Safety, silence, and self-care

I'll be honest: I don't want to write this.  I have been an honest-to-goodness mess today as me and my body and my brain attempt to settle from last night's incident.  Between clients and everything else that occurs in my typical workday, I was fielding emails from various people at the college about the issue.  I'm not pleased with the direction things have gone.  But that's not what I want to write about.

Instead, I want to write about the push and pull.  I want to write about why I am writing about this.  I need to write the struggle.  I need to write the struggle.  In order for me to feel whole, and worthy, and as though I matter, I need to write the struggle.

On its face, this issue does not seem complicated.  In fact, it seems pretty easy, actually.  What should happen is this: a person feels unsafe.  Said person takes action to feel safe again.  The community hears that person and responds.  The person feels safe. 

Ideally, this is how it would happen.   Every time.  We would all feel as though we matter enough to advocate for our safety.  Our environments and communities would reinforce these choices, and feelings of safety would abound.  Women say to one another, "you have the right to feel safe.  You are entitled to safety.  You deserve to feel safe and supported in your place of employment."  And we mean it, because -- of course -- we all have the right to feel safe. 

But the fact of the matter is that this pattern isn't always the way things go.  What happens instead is this: a person feels unsafe.  Said person takes action to feel safe again.  The community does not hear or respond.  The person feels unsafe.  She takes another action to feel safe again.  The community does not hear or respond.  The person feels unsafe.

Guess what happens next?  She stops taking action.  Why wouldn't she?  Aside from the basic behavioral principles at play here (i.e. if a behavior is not reinforced, it will not continue), Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, right?  So why would she keep trying?

The only thing worse than feeling unsafe is feeling as though you lack the agency to make it better.  The ONLY thing worse than feeling threatened is feeling like you are unable to make a change to push you towards feeling safe again.  Every time you feel you are advocating for your own safety and it gets shot down, you learn that advocating for safety makes you feel more unsafe.  Every time you try to speak up and state your needs and change is denied, your sense of threat increases.  Each time a piece of that agency and autonomy is taken away, each time that ability to effect change and protect yourself in an environment is denied, your sense of safety is further taken from you.  Then it is not one person or a group of people that are a threat.  It is your entire environment.  When people fail to stand next to or behind you when you ask them to, they are a threat.  Maybe not as big of a threat as the initial threat, but a threat to your autonomy and your ability to advocate for your needs and effect change.  It is a threat nonetheless.

And unfortunately, once you have had this experience once, in one environment, it generalizes.  You are then forever faced with an impossible choice: when I feel unsafe, do I advocate for my safety, even though I have this intimate knowledge of the ways in which advocating for safety can make me feel even further unsafe?  If I stay quiet, maybe my silence will protect me.  If I stay quiet, I always have that option of speaking out stored in my back pocket.  If things get bad, I am still holding the potential for agency and change.  If I use that now...I'm out of tools.  When you feel unsafe, the last thing you want to be is out of tools.

If I heard a client say this, my first thought would be, "oh shit, this girl is really vulnerable to being re-victimized."  And it's true -- the rate of revictimization of women who have been sexually assaulted/victims of crimes is ridiculously high (code word for: I know it's high but don't have the energy to look up the stats right now.  Sorry).   There are lots of reasons for this.  This may be one of them.

As I was driving to work this morning, thinking about this point, I thought of this quote by Audre Lorde.  I've read it so many times, but I understood it today, perhaps for the first time: "...we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves.  We've been taught that silence would save us, but it won't."

"We are taught to respect fear more than ourselves."  This is part of that push and pull.  It is part of the struggle.  We become frightened, and then are saddled with the additional fear of being unable to make a change.  That fear is real.  All of it.  She is something that inhabits our bodies, changes our breath and our muscles, and if we're talking about trauma, changes our brains and our genetic make-up.  She is something to be respected. 

I believe we can respect ourselves in spite of the fear.  We can respect ourselves more than the fear.  And, I believe, we have to learn to respect ourselves alongside the fear.  I also believe that respecting ourselves is not as easy as it seems.  In fact, it is frequently a violent push and pull, and often, I'm not sure what it means.  Andrea Gibson says, "Safety is not always safe.  You can find one on every gun."  When your attempts at securing safety backfire, and "safe" is not something you can trust, how do you do anything but respect the fear -- more than you trust or respect yourself, even?  It is, sometimes, the only thing that is rewarded.

"We've been taught that silence would save us..."  We are taught this in so many ways, both implicit and explicit.  Silence is reinforced by lack of additional fear.  Silence is reinforced by lack of added shame.  Silence is reinforced by the recognition we receive as we pretend that all is well.  When faced with the choice of speaking and risking shame or re-traumatization, or remaining silent, we sometimes believe it is better to be silent.  And sometimes...sometimes...for the moment, it is. 

But silence won't save us forever.  Respecting the fear won't save us forever. 

So this is the precipice I find myself standing on: I cannot possibly be naive enough to believe that my environment will support my right to safety.   This was emphasized to me today.  I played my cards wrong, perhaps, in that I played my speaking up card too soon, or in the wrong manner.  Perhaps it was my silence that would have saved me.  I made the choice to respect myself more than the fear.  It wasn't rewarded.  It seldom is.

I don't know where I go from here.  Right now, self-care and respecting myself feels like it would be letting it all go, sucking it up, dealing with the fear and the discomfort, and walking myself to my car alone every Tuesday.  My head knows this is wrong.  My head knows that this is not what respecting my safety looks like.  But it feels like respect because it means that I no longer need to deal with my environment telling me "your safety doesn't matter."  It feels like safety because then I am in control.  I have made a choice, and no one is accountable for me but me.  I can be hurt, but not by people I know.  Not by people who are supposed to protect me.  Not by people who are supposed to be on my side.

My head knows that the right decision is to fight the bureaucratic bullshit, and to demand that they respond to my requests for changes to be made so that I (and other women) feel safe.  I know that this is supposed to be my action if I truly believe that I am worthy of safety.  But my heart knows that we are tired.  We've been in this fight before, my heart, and my brain and me.  And we lost.  We gave up because we had to.  Because we were so broken down, that fighting was no longer what self-care, and advocacy, and strength, and bravery looked like.  Instead, they looked like survival. 

The fight could be short.  It could not even be a fight at all.  It could be a push, a leaning into the resistance, and the wall could give way, and a sense of safety could open for me and for other women there.  Or I could meet brick roadblock after brick roadblock with no end success.  I have no way of knowing which path this would take, and the unknowing feels unsafe.

