Of the field.

Is this what it means to be a moment?
The way the baby grows right up and out of her clothes,
the way she stares blankly one day and belly laughs the next?

Is this what it means to be a child of God?
Beloved for shitting right through her pants,
vomiting down her mother’s chest,
screaming all night,
screaming all day.

Adored, cherished, chased,
ferociously protected,
for nothing.

Tended to and loved because you are
Fought and provided for because you breathe
Never doing anything more than need and want.

I will not abandon you.
I will not give you a snake.

Day 38 #powerrehab: Yes, Coach.

I run in circles.  Big circles that take years to finish, small circles that close before lunch.  Round and round, passing the same landmarks again and again, almost never noticing anything further than my own feet.  Every now and again I am fortunate to have my loops interrupted by people who love me, people who will lift my head, shake me by the shoulders, give me a firm smack across the face.

After lamenting cupcakes and wine yesterday, I received an email from a dear friend who I had the privilege of coaching several years ago.  The message began, “This is not to be mean but because sometimes the coach needs a coach and it is ironic that we know things and forget them and need to remember.” I confess that I instantly closed my computer and started deep breathing to stave off a panic attack because who doesn’t love a message that begins with “This is not to be mean”!?  But I remembered the sender and her heart, and knew she could only be “not mean” in love, so I went back in.

The voice that met me was indeed love, but it was not my friend’s, it was my own.  She had forwarded me a string of messages we exchanged when she was wrestling with ketosis while battling depression and I was the one interrupting her circles.  And because coaching questions never, ever expire, email never really disappears, and truth is extremely loud, the voice still works:

“Life without sugar and bread feels more like surviving than thriving.”

How do you define “surviving”?
How do you define “thriving”?

When you first wrote to me, you described bingeing, “auto-pilot” eating, and “never-ending cycles” of losing and regaining control over the food and drink that went into your body.  How does that behavior fit into surviving vs. thriving?

In that first message, you expressed a longing for God to “heal [your] desires and obedience”.  I invite you to reframe this season of your life — is it one of deprivation or discipline?  Is it punishment or training?

These 30 days are restrictive by your own design.  You are trusting God to use the tools of nutrition to reshape your body, your mind,  and your behavior.  There is a sense in which you are surviving withdrawal, surviving temperance, self-control, and dying to the flesh.  But at the same time, you are thriving in obedience, humility, and hope.

This is a very difficult season for you for many reasons.  Your God knows that, and he has drawn your boundary lines in pleasant places.

What are some ways that you can feel God loving you?
Are there any ways that you are resisting or fighting his affection toward you?
Where are you bristling at his discipline in your life?
How is he inviting you to surrender to his love and strength?


Day 37 #powerrehab: Engineer.

Have you wondered what day we were on?  I had to look it up.  Assuming I put the hashtag to rest when my training log runs out of room for stars, there are 56 days in total (Holy Week to Pentecost).

I thought that my reluctance would have faded by now.  I thought that I would be thrilled by my progress, thankful for the improvement in my pain, sanity, and mobility, impressed by my self-discipline, and pleasantly surprised by the bonus of shedding a few pounds.  But I am still a whiney, whiney, baby, y’all.

I will tell you the truth, because that is what I do here: I kind of hate #powerrehab.  The movement hurts, and it’s boring. I have to do it during my babysitting time because when I try to lay on the floor when my kids are around they sit on me. My diet, though familiar and highly rewarding, involves no wine or cupcakes.  Have you ever had wine and cupcakes and then had to not?  Yeah.

In an attempt to encourage myself, I got dressed in full workout gear last week, complete with thoroughly unnecessary high impact sports bra.  I met up with a friend at the gym during the girls’ class and we sat down to talk.  I tried to look so hard core there in the gym, among my people in my black spandex, but I squirmed in my seat, back and leg throbbing from the stupid reverse lunges I had forced myself through earlier in the day. I was failing at sitting. She noticed, and carefully asked, “Who do you have in your life reminding you to go slow, to not hurt yourself?”

“I am the only one who can do that.  Really.” She smiled, knowingly.

“No one is the boss of me,” I said, laughing. She did not laugh.

Every professional I have consulted has told me something different about the pain and how I should work with it.  There are basically two camps, Camp Avoid It — take drugs and be very still, and Camp Work With It — be smart and do painful things to get stronger.  You can guess which camp I am in.  I am squarely in the camp that makes for the most blogging material and the potential to use the Rocky IV soundtrack.  But the problem with the Camp Work With It is that you have to use “hurt vs. harm” judgement, and I am struggling with this. 

 I wish there were a tiny little engineer expertly monitoring gauges, pulling levers and executing complex maneuvers down at the base of my spine.  But it’s just me in here, being dumb and pressing buttons when they flash and beep.  I’m reading manuals and following instructions, but most of the time they don’t seem to go with the machine I’m building or they’re in a language I don’t know yet.  So I have to go with my gut and do the hardest thing ever — go very, very slow.  And in this slowness remember that my aim is not to rebuild my butt.

