Trudge (Verb): To walk slowly and with heavy steps, typically because of exhaustion or harsh conditions.

I write to you with one goal in mind and that is to connect. I want you, reader, to feel that yes moment or find yourself nodding your head up and down. Of course your connection might also be in complete disagreeance, and that’s ok too.

My new nickname at home is puberty patrol. Admittedly so, I’m on the constant lookout for the inevitable changes my children are and will be enduring over the next few years. I’m not exactly sure why I’ve become somewhat obsessed with this because, in many ways, it is absolute torture for all involved. The zits, the moods, the hair and the emotional outbreaks… need I say more?

The moment we take our first step as a parent a lot of our unhealed trauma wants to wake up. This trauma can be subtle or not so subtle. Regardless of what it was or how it happened, it can impact how we “see” and interact with the experiences of our own children.

This page has been empty for some time now. For over a year I’ve tripped, stumbled and fumbled my way through the parts of me I’ve gladly tucked away in the Christine filing cabinet called “LIFE.” I started with the top drawer or, the stories of my past that felt easier to look at and heal. But, the truth is, It’s time to move on. Next drawer, here I come.

This story has been stuck in my throat for a very long time. Prior to that, it was probably buried somewhere deeper inside of me so I guess I need to give thanks to the fact that it does want to come out. It does want to be freed.

Think of it like this. Many of us enjoy a good cleanse or spring cleaning. We cleanse our bodies and spaces so new energy can flow and we feel an overall sense of peace and calm.

One of the biggest lessons I learned in my own teaching was noticing the ways my inner turmoil affected how I showed up each day. If I was feeling out of sorts, most often I had to muscle through and deal with it later. But here’s the thing, that energy doesn’t just go away. Just because I tried to store it in my own internal freezer, I was energetically still expressing it and I know my students could feel it.

Christmas 2016. I admit. I didn’t read the fine print. Her letter to Santa clearly stated “DOK MK STUFINS.” Creative spelling is always up for interpretation, but I knew better. She asked Santa for a Doc McStuffins. It was a casual, not so casual oversight on my part. Selfishly I didn’t want another plastic something in our house so, I was going to blame it on Santa.

A year ago today, my shoulders started to grow heavy and I could feel myself curling inward. Was it the weight of the world? Fear of the unknown? Fear in general? Things felt heavy with a sprinkle of excitement. Is it possible I was excited for the world to finally slow down?

I believe in the power of story, so I’d like to share more.

I started @love7rising on a gut feeling…that inner voice that kept talking. It said “something needs to change.”

I was that unhealed teacher trying to teach in a broken system. Unhealed both personally and professionally. I was often ungrounded and therefore showing up ungrounded and carrying that energy with me.

This one particular memory continues to haunt me.

The seed to most of my posts grow from a childhood memory with some lesson embedded in its’ movie reel. It likes to play over and over again until I decide to grab it and take a closer look. Well, this motion picture isn’t so pretty and makes me want to crawl under the closest large rock when I think about it (Shoot. There are no large rocks near by).

I recently bumped up against some feedback on my writing. Woozer… my ego greeted this news at the door. It zinged and binged me in an unexpected way. I made myself sit with it. I became the detective I speak of often. I pulled out my magnifying glass and found exactly what I was looking for.

Dear Friend,

I want to say thank you. Not just any thank you, but thank you from a deep, vulnerable spot within. One year ago @love7rising landed in my heart. It was, by no means, a soft landing. It was quite turbulent actually… and well… I suppose that’s how things grow. There needs to be some sweat, some tears, some questions left unanswered, some push and pull… all of it.

Imagine this. We have a billion tiny stories living inside our bodies. Some of these stories are chosen and some are not. They might represent a powerful memory or something that just happened. They might feel traumatic, dramatic or anywhere in between. Some we like to share and celebrate, while others we want to hide away deep within our anatomy never to be spoken of again. Regardless of it’s magnitude, these stories have magical capabilities that either propel us forward or limit our growth.

If I could name “the thing” that drives my daughter most crazy it would definitely be my car singing… or… just my singing in general. It embarrasses her to no end. It’s as if the entire world is shoved in the back of the car and can hear the words reverberating from my lips. I swear, I’m not that bad… but maybe, I’m not that good either. Whatever the case, I do love to sing.

My mom was an extraordinary diver. While she doesn’t always come clean with the truth, she was one of the best. One, two, three, jump. That was her miracle. She jumped. She not only jumped but she jumped forwards, backwards, inwards and any where in between. Nothing seemed too high for her. She was at home on the 1 meter and 3 meter boards as well as the 10 meter platform. She’d walk to the end of the platform, raise herself to a handstand, hold for five seconds and then push herself off while flipping towards the water.

This has been an uncomfortable week. My breath, shallow. A need to grab hold of something….anything…. that will help give me reason to the feelings of disarray that linger.

Like stepping into a dressing room, I’ve tried on many different reasons for the angst I feel. Election? Yup. Time change? Absolutely. Halloween hangover? Maybe a little. End of Mercury in retrograde? Yes…my gadgets have been flaky. All of this as a perfect storm? Ok. sure.

Do you remember the lined writing paper we used in elementary school? It had a top line, dotted mid line and a base line. It had a funny antique look and it ripped like heck if you were an aggressive eraser (me). The paper was thin and soft and definitely had a dusty smell.

Writing this blog felt like tending to a rusty wheel. It was something I played with for a while, became a bit agitated by, and then hastily threw it into my imaginary dusty writer’s closet. So now, like the Tin Man, I attempt to bring it back to life. Can you hear the Tin Man’s oil can?

It fell from the sky and hit me square in the head. Validation. And then another brick fell and another one. Each brick had the word VALIDATION engraved on the side. At 3 am, I said to myself, “I don’t want to write about validation.” It’s scary and it hurts like hell. And yet, here I am, attempting to give this one a go.

My bedroom growing up had a full length mirror attached to the back of the door. My friends, sisters and I used the mirror for this and that. Imagine a little bit of dancing, a little bit of posing and a little bit of fa-la-la. My favorite song at the time went something like this “Turn the radio up, for that sweet sound. Hold me close and never let me go.” (Make Me Lose Control by Eric Carmen). Not sure who I was singing TO, but my heart goes out to that person. I’m sorry;)