It's not supposed to be this hard.  I know that.  I realize that it's completely ridiculous that I could write 2.5 pages on this topic, and reach the end still without definitions or answers.   I'm not even completely sure this makes sense. 

The only thing I know for sure is this: our silence will not save us.  My silence?  It will not save me.  And so I write, with a whispered prayer that one day I will write myself into change, or safety, or an answer. 

On listening to your instincts

I think I mentioned that I recently started teaching a course at a local college.  The course itself is going so well.  Seriously.  I overheard two students talking before class this evening saying, "I really wish this class was more than once a week.  This class is amazing.  We need more classes like this."  I almost cried, because...holy cow.  What a compliment.

My class meets from 7-9:30PM in the basement of one of the buildings in the middle of campus.  When I say "basement," it's not like it's creepy...it's very nice, actually.  But there are very, very few people around, and when I am there, I feel very, very isolated.  There are 27 students in my class, and once they leave, I walk down the echo-y hallways alone, walk across the poorly lit campus to the empty faculty parking lot, and I leave.  By then, it's typically around 9:45PM, and it feels...wrong.  I didn't feel safe, and I caught myself putting my keys between my fingers, holding my breath, walking fast and demanding myself to look confident.  It did not feel okay.

I emailed a friend and professor and asked him: "so this campus....is it safe?  I feel uncomfortable, even though I know it's probably fine...but is safety a concern?"

He's awesome, so he responded that he had spoken with several other female colleagues, and that they noted that they do or would feel unsafe, even though they are reasonably sure that they would be, because it is late, and because the campus is poorly lit, and that they would likely call security, or consider calling security, or that they were pleased to know that calling security for an escort would be an option.  He presented me with several solutions: call security and arrange for an escort.  Talk with the department chair and arrange to park closer in a handicapped parking spot.  Ask for my class to be moved to another building where there would be another night class taking place.  He took my concern seriously, and responded with options he wanted me to take advantage of.

But I'm stupid and hard-headed, and I thought, "you're making a big deal out of nothing.  Every woman says she would call security...but who would, actually, right?"  And then I thought, "if you start talking to people about this, you'll raise a big stink that will cause a big issue that you'll regret.  It's not worth it.  Just suck it up, and walk to your damn car."  And then I thought, "okay.  Don't be too hard on yourself.  Let's do this: wait a week and see how you feel next Tuesday.  If you still feel the same way, THEN make a plan of action."  Seemed like a pretty solid plan to me.

So I went to class, and it was fabulous.  After class, there is consistently a line of students wanting to talk about everything from what is or is not or might be in the syllabus, to complicated questions about personal lives, questions about recommendations for further reading.  Tonight was no exception and, in fact, was a little worse than usual.  As the line wound down, one student, "Zach," was left.  As he approached, he said, "I think somebody's outside waiting for you, so I'll make this quick."  When he said "somebody," I thought he meant, like, the student who always waits for me.  I didn't think twice about it.

"Okay," I said, and began listening and answering his question.  By this time, it was 9:45.  As I'm wrapping up with Zach and about to push him out the door so I can get the heck home, the classroom door opens, and a man walks in.  A tall, well-dressed man, roughly my age (clearly not a college student) with a backpack.  He sets the backpack down on a chair and stands by it, near the door.  I assume this man is Zach's friend.  However, as Zach and I finish up, Zach looks at the man, clearly not knowing who he is, and then looks at me.  He is clearly uncomfortable about leaving me here, and seems to look at me for any sign of recognition.  My mind races, trying to figure out how I can get Zach to stay in the classroom while I figure out what this man wants.  I come up empty, and Zach leaves.  I hope he has the good sense to stay in the hallway.  I convince myself that he does.  (He doesn't).

The man stays near the door, and I stay about 8 feet away from him at the podium.  I immediately realize that I am in the basement of an empty academic building, at 9:45PM, in a classroom alone with a man I do not know, who is approximately 6 feet tall, and standing in front of the door.  My phone is on the other side of the room, and all I can think is you have no way to escape.  You have no way to escape.  You have no way to escape.  I can literally feel my brain starting to shut down. 

"Autodidact?" he says, addressing me by my first name. 

I feel jolted, and my body feels like it is vibrating with adrenaline.  "Yes?"  It comes out louder than I expected.

"Oh...good.  You're a hard woman to track down," he laughs.  "I've been sitting outside your classroom since 7:00, just hoping it was you."

The string of expletives going through my head seems to drown out everything else.  I don't even hear his name as he introduces himself, and I have to consciously tell myself to pay attention to what he's saying.  Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up and listen to the guy, I think.  You're fine.  You're fine.  You're fine.  Just figure out who the hell he is and what he wants.  He's talking, and I have no idea what he's saying.  

"...and there has been a big push on campus for adjunct faculty to start a union.  I'm from the .... union council...voting member......something you're interested in?"

He's just some guy asking you to join a union.  Or start a union.  Something about a union.  Listen about the union so you can get rid of him.  Just listen. 

"No, I don't think so, thank you."  He takes a step closer to the podium.  I walk across the room to get my bag and phone.

"...several colleges in the area...spending lots of time tracking down people like yourself...teaching in the spring....union voting process...."

"I won't be teaching in the spring, but thank you for thinking of me," I say, still moving towards the door.  He's not here to hurt you.  He's not here to hurt you.  He's not here to hurt you.  I don't think.  We walk out together.

"You know, the hardest thing about this job is that I have to wait around for hours outside of classrooms.  I've been sitting here since 7:00," he reminded me.

"That's a long time to stalk somebody outside of a classroom," I said, without laughing.

"Yeah," he kind of laughs.  "And then I have to be the big guy that walks in 9:30 at night to an empty classroom with a lone woman...or sometimes I wait in the parking lot and walk up to them then," he says.  "I scare everybody because I know their name and everything."

"Yeah," I say.  "You scared the crap out of me.  Maybe try an email next time."

"I'm sorry about that," he said.  "It's just so important to get the word out."

"Okay," I said.  He turned to go out the closest door, seeming to think that I would follow him. "I'm going to go out the other door," I told him. 

"See ya," he said, shrugging.

I saw him as I walked to my car, and let him stay 50 paces in front of me.  I had my keys between my fingers.  I got to my car, locked the doors, and promptly felt sick to my stomach.  You're fine.  You're fine.  You're fine. 