I have to remember that my aim is to build a body that lasts a long time.  I am building a body that can hold grandbabies, not just pull my current toddler out from under the couch.  I am building a body that can prance around the Y at 85, not ruin itself because of pride at 35. #powerrehab is not about avoiding screws and and clearing out my pillbox so much as it is prophesying and testifying to my faith that I have a hope and a future, despite pain and a chronic illness that regularly tries to convince me otherwise.

And so, bored and cupcakeless, I carry on, visions of my winkled old self dancing in my head. And now yours.  You’re welcome.

Self-maintenance. #powerrehab

The good news is that my psychiatrist supported my decision to taper off one of my medications immediately.  The bad news is that in order for her to get behind discontinuing the other, maybe a month from now, she wants me to increase my (don’t throw up now) self-care *gag*.  Damned holes in my pants totally sabotaged my plans.

I hate the word self-care.  I feel about it the way lots of people feel about the word moist.

It’s not because I do not believe in it.  I do.  I’ve learned its necessity over the years of managing my illness and, you know, being a human being — but because it has the word self in it.  And that word makes me think selfish, something I am terrified of being called, mostly because I am.  I hate the word self-care because I am afraid I will be found out, accused, and all the things that make my life feel tolerable will be snatched away.  I prefer the word the “maintenance”, but it’s not catching on.

Self-care with children feels especially shameful.  Here you have these tiny, helpless people, forever hungry, damp, and half clothed, and you are supposed to take the time to put on a new outfit?  I frequently cannot get all my own children’s faces free from carrot stains and boogers at the same time, how am I ever to rid myself of guilt long enough to exfoliate my own?

I am excellent at telling other people what they need to do in order to feel better, to do their work, to be present to themselves and the people in their lives.  But for whatever reason I seem to require multiple professionals and post-it notes to drill it into my own head.  My husband has pushed me hard on self-care over the last year, since we had our third daughter.  I try not to let myself believe it is because I have become a disgusting slob.  He looks me in the face and says, “You are as important as our children.”  My therapist, and now my psychiatrist, have to shove me hard in this direction, too, and so I try very hard to listen.

Here are some of the things I know that I need:


As an attachment parenting, co-sleeping, homeschooling mother of three little girls, this is the most stretching thing for our family.  When my mental health fell apart earlier this year, it became abundantly clear that we needed to devote more resources to SPACE for my mind and physical body.  We rearranged our mornings to allow for me to have a solid hour alone (which is how this blog exists) and our finances to give us our favorite babysitter for two hours three times a week so that I can sit in my burgeoning studio and go to therapy.

Pen and paper.

A permanent fixture in my life.  I need to have a notebook on hand day in and day out.  I write to think, to communicate, to relieve stress, to plan, to process, to entertain myself.  I would call writing my primary form of self care.

A clean face.

Sometimes I feel like my face is shrinking and will swallow my entire body.  This sensation is incredibly unpleasant, so avoiding it is nice.  Also, sunspots that look like a map of the world on my forehead.  This is actually one of the hardest things for me to do every day.  It feels like pampering, but I know my future self will be so pissed if I don’t do this.  Unless my future self is a sailor lost at sea with with only a mirror.


We have covered this in depth, and I’m sure I will never shut up about it, so maybe I’ll spare you today.

Real meals.

Like many other mothers of little kids, and busy people in general, I frequently go all day without sitting down to eat. I require my kids to sit at the table.  I make healthy, multi course meals for their sweet little bodies and often light the candles on the table and put on fancy music while I stand in the kitchen scooping almond butter out of the jar with my fingers, eating olives out of the can.  Then I wonder why I cry and shove bars of dark chocolate in my face while chugging almond milk out of carton at 4pm, like a fine lady.

Every human is sensitive to the type and amount of food in their bodies.  As a person trying hard to maintain a very strict nutritional protocol in lieu of medication, advance planning and thoughtful execution is an extremely important part of my self care.  I’ve done this for many years and like to consider myself an expert, so it feels like I should be able to just wing it, but you know what?  THAT IS SO DUMB.

A clean kitchen.

Nothing makes a person want to just eat out of jars and give up on domestic life more than a sink full of day old dirty dishes.

And so, these, along with my ever present Life Rules (which yes, I am linking to again because I need permanent reminders of those, too), are the things I am continuing to work on while my brain and body (forever and always) heal.

What do you do for “maintenance”?

Also, where am I going to get a new permanent outfit?

New things. #powerrehab.

Emboldened by my little speech yesterday morning, I said all my prayers, gave my core muscles the pep talk of the century and went for it: two slow rounds of reverse lunges, pushups, and planks.  No grinding bones.  Minor electrocution.  Some holy crap, what the heck was that responsive inflammation afterward, but no spine crumbling.  No dying.  Just a girl who totally worked out like it was nothing.

