First, my entire life I have wanted to make a difference. And I literally believe I can change the world, with real life changes. I think I can be so good at something that it inspires millions. Or that I can be so selfless that I serve others. Or that I become some kind of world leader. I wasn't just thinking this as a child, but even now I still can't shake that I can and should be living so that I can make the world a better place. It's pretty naive since I never did turn out to be prodigiously good at anything (but alright at lots of things), stayed in my home state to go to school, and never did get around to joining some top secret agency to stop world violence. Instead I studied hard and tried to be the best I could be. I pushed really, really hard in my K-12 and then maybe harder in college. I wasn't the best though. I was pretty good, but not the best. I'm not a secret genius or jaw dropping beautiful. Heck, I am not involved in politics like my favorite Leslie Knope. I'm not being depressing here, it's real life.
So in retrospect over the last 30 years, I realize I have been setting myself up for that moment when it becomes clear that I am living an ordinary life. Dang imagination!
You see, I've been working on lots of goals lately (I know, big surprise from those who know me well). I am trying to get fit physically. I want to be so strong. I want to be good enough to race and climb mountains and build my own home. I keep expecting it will come back to me, since I used to be so strong.
Only in thinking about it, I realize my strength has never been of that kind.
When I was eight years old I woke up one morning and couldn't breath. It was terribly frightening, but I also really didn't want to do something that day, chores, a game, I don't remember. Part of me wondered if I was just making myself sick so I didn't have to do the thing. But my face made my mom worried enough to take me to the ER. I got pretty stressed there. I knew hospitals cost big money. I should probably drop the charade and just go do the thing. Only I was dreadfully hungry and they wouldn't let me eat and they left me along for what seemed like hours. I lay in the bed with my mom by my side sneaking me saltines. Heart monitors bleeped just like in tv. In the shows that always meant someone was going to flat line. It scared me and my heart would speed up.
Turns out I had asthma, though what brought on that initial attack is still a mystery. Maybe I really, really didn't want to do the chores? Whatever the reason, I was stuck with an inhaler that was about as glamorous as a floral pantsuit.
So I tried to ignore my asthma. I have no idea how my teachers, friends, and especially my soccer coaches managed. As I learned much later, my mother was at every game, no matter her schedule, partially because I wasn't allowed to play otherwise. This rule may have been enforced because I often ran until I collapsed on the field, wheezing. It was a routine. I played as hard as I could for the first quarter and a half, then collapsed and had to be subbed out. During third quarter I had to watch, then if I was being really healthy looking they'd let me come back in for fourth quarter. It was normal for me. I'm sure it seemed strange to others. But I didn't know how to do things halfway. Either I was going to sprint or I was done. My whole attitude was very Yoda-like.
This routine continued until junior high school. I started ballet lessons. Dancing was, and is for me, a way for my soul to speak. But I started getting dizzy sometimes. I dropped out of soccer on the excuse that I couldn't do so many activities. But it wasn't until I started blacking out a bit during dance, and my mom would come and check my heart rate, that I felt like I'd failed. I went from four classes to one and fell behind my friends. So I stopped.
I dropped out of PE as well. At the time I believed it was because I was self conscious about how flushed and sweaty I would get after every day. I was always gross going into math class. My mom tells me it was because she was worried I wouldn't be able to do my schoolwork. I was late to class almost daily because I couldn't stand. Doctors were stumped. I had lots of tests. I gained weight. I felt teenage emotions. I grew older.
In high school more tests tried to conclude that I had a heart? neurological? condition. I felt nice to have something to say about it, but there were no real answers. So my only physical activities were musical choreography (those stairs were brutal in the dark!) and early morning workouts at the gym for older ladies with my mom (I was seriously the youngest by so much). I wondered if I was just lazy. Maybe if I tried harder I could do more, like I used to...
After my freshman year of college things got a bit rough. Lots of dizzy spells and heart racing waking me up at night. More tests that yielded nothing helpful. At the end of the summer I hiked Ben Lomond, our local peek, with my mother. I wore a heart monitor. I tried to write about it in my non-fiction course that fall. My professor said it was cliche. I knew what she meant, but I wondered if real life could be cliche.
I learned to manage. I exercised alone so my weakness wouldn't be so obvious. I only went on hikes with really close friends who understood when I had to take lots of scenic breaks. When I decided to serve a mission for my church, I tried to figure out how much to really tell the missionary committee so they'd let me go. I managed alright. About halfway through I started getting stomachaches. It was new and frustrating. My letters to my family didn't mention all the details. I couldn't quit something else! My last companion was incredibly understanding of my paranoia that I was slowing us down. I'm still not sure I made the right decision to stay until the end, but I was so determined to make it through.
Those stomachaches were never fully figured out. I had a diagnosis and some treatment, several times. I was skinny. I did my hair. I cried myself to sleep because it hurt so much. I did well in school. I stopped going to doctors.
When I married Neal, I wondered if someday he'd have to take care of me because I'd be too sick. But I was feeling pretty well then. Infrequent stomachaches, few dizzy spells. I'm healthier now than I was before. But I decided last year that I had to get strong again, like I used to be. I wonder what that means to me. When was I strong? When I was skinny and sick? When I was pretending the struggle wasn't there? When I was avoiding all physical exercise because it would make me dizzy?
My strength has never been much to speak of physically.
This morning I was talking with my mother about this subject and she said that I was inspiring to those who knew what I struggled with, though I didn't tell many. I'm not sure I believe her fully because most of the time I can only see the ways I failed to achieve my goals. Ways to be inspiring: be a professional soccer player, a ballerina, a musical genius, an actual genius, hike the tallest mountains. Scratch those.
Tomorrow I will turn 30. Rinda tells me that 30 is the new 20. So I still have time to change the world. I'm trying to be strong so I can take care of my children and be there for them their whole lives. I want to be strong physically so I can always dance with them and ride bikes with Neal and hike (even with scenic breaks) with my family. I want to see the tops of mountains and learn Italian and Hebrew and Farsi. I want to run a mile (first time since before I was eight). I want to play a song on the piano so well that people want an encore and sing so people cry. I want to learn to be selfless enough to stop judging others and love them. I want to build a house with Neal and learn to ride a horse. I want to know how to throw a punch and decide I don't want to. I want to know how to teach my children about the kind of strength that isn't about muscle definition.
My life has not been the hardest. I don't pretend that I've had it worse than you. In fact, I hope that you too still hope to change the world for the better. Because I am unlikely to be Leslie Knope, Harimad Sol, Beauty, Meliara Astiar, Anne Blythe, or all my other favorite heroines. She's not real. You are real. I am real. We don't stop contributing to the world because we are older than storybook women. I still want adventures. Don't you?
You know, I almost deleted this entire post because it isn't written as it ought to be. I didn't revise. I wrote it in between breakfast and snotty noses and will rush off in a moment to play with my children. But if we have to be perfect to show ourselves to the world then I'd keep silent some more. And I'm tired of being silent. I want to sing and dance and let my soul speak.
And you inspire me to do just that.
Now, photos! Because it's been too long.
Mary is a magical unicorn with her hair.
She's also very happy, and her hair will stay tamed for approximately five minutes if I'm lucky.
She is big into paint.
But Peter is an artist (say it, arteest!)
And he's also a budding chef. I think Ramen and pancakes will be his first independent meals...
Neal had a Birthday! I made this awesome salted caramel chocolate cake. I couldn't eat any leftovers because...I was throwing up (thanks stomach bug!)
Mary got a little tent for her Birthday. I love when they squish inside to read or play!
I tried to be cool and make a bird feeder with a teacup. Actually, I was cool. The birds love it and so do we!
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