Why didn't you ever send that fucking email to security or the department chair or somebody?  You knew you didn't feel good about this.  You knew, you knew, you knew.

I'll be honest: I'm having a hard time getting the fear to leave my body.  I called my sister on the way home, and told an expletive-ridden version of the story.  She was appropriately angry, and supportive, and told me that I wasn't crazy for being scared.  My body was so sure we were going to be hurt.  I know it did what it thought it needed to do, but goodness I feel awful now: my muscles hurt, and I'm nauseous, and I'm tense and tight and feel like I need to run to expend this energy that has been released into my body with nowhere to go. 

And I'm angry.  I'm angry at myself for not listening last week when I was ready to take action.  Imagine how different I would have felt if I had security show up before/during this interaction?  If I knew security was on their way?  I would not be this ball of mess I have turned into.

I'm angry at him, because he knew that what he was doing scares women...and he can't find another way to do his job.  Dude.   There are 150 ways to get in touch with someone these days.  Walking into their classroom at 9:30 at night when they're alone, calling them by their first name, and telling them you've been tracking them down and waiting for them for 2.5 hours in the hallway can't be your best or only option.  Acknowledging that it's creepy and apologizing for it almost made you okay in my eyes for a moment.  But no -- you don't get points for that.  If you know it's scary for women for you to do this, figure out another plan.

Mostly, though, I'm just angry, and I'm angry because I'm scared and my body has all sorts of excess chemicals floating around in it that are making me much more volatile.  I'm angry that I have to feel this way.  I'm so tired of being scared...and having that fear validated.  "But hey," you may say, "nothing bad happened here.  You didn't have to be scared.  This should have DISPROVED your fear, not reinforced it."

But that's not the way it works.  It's just not. 

I don't want to feel like I need my undergraduate student to stay in the classroom to protect me.  I don't want to worry that I will be raped, or robbed, or followed, when I'm walking to my car after I finish having amazing conversations about privilege and power and oppression.  I don't want to have to think about the fact that I am a woman alone in a building on a college campus, and that this makes me vulnerable.  I don't want to be driving away thinking, "well if I just took a self-defense class, maybe I wouldn't feel so scared," or "I wonder if my pepper spray still works if it's, like, 3 years old" or "see, you got to your car safely, so your worry was ridiculous and dramatic."

I'm tired of men not realizing that the way they present can be threatening, even if they don't intend it to be.  I'm angry that he realized it could be perceived as threatening and he did it anyway.  I'm sure it wasn't his intention to be threatening.  But with the power and privilege he has, I guess he chose to turn his head, rather than find another way.  

But mostly, I'm just angry that I need to think about this at all.  I'm tired of this anger, and I'm tired of the fear, and I'm tired of proving myself right every time I try to give the world the benefit of the doubt. 

This is why you listen to your instincts.  Even when you think they're stupid, or wrong, or ridiculous.  This is why you make a big stink about things, and just try to suck up the fact that you feel like an ass about it.

Because if you don't, you end up with aching muscles and teary eyes, cuddled on the couch with your dog at 12AM, still trying to get the flood of adrenaline to leave your body.

Fuck this.  How do we expect women to do their best work when they have things like safety, and pepper spray, and escape routes on their minds?  How can I be the best teacher I want to be when my mind is preoccupied with worrying about union reps and walking to my car?  I will never be able to walk into my classroom again without going over an escape route in my mind...and I'm willing to bet that's not something Mr. Union Rep has ever had to do.  

Do we ever get good at this?

I've got that writer's block thing going again.  The issue isn't that I don't have anything to say, it's that I have too much to say, and I don't have enough time or energy to write it all, so my brain starts putting all this pressure on me.  "You only have an hour to write, you better make it good the first time around," she says.  Perfection, who likes to think she's my muse, perches herself on my shoulder and whispers sweet, sweet vitriol into my ear, giving me a heavy finger on the backspace key and preventing anything from being written.  Anne Lamott sometimes strikes me as a one-trick pony, but she was right about that one thing: if you're going to be a writer, you've gotta write some shitty first drafts.

I'm thinking, particularly, about the fact that I have done not even a quarter of what I was supposed to do this weekend, and how I am still completely exhausted.  I'm thinking about how this fact is making me anxious and annoyed with myself, and how I still sat down to write anyway.  I'm thinking about how, sometimes, the simplest decisions are the hardest to make, and how sometimes, we have to make decisions on issues that have no answers.  I'm thinking about the fine line between "clueless" and "cruel," and how sometimes, it's harder than one might expect to figure which side of the line a person falls on.  I'm thinking about trust and what it means and if I can do it and when.  I'm thinking about how these things are related, and how some people will not understand that struggle, and I'm thinking about what a privilege that is. 

Andrea Gibson says, "Safety is not always safe / You can find one on every gun / I am aiming to do better."  She's right.  I am trying to take aim. 

I'm thinking about our bodies and how we take care of them - or don't - and the ways they work - or don't...and particularly about my body, and the way I take care of it - or fail to - and the ways it works - or doesn't.  I'm thinking about the families we are born into and the families we make for ourselves.  I'm thinking about how I feel so much older than my 28 years and how, for a few moments earlier today, I felt so much younger.  I'm thinking about how strange and frightening that was. 

And I'm also thinking about how my neighbors have been running some motor out there for the last 30 minutes, and it's the loudest thing ever, and it's messing with my shitty first draft.  Don't they know I have some shitty writing to do?  Seriously.

I'm thinking about the truth in Naomi Shihab Nye's words: "Sometimes I live in a hurricane of words / and not one of them can save me."  I'm realizing this is truth, and that is also what I'm looking for in writing tonight.  Saving, I mean.  It's what I am hoping will happen that will either enable me to sleep restfully or finish the work that needs to be done.  I don't really believe in saviors or saving or being saved.  I also think it can't hurt to hope for that every now and then.

I'm thinking about breathing, and how that is some of what my body needs.  My body is angry at my brain, and breath is the best mediator.  I'm lucky to have her on my side.   

I'm thinking about how self-care is so very challenging.  I've written about it before -- about the word "deserve," and being "deserving" or "undeserving" of self-care.  I've written about the challenge in making it happen, and the guilt associated with it.  I've confronted it time and time again, but I can't seem to tame the beast.  Seems like every time I try to ride the animal, she bucks me off before I can even get fully on board.  "Ha!" she laughs.  Not for you!  Try again later." 