Today will require just as much enthusiasm.  Today is the day I march into my psychiatrist’s office and tell her I would like to remove two of the pills from my very crowded pill box.  I have no reason to believe that this will be a huge conflict, my doctor is supportive, encouraging, and respectful.  But she is a psychiatrist and I am a psychiatric patient and there are very few ways around the expectation that, in that relationship, I need to be on drugs.  Lots of drugs.  I am willing to be on one, maybe two drugs (I’ve shared a little about my thoughts on my current meds here and here).  So we’ll see how that conversation plays out.

I am hopeful.

In general, I am more hopeful than I have been in a very long time.  It feels a teeny bit irresponsible to let you all believe that I have transformed into a bright beacon of glittering enthusiasm because, while I am awfully sparkly right this second, the light is still only coming in bursts.  I am only just sputtering sparkles.  Ninety percent of the time I am still lamenting the intolerable length of the days and missing gluten free zucchini bread.  I also only recently discovered that I have multiple holes in my three pairs of permanent outfit pants.  So I need lots of prayer.  And new pants.

Warmer. #powerrehab

Last night I fell asleep smiling, as one does, while reading the International Journal of Sports Physical Therapy.  Earlier in the day, while hunting in the garage for a lightbulb, I paused to wistfully pet my squat rack and run my fingers along my Ionely barbell, swat longingly at the wooden rings that hung from the high bar.  As he tends to do in the gym, the the Holy Ghost whacked me in the head and I began to wonder why I couldn’t, with my newest level of strength and pain, do upper body work on the rings?  And if I could do that, why I couldn’t do other challenging things that have felt beyond my reach for so long?

After everyone went to bed, I stayed up searching the journals for articles to help me find some perspective on what I should and should not expect from myself now.  I gathered all the evidence that proved that my body could do things, assuming I continued to build and protect my weakest places, right there in my garage, wrapped in the arms of my squat rack, on my rubber floor, surrounded by all my old iron friends.

And, of course, if you give a girl a squat rack, she’s going to want to coach…

That same charge I felt yesterday morning, woke up stronger this morning — an urge in all my parts to take off running.  My body is excited to move.  My brain wants to plan and build systems, re-work the homeschool plans for the fall, build a fresh budget, organize those crazy lightbulbs in the garage.  My heart suddenly wants to pray and sing into microphones.  I want to call up all of my old clients, or even find strangers on the street and just coach someone.  I will coach anyone on anything right now, I will say all the encouraging words. I will set up my studio and write a book, any book, about all of the things.

It is like old nerves regenerating.

Tender.  Could be temporary.  Could be wiped out in seconds with one wrong move.

But the sensation is so welcome and so ALIVE it makes me cry.  It flushes my cheeks red, makes my face hot, gives me Mosesface.

Why?  Why right now?

Am I manic?  You’re all thinking it.  I’m thinking it.  Because we’re good and careful and loving.  And because, maybe.

But I think that the grace of God, the final discontinuation of Neurontin (which I have slowly tapered over the last month), the literal nerve regeneration in my back and leg, and the release of this vice grip of pain have made room for a little more oxygen to feed my flame.  This isn’t a raging fire.  This isn’t a spark out of place.  It is simply a welcome flicker where I was worried about a smoldering wick.IMG_8733

Champion. #powerrehab

I think I am done writing about my pain for now.  It has gone quiet and if I keep pushing it, despite its convenient blog content, will blossom into a creepy vanity and untruth.

The real truth is that my body feels better.  The pain eased up about a week ago, leaving in big wooshes of inflammation as my body finally believed me about my nutrition.  All my rings started flying off, and I peed for three days straight.  The nerve pain, though just as intense when it hits, is less frequent.  It’s a jolt, not a vice, which is far less exhausting.  I can live with pain tantrums and fits of weakness, I could not live with incessant screaming and complete refusal to function.

I am being careful not to plow through what feels like a wide open door.  Last night I had a dream that I just took off running down the street.  I could feel every one of my bones smashing together and all of my muscles were like wet sandbags, but the movement was just so happy.  Clumsy and childlike to the point of stupid, but I woke up feeling like I had actually done it and it made me want to wear my hair down and put on mascara.

I smiled at my body in the mirror as I draped it in it’s permanent outfit this morning, laughing at our inside joke, thinking about the way all my parts and pieces fit together and how not one part of me is separate.  I thought about that lopsided, gleeful gallop down the street, all my flesh and sinew pushing away from a the pull of pain.  I thought about how my brain is in there, too, even if dulled by whatever it is that the tiny tablets are doing to keep it safe, wobbling its way around a corner.

I will take this toddling victory lap.  I will go right ahead and call it a #powerrehab win.  The walking and the writing, the eating and the core work, the prayer and the Life Rules.  Doing the plans and ridiculous Grace have brought me into yet another spring with a body and a brain that live and move and have their being when they really should not. How could I not press on in this race?