but for myself. No expectations. No standards to live up to. Just a blank space to write it all down.

For The Days You Just Can’t.

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Sometimes I have one of these days every couple of months, sometimes they come all in a row for months on end, threatening to never leave.

For a little over a month now the days “I just can’t” have been hovering over me like a dense fog, allowing me to function but just barely. Our family is facing great pain, I am struggling with purpose, money is tight, and each time I find a job it seems to fall apart.

Defeated.

Have you been there? Are you there right now?

The other day I spent 12 hours on the couch. I had the day off, and I sat down to watch the news while eating breakfast and decided that it was a day I just couldn’t and so I didn’t. I planted my butt in front of an NCIS marathon and did everything in my power to love myself with grace for the entire day.

I think that’s the key to days when we just can’t. Sometimes we have to go to work and meet deadlines and feed kiddoes and run errands, and so we muster up all that is within us and we go and do it.  Maybe on those days we get a scone and caramel latte and all the strength of Jesus we can get. But every once in a while, when we feel like we just can’t, maybe we don’t.

Are you with me?

Maybe some days we stay in bed. Who cares?

And maybe some days we eat ice cream for breakfast lunch and dinner because it was a really hard day and we just need to have so much grace and love for ourselves.

I am learning this.

As I claw my way through the dark days, desperately clinging to Jesus, I am learning to have grace for myself.

I am doing the best that I can, you are doing the best that you can. And when it really comes down to it, there’s a reason for the days we just can’t. They mean something. It is our psychological response to something that’s too big for us. Sometimes that thing has haunted us for our entire lives, sometimes it’s just for this season, but it’s almost always something we can take a closer look at.

Hidden beneath every struggle is a better version of ourselves, if we can just listen.

So you who are sitting in a day you just can’t, or a series of days you just can’t, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. We can Skype if you want. And it’s okay if you’re eating cereal out of a mixing bowl, and haven’t washed your hair in 4 days, because I know that place.

Together we can do this.