How do we support one another in this task?  How do we -- the helpers -- how do we take care of ourselves, and support one another in doing the same?  Is it possible?  Or is it simply a path we must walk on our own?

I'm thinking about how hard it is to get others to stop and listen.  I'm thinking about how it is mostly hard because I don't start talking.  I'm thinking about the trust it takes to start the conversation, and how words like worthiness and deserving and trusting are clear in my head, but their wires cross in my heart.  I'm wondering what it would be like to live this life with a little less heart.  It sounds like a good idea.  I realize that is not possible. 

I'm remembering a poem by Anthony Machado which asks: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"  My garden - it needs a little weeding.  A little water.  Some TLC.  Perhaps this is where it starts.

Do we ever get good at this?  We with the too-big hearts and complicated lives and histories and sensitive ways of being in the world...do we ever get good at this? 

Brave post # 462

Content note: Sexual assault, bullying, victim blaming.  Be gentle with you, please.

As a feminist, I follow a bunch of feminist blogs.  I've "liked" them on Facebook or frequent their pages, and several times a week, I see something about rape on college campuses.  These stories, often first person narratives, are overwhelmingly about young women who were raped on campus, whose college or university disbelieves them and refuses to handle the issue.  The issue is coming to light more, leading to things like the Know Your IX campaign and the White House's Not Alone campaign.  It's so important that this issue is being discussed.

I am teaching a college class this semester, and I just had to complete a 90 minute sexual violence webinar on rape, sexual assault, sexual harassment, and dating violence, as well as on Title IX and the Clery Act, my obligations and responsibilities, the college's policy on sexual violence and harassment, etc.  It is important, and necessary, and I was glad to do it.  As glad as I was, though, and as interested as I was in learning what is being taught, it was hard for me to get through.  In fact, being on a college campus again has been a challenge in more ways than I care to count. 

So here's the thing: I'm tired of seeing these articles.  I'm tired of thinking about it, and reading about it.  I'm tired of the comments, or discussion, or lack of discussion on these issues.  I love that it's being discussed, don't get me wrong, but I always get the sense (and perhaps this is my bias) that people think this is the issue that happens to other people.  This happens to other girls.  The slutty girls.  The ones that go out drinking all the time.  The ones with a history of poor decision-making.  Given that most of my friends are around my age or older, this is talked about as something that happens to college-aged folks.  And yeah, it's bad, and as feminists, we're outraged...but we're outraged in a theoretical sense, almost.  We're angry that this happens to people.  We're sad that this happens out there.  We're pissed that this issue is a problem for the young'uns today. 

We never want to think that bad things have happened to the people we know.  We never want to believe that our friends have been hurt.  But, statistically, it's true.  It has to be somebody's friend that this happened to, right?  It could have been yours.

I know this because I'm that friend.  And I know that people never imagine that I'm that friend.  The shock on their faces when I tell them can't be disguised, because, you know, this issue is one that happens to people.  It's not one that happens to friends.  Right?

I've gotten to a point now that I can tell people that I was sexually assaulted.  I can raise my hand and say "me too," or even mention it sometimes in conversation.  It's taken a long time, but I can do that.

The shame, for me, lies more in everything that happened after the assault.  It lies in the way things were handled.  It lies in the way I was made to feel and led to believe that I was unworthy of love and belonging.  Psychological jargon calls this "secondary wounding" or "secondary trauma," and it's real.  Research suggests that one of the most important things after a traumatic event is the presence of social support.  The absence of social support is devastating.

In short, Title IX says that no person shall be excluded from participation in, subject to discrimination within, or denied the benefits of an educational activity on the basis of sex.  It states that schools (schools receiving federal funding) are legally obligated to respond to and correct "hostile educational environments," or risk losing their funding.  In fact, schools are given 60 days to investigate and respond to reports of hostile educational environments.  Under the Clery Act, schools are required to inform survivors of sexual violence about their reporting options.  Schools must make accommodations to remedy the hostile environment - and the burden of the "remedy" must not be put solely on the victim/survivor.  Title IX protects the individual making the report from retaliation.  A hostile environment can occur based on an event that took place on campus or off: if it is having an ongoing impact on a student's ability to access their education, it is a hostile environment.

For me, the "hostile environment" looked like this: walking into the classroom of my cohort of 3 years on Monday morning to find that my seat of 3 years had been taken.  No one looked at me or said anything.  I had nowhere to sit, and all around me were whispers.

The "hostile environment" consisted of: being followed out of class to the bathroom, when no one was around.  Being pushed against the wall and cornered, while being told that I am "fucked up," that I'll never be successful, that I made it up, that I'm lying, that I'm being unfair.  It meant having her sneak up behind me, and put both arms around my neck, telling me she won't let me go until I forgive her.  It meant phone calls and text messages.  It meant people talking over me in class.  It meant people laughing and whispering whenever I spoke.  It meant rumors.  It meant being completely isolated.  It meant no safe place.  It meant being afraid to go to the bathroom.  It meant panic attacks before class.

The "hostile environment" was no one ever asking me my side of the story.  It was no one ever reaching out.  It meant friends turned against me, and the one who didn't was harassed until she did.  We had all seen how issues with students were handled in the past.  We had all seen what our colleagues were capable of doing.  No one was willing to stand up with me against either side. 

The "hostile environment" consisted of being told that I should kill myself.  It was having my butt grabbed in the hallway, and then hearing the laughter as she walked into the room full of my peers and said, "oops...I just (air quote) sexually assaulted her in the hallway."

This wasn't college.  This was graduate school.  I was 24.  I should have known better.  I should have known how to handle it, right?

I did.  I confronted them, and things got worse.  I told a grown up, just like they teach us to do when we're young.  But the first grown-up didn't know how to handle it, and the second grown up told me that I should know better than to "go to a bar with my boobs hanging out."  They had a "slap on the wrist" conversation with the people in question, and I was told not to talk about it.  I was never given resources or told that I had options.  I requested that I not have to work in groups on projects with the two people most closely involved, and this request was denied.  I was immediately placed in groups with them, and I had to figure out how to survive the panic and the hostility enough to get the work done. 

The "hostile environment" consisted of being told that "faculty gossip."  "You don't want word of this getting around, do you?"  It consisted of learning months later that it was discussed at faculty meeting.  That the story was misrepresented and mis-told.  That everyone knew, and no one did a damn thing. 

So I didn't talk about it.  I went to class with the same people every day.  I was ignored, I was talked about, I was made invisible.  I was scared, and always waiting for what would happen next.  Above all, I was terrified that faculty or administration would find out.  I was terrified that I would be prevented from getting my degree.  I was scared beyond reason that they would deem me broken and kick me out.  So I stayed quiet, and I dealt with it for a little over a year.  I passed my oral comprehensive exams in the middle of the worst of it.  I collected data for and wrote my 200 page dissertation.  I took enormous class loads.  I worked several jobs and went through the necessary clinical rotations.  I served on Student Government.  The more stressful things were, the better my grades became, because I dealt with it all by studying, by reading, by devoting every inch of me into being the best student I could possibly become. 

And then I went on internship and moved halfway across the country.  But I still didn't talk about it.  I couldn't talk about it.  Because it still -- even still -- feels somewhere deep inside me like I did something wrong.  An entire institution of people couldn't have been wrong, could they?  My entire cohort...they couldn't have all been wrong, right? 

I graduated two years ago, and I am just beginning to get over the fear that they could take my degree from me.  That they could somehow prove that I am not competent (even though I know that I am both highly competent AND successful).  I feel that, by telling the story, I am selling short my education.  I am indicating that maybe my education was not what it should be.  That maybe people will think less of me as a professional because of this story.  How good can an educational institution like this be?

Two years ago, shortly after I graduated, I knew I had to do something.  Through a series of events, I found out about the Maryland Coalition Against Sexual Assault (MCASA).  I called and spoke with people there and told them what I wanted.  Given that all of the above events occurred in another state, and a considerable amount of time had passed, my options were limited...but they gave me options.  At the time, what I felt most comfortable doing was writing a letter.  The attorney I spoke with informed me about Title IX, pointed me in the direction of the Office of Civil Rights' "Dear Colleague Letters" providing additional guidance on Title IX, and I wrote a letter that I sent to the president of the university, the dean of my program, members of the board of trustees, a vice-president, and a few other important people I could think of.  It was 8 pages long and had references and everything.  It took months for me to write.  I am probably prouder of this letter than I am of my dissertation.  I'm not afraid to admit that it's kick-ass.

There have, reportedly, been changes made as a result of this letter.  I don't necessarily believe it...but I try to.  I try to believe that I did what I could do.  I try to believe that I took the steps I could to ensure this will not happen to anyone there ever again.  I don't believe I made that sort of change, but it wasn't for lack of trying.

When I talk about being sexually assaulted, people are surprised.  They are saddened.  To some extent, they think they understand.  Talking about this other piece of the experience is even harder than I can explain to you.  It's harder than I can even put into words.  I fear that people won't believe me.  That they'll think I'm exaggerating, or too sensitive, or that I did something to make this happen.  After all, who is usually "right?"  One person?  Or an entire institution of people?

And yet, it's necessary.  I need to tell this story.  I need to stop thinking, "I could never have that strength" when I read articles about girls doing amazing things at their colleges.  Because I do have that strength.  It is here, living in my chest and pumping through my veins.  I, too, can be "proof" to my corner of the world that this does not only happen to the "slutty" girls, or to the girls who are abrasive or loud or beautiful or ugly or dumb or quiet or unassuming or timid or whatever other adjective you can put there to make yourself believe that this only happens to people you don't know.  It doesn't only happen at the large institutions.  It doesn't only happen to girls with prior history of trauma.  It doesn't only happen to drunk college students.  It doesn't only happen to girls under 21. 

Truth is: it happens.  To me, to women (and men) like me, and to women (and men) very different from me.  The stories you read are stories of people like me. We speak and advocate as loud as we can, but we need more voices to create change.  The ways in which I attempt to change the world are small.  Writing.  Reading.  Sharing.  Telling stories, and encouraging others to do the same.  Signing petitions.  Talking.  Teaching.  We need systemic change to happen in our educational institutions and in our world in order for change to be realized. 

How are you working towards this goal?

On Grace: Not where I started

Sometimes, words or ideas come into my life...and then they keep coming into my life until I figure them out, or I write about them, or I get what it is they're telling me. 

Lately, the word in question is "grace."

It has come up in my reading, in conversation, in thoughts...and I wasn't even totally sure I knew the definition of it.  I had a general sense of what it meant, but I was still kinda unclear.  Even when I thought I knew what it meant, I still couldn't completely wrap my head around it.  What is it, actually?

Anne Lamott writes a good deal about grace.  She says, "I do not understand the mystery of grace -- only that it meets us where we are and does not leave us where it found us.”   She also says, "Sometimes grace works like water wings when you feel you are sinking."  And also: “Sometimes grace is a ribbon of mountain air that gets in through the cracks." 

Quite honestly, I read that and I think, 'Thanks, Anne.  That's super.  Now what the hell is it and why can't I find any?'  I mean, seriously.  I could use some water wings right now.  I could use a little mountain air...but neither one appears to be too forthcoming at the moment.  And that mystery she refers to?  Anywhere I'm going, I'm getting there myself.  Not so much happening on the mystery front here, Anne.  Not so much.

The dictionary definition of grace didn't carry me much further.  Google's definition provided me with this gem: "(in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings." 

Further reading on Wikipedia (this is hardcore research, y'all!) landed me this: "grace has been defined, not as a created substance of any kind, but as "the love and mercy given to us by God because God desires us to have it, not because of anything we have done to earn it"...a spontaneous gift from God to man - "generous, free and totally unexpected and undeserved..."

And, honestly, I read those definitions and I think, 'Thanks Life.  That's super.  Make me obsessed with understanding a word relating to a God I don't believe in, linked inextricably with beliefs of sin and salvation that are not even remotely close to fitting into my belief system.  That's nice of you.  Really nice of you.'

But it's been weeks now that this word has been coming up for me -- and coming up, and coming up, and so I've made myself think about it over the past few days.   And, really, we're still wrestling a bit.  This word and I -- we're still figuring out what it means for me.  This is not a word that wants to go down easy.

The past couple weeks have been hard, and I've been struggling with a darkness and a sense of overwhelm that is hard for me to admit to and name.  Mostly, in those tough moments, I struggle with a sense of feeling unworthy, and unlovable, and alone in the struggle.  I feel vulnerable, and I can't quite figure out how to be with others in a way that feels right.  Don't we all, at one time or another, struggle with those feelings?  Don't we all, at some point, become so engaged in our heads that we manage to go round and round up there in our busy brains, convincing ourselves that we are somehow unworthy?  Don't we all become self-absorbed, such that we become convinced that we are unloved and unlovable?  I do.  And while, in my funnier moments, I can shake my fist in the air and say "DAMN YOU SEROTONIN, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!?!?!" yelling at neurotransmitters doesn't make them multiply or affect their reuptake.  It doesn't change all the life circumstances and goings on right now that, frankly, there just isn't enough serotonin in the world to manage it without leaning at least a little into the darkness.  And that's okay.  It happens.  It is part of what life is, I think, and it will pass. 

But I am good at going through the motions, you know?  I am good at smiling, and I am good at finding the things to laugh at, and I am good at withdrawing when I can't do those things.  I am good at showing up, even when I don't feel like it.  I'm good at doing a good job of whatever it is I'm supposed to do a good job at, even when I don't know how I can do a good job.  And the past few days...I haven't felt like it.  Last night in particular, when I was lying awake because I couldn't sleep, my brain went all sorts of haywire and convinced me of things it never would have said in the daylight.  I got up this morning, and the very last thing I wanted to do was go to choir practice and sing. 

Okay, so maybe there were a few things that were lower on the list than singing, but as I was trying to get out the door this morning, I sure couldn't think of many.  But I got there, and I faked it, and I sang, because faking it and singing is supposed to help. 

And then...there was this thing that happened. 

This woman, who is very dear, came to me and said, "You still haven't heard that song I want you to hear...so I made you a CD!"  She handed me a CD with some songs on it that she finds beautiful and meaningful -- and my heart wiggled, just a little bit, and warmed, and the room grew lighter.  Like a ribbon of mountain air, perhaps.

And then someone leaned over the seat and asked, "how's your sister?  Have you heard from your sister?"  "I said a prayer for her," someone else said.  "I've been praying that the thing that is right for her will happen."  Water wings slid onto my arms, and suddenly, I was not struggling quite so hard to breathe. 

"I wanted to ask you how your teaching is going?" someone asked.  "Did it go okay?"  Another ribbon of mountain air.

"What can I do to help?" someone asked, when I told her things are hard...and suddenly, I knew I was not in the same place I started.  Grace had found me where I was, and had moved me, surely, to somewhere new.  It was absolutely a bestowal of blessings that were free and unmerited.  It was love given, not because I had done anything to earn it, but just because.  It was a gift that was both unexpected and undeserved. 

I don't believe it was a gift given to me by God.  I don't believe there was any sort of sinner salvation going on...if I was a sinner then, I am still as much of a sinner now.  But there was absolutely a human grace that was afforded me today, in the moment that I needed it, in the way that I could hear it.  This, then, is my definition of grace: a spontaneous gift from person to person that is generous, free, and totally unexpected.  It brings breath to the places there was none, and tells us that we matter.  That we belong.  It comes in moments we do not expect, and it takes us to places we did not know to go.  It takes us out of our heads and reminds us that, even in the dark moments, we are in community.  We are worthy of being in community. Even in the dark moments, we are beings who are worthy of being in community.

These moments...they did not banish the darkness or cure the stressors or change my brain's reuptake of serotonin.  But I am not where I started, and this, my friends, is grace. 

On Fairness, Breath, and Grace

Several years ago, I saw a therapist for a few sessions.  She was awful.  Like, seriously awful.  I have since seen a wonderful therapist, who was helpful and kind and empathetic, and all the things she was supposed to be.  But that first therapist, man.  She made a rough time that much harder.

And I was going through a rough time when I saw her.  A time that was so difficult and new, in fact, that I didn't have the words I needed to express what was happening, or how I felt, or what I needed.  What I knew was that it was awful, and that I needed it to change.

But it wasn't easy for me to say that, because I was thinking that I, in part, was causing the awfulness.  I was thinking that I, in part, was to blame for the situation.  When I finally got a glimpse of the fact that this might not be the case, the closest thing I could come to expressing it was to say, haltingly, "it's just...it's just that...I'm just realizing that...this isn't fair.  It's just not fair."

And do you know what she did?  She laughed.  She laughed this big, loud, hearty laugh that startled me, and she said loudly (she did everything loudly), "Ha!  Fair?!  Whoever told you life was fair?  You're in for a sorry wake-up call, sister." 

I looked at her with what I hope was my very best "WTF?" expression.

"Seriously," she said.  "Do you really think life is supposed to be fair?"

"No," I said, embarrassed, and I quickly ended the conversation.

Here's what I learned from this conversation: (1) Stop whining.  (2) Your pain doesn't matter.  (3) It's not going to get better, because you deserve this pain.  Everybody's got it.  This is yours.

These are lessons I've carried with me.

* * * * *

I recently had a young man come into my office who is being physically and emotionally bullied by his peers.  He collapsed into a heap on the chair, eyes filled with tears, and said, "It just isn't fair.  It just isn't fair.  I'm telling you, it's just not fair."

And for him -- as it was for me -- this acknowledgment was momentous.  Acknowledging that he does not deserve this bullying, that it is wrong, that it's okay to talk about and tell adults about and seek help about...that was a big deal.  And, to me, that's what he was saying.  He was saying, finally, "I don't deserve this, and it just isn't fair."

So I told him he was right.  I told him that it isn't fair, and I let him sit backwards in the chair with his feet over his head and cry.  After a while, I asked him to sit up and talk, and I explained that it ISN'T fair, and that I can't undo what has already been done.  But I also told him that there are powerful steps he can take.  I told him that he has a team of people that want to work with him to help him take those powerful steps.  I told him that I see lots of kids who are being bullied, and that when he is ready, I can teach him some super strong anti-bully skills.

I could tell you that I'm an awesome therapist and that he sat up and smiled said, "oh yeah!  You're right!  Do teach me these assertiveness skills and about my right to stand up for myself!"

But this is real life, so what actually happened is that he said "fuck you," and flipped the table over, and told me not to talk to him cause he was really mad, and that I was really lucky that he didn't have a light saber 'cause if he had one, he would have killed me already. 

So we'll try again next time.  

*****

I get it.  I really do.  I get where he's coming from.  I'm in this place right now where I wouldn't mind dropping an F-bomb, flipping a table -- and yes, if I had a light saber, I probably would have light-sabered SOMETHING if I didn't believe there was enough violence in the world already.  I'm not proud that this is where I'm at, but you know what?  Like I will with my little client, I will try again next time.  What other choice is there?

The world, it seems, is going to hell in a handbasket.  The news is full of tragedies and violence I can't bear to read about.  My personal world is full of friends who are struggling to make ends meet or to stay alive, family members who are struggling in more ways than can be counted, and I've had doctor's appointments that cause anxiety as I try to get a - probably simple issue - resolved in what appears to be the most complicated manner ever.  And, because The Universe coupled with social media is a funny thing, those old issues I thought were resolved have come back 'round for visitation again: Anger and Betrayal namely, while I watched Forgiveness slink out the back door when I thought she was here to stay. 

 I don't let myself complain much, even in my head, but as I was driving home from work today, I realized that...you know?  It's NOT fair.  It's life -- and life isn't fair.  For me, there aren't any superpower skills I can learn or practice to change it...but there is power (for me) in acknowledging that it just isn't fair.

I know that if I were to pick up any self-help book, and it's going to tell me not to think that way.  It's going to tell me that I'm making myself the victim, that I'm relinquishing my power, or that I'm feeling sorry for myself -- and honestly, that's the way it sounds.  It sounds like a whiny "life's hard" rant from a privileged girl who is not living in Israel, or living with the fear of catching Ebola, or dealing with being deported after surviving horrific conditions to make it to this country.

But this is how it feels: in my heart, when I say, "This is life right now, and it isn't fair," I am saying, "this thing that's going on is real, and it's hard."  I am saying, "this stuff that's going on is overwhelming and I can't do it alone."  I am saying, "I'm going to let myself acknowledge and name what is going on, because it sucks, and pretending it's just life-as-usual is hard and awful." 

And funny enough, when I do that, my heart softens and the breathing room around it expands. 

Perhaps this is what Anne Lamott talks about in Help, Thanks, Wow.  She writes, "Where do we even start on the daily walk of restoration and awakening?  We start where we are.  We find God in our human lives, and that includes the suffering.  I get thirsty people glasses of water, even if that thirsty person is just me."

I don't believe in god...but I want to believe that there is some sort of Universal Love Force out there in the world that hears me when I say "help" or "thanks" or "wow."  I don't necessarily miss the idea of a God, but I miss believing that something bigger than me is listening.  I miss believing that I can hand The Mess over at the end of the day, and that something bigger than me will hold it for a few hours so I can get some sleep.  I miss feeling like there is something larger than myself that I can turn to and say, "hey," when I just need someone big and powerful to listen.

So perhaps this softening, this opening I can experience through honesty and just being with myself -- perhaps that softness is that force.  Perhaps that softness is Love.  When I acknowledge and name the suffering and the unfairness of it all, perhaps what I am doing is just giving my thirsty self that drink of water.  It is starting where I am.  It is, perhaps, starting the walk of restoration and awakening.

Lamott continues, "You may be saying, 'It's so awful right now, and I am so pissed off and sad and mental, that against all odds I'm giving up.  I'll accept whatever happens.'

Maybe ... you'll go a little limp, and in that divine limpness you'll be able to breathe again.  Then you're halfway home.  In many cases, breath is all you need.  Breath is holy spirit.  Breath is life.  It's oxygen.  Breath might get you a little rest.  You must be so exhausted. 

...So when we cry out Help, or whisper it into our chests, we enter the paradox of not going limp and not feeling so hopeless that we can barely walk, and we release ourselves from the absolute craziness of trying to be our own -- or other people's -- higher powers."

And perhaps that is what is needed, no?  Perhaps what really needs to happen here is to say, "okay, so maybe I'm NOT this awesome higher power all by myself who Has It All Together and is beyond feeling angry, or unforgiving, or whiny."  Maybe I can breathe into the fact that, above all else, I am human, and I can whine, and be angry and unforgiving, like humans are.  Maybe I can acknowledge that I'm allowed to be scared, and unsure...and that life, for sure, is not fair.  Maybe I can get that part of me a drink of water, and let her sit upside down and backwards in a lump on her chair until she has herself put back together, and then we continue walking.  Maybe that's what happens.  I still don't believe in God, but there's a possibility that maybe -- maybe --I can call that spaciousness "grace."

On Bravery, Blossoming, and Being Too Much

I was brave today. 

What a silly way to start a post, right?  But I don't know how else to start it.  I was brave.  I WAS brave.  I did something that intimidated me, and I was brave. 

Perhaps really, though, what I did today was a culmination of bravery.  It's been a long, hard process. 

Today, I gave the sermon at church.  It was on ableism, and on loving and accepting people with disabilities.  As with most everything I write, this writing came straight from my heart.  I didn't pull any punches; in fact, a friend who read it described it as "fearless."  When I sent it to my minister for her to review ahead of time, I let her know: "I didn't expect it to be so...gutsy."  But it was, because that was what had to be written.  It is truth, and it is reality, and my voice is one that tries to speak truth and reality.  So that is what I did. 

Let me back up.  When I was in college, I was terrified of public speaking.  I would lose my voice the day before oral presentations, and I would often be sick before I had to give the presentation.  I hated it.  Luckily (although it didn't feel lucky at the time), I got lots of practice...but even with practice, I hated it.  Anytime I was given the choice of 10-15 minute presentation, or a 20 page paper, I never even had to think twice.  I've always been a writer and 20 pages was something I could crank out easily enough. 

Eventually, with exposure, I moved from anxiety manifesting as illness down to just trembling.  My voice shook, my hands shook, my body shook...it was awful.  I hated this almost more than vomiting before presentations.  The shaking was noticeable, and almost entirely out of my control.  Plus, the shaking made me embarrassed, which made my face turn red.  But not just red -- no, we're not talking about getting a little pink in the cheeks.  We're talking about so-red-my-face-throbbed type of red.  Tomato red.  And it would not go away until about 30 minutes after I was done.  And, just when you thought I would reach my peak redness, I would stumble over a word and manage to become even more red.  I don't think Crayola even has a color that could replicate the shade of red I managed to obtain.  In spite of all the practice I had giving presentations in my liberal arts college, I never got over it.  I presented my senior thesis masquerading as a trembling tomato. 

In the year I took off between college and graduate school, I worked for a local Mental Health Association.  That year, I presented "Kids On The Block" puppet shows at local schools on bullying, drugs and alcohol, and physical and sexual abuse.  It was hard at first...but I quickly realized that (1) elementary school kids are the most forgiving audience ever and (2) they didn't care about me.  They were talking to the puppets.  Also?  I was wearing a black hood with mesh over the face and stood behind the puppets so nobody could see me.  I even had my picture in the newspaper, and nobody never would have been able to identify me.  It was, in a word, fantastic.  Towards the end of the year, I started doing the Yello Dyno curriculum on personal body safety for kindergarten classrooms with no puppet, and no hood/mask covering my face, and I found, surprisingly, that I could present without shaking, and largely without turning red.  Apparently, those puppets weren't just therapeutic for the kids.

Once I reached graduate school, I would still be nervous before presenting, but it was a manageable level of anxiety.  I still turned all sorts of red, but I learned to work with it, and it never presented a huge barrier.  If given a choice, I will still, always, opt for the paper over the presentation...but this is purely a preference and no longer a choice made out of fear. 

At this point, public speaking isn't necessarily something that I love, but I can do it, and I do it regularly.  I try to do it regularly, even, so that I don't somehow backslide into that world of red faces and trembling.  Plus, I like to make myself do things that are hard every now and again.  I hear it builds character.  So while I still wouldn't put public speaking on my list of Top 10 or even Top 20 Fun Things To Do, my feelings have slowly but surely changed from Not Sure I'll Make It Out Alive to a big, resounding Meh. 

Aside from the actual act of speaking aloud, though, the bigger struggle for me has been that of voice.  I like to think that I have always had a clear and strong sense of voice in my writing.  And, for this reason, my writing (up until only a few years ago) stayed tightly locked in files on my computer, in folders in desk drawers, and in the many, many, many journals I kept from the age of 9 onward.  A deadly combination of bad creative writing teachers, self-consciousness, and a sense of shame from always feeling like I was emotionally "too much" created this feeling of my writing and my voice being...well...too much.  I kept writing, of course, because not writing is simply not an option, but I kept it hidden.  I had to.  Writing was the most personal expression of myself, the place I put my passion without being afraid of being "too much." 

This is not to say that I was disingenuous, necessarily.  I was quiet, but I was always true to what I believed, and my passions seeped out in small ways.  That's the thing about being "too much."  It's impossible to contain all of your much-ness in one body.  I learned from a young age how to pick and choose how much of my "too much" seeped into the world -- how much of my too emotional, too clear, too truthful, too excited, too passionate self could be in conversations and in relationships with others.  I was very fortunate in my younger years, though, that I was never actively silenced.  People heard and largely respected what of my voice I shared.  Aside from when I became "too much," people nearly always respected and responded positively to my voice.

That changed very quickly once I reached graduate school.  In my diversity classes in particular, I was honest in my journals and in class.  In my writing and with my adviser particularly, I was willing to be myself.  I showed her a lot of my too much-ness.  I was passionate, and I was me. 

In spite of this (or, perhaps, because of), for a solid year, the only feedback I received was that I needed to work on "finding my voice."  I was consistently told things like "the thing about you is that you are someone who does wonderful and amazing things, but no one will ever notice you."  At the end of each quarter, my feedback forms told me that I had to work on finding my voice.  I talked with professors and my adviser about it -- "how do I do this?" I asked.  "I am being me...really...when I have an opinion, I voice it.  When I have something to say, I say it.  When I disagree, I state it.  What am I missing?"

Nobody could put their finger on it.  I was told to participate more.  I was told to speak out more.  I was told to disagree with others more.  And I did, and I did, and I did...and still the feedback came rolling in (always from the same person): "find your voice.  Work on finding and using your voice.  Still not finding your voice."

And about a year into the program, I snapped.  I remember being in a study room in the basement of the library and calling my sister, crying, that I just didn't understand what they wanted from me.  I have a voice.  A strong voice.  I used my voice.  And they weren't listening.  I was so frustrated, I was to the point of considering dropping out of the program. 

So I did the only thing I could think to do: I wrote a journal entry for my diversity class on the issue of voice.  This paper was turned in to the co-teachers for the class, one of whom was my adviser.  I wrote about my voice, and the power I see and hear in my voice, and the ways in which I see myself using my voice.  I did something super risky, and I called the professor in question out by name.  I wrote in that paper: "I understand that you think I have not found my voice.  However, I sincerely think the issue is not that I have not found my voice.  The problem lies in the fact that you are not hearing me.  I have found my voice.  The problem is that you are not listening."

Getting back that paper was terrifying, and the note that read "let's talk" next to that particular passage was whatever is beyond terrifying.  But we did -- we talked.  And my eval at the end of the quarter noted that I had found my voice.  It was never an issue again.

But I have to admit: I was completely beat down by this process.  I internalized the message that, in spite of what I do, no one will ever notice me.  And if that wasn't enough, then life completely fell apart. 

Sexual assault, bullying, harassment, victim blaming...that'll silence you, for sure.  It wasn't possible to "find my voice" during this time.  I tried -- god knows I tried -- but it just wasn't possible.  I tried to use my voice.  I tried to advocate for myself.  And -- it wasn't entirely unsuccessful, but it wasn't entirely successful, either.  It was a hugely shaming, silencing time.

So I started this blog with the sole intention of re-finding and sharing my voice.  And that, amazingly, is what I have done.  Every post I make, every time I write something about anything, it takes an act of bravery.  It is an act of reclaiming my voice and of reminding myself that it exists.  That it is strong, and it is worthy.

My challenge lately for myself has been not only to share my voice here, in writing, but to also submit my writing to competitions and for publication.  I have been challenging myself to share my writing aloud.  I won't lie: it's fucking terrifying.  But my voice ­­- my voice - is too strong, and too passionate not to share.  It's why I have gone through this process and the pain and the work of reclaiming it.  I want people to hear me.  I don't want to be the person who will never be noticed. 

The past two nights leading up to the service today, I had the same dream.  I prepared for the service, was ready, got to church, 10:00 rolled around...and no one came.  It was me, the guy who was playing the piano, and the minister...and that was it.  The sanctuary was empty, and we all went home.  In my dream, I was devastated. 

Because the fear -- the real fear that founded this dream -- it wasn't that no one would come.  I knew that bodies would be there.  It wasn't about the number of people, even.  It was about the fact that I was terrified that I wouldn't be heard.  I went in to do this today knowing too well that it was possible that I would not be heard.  That people could deny my voice.  That I could be silenced, in one way or another.   

It was a risk.  It was a risk to stand up there at all, and it was an even bigger risk to share this passion, to share my too much-ness.  I knew that what I was saying would take people out of their comfort zone.  I knew I would challenge them to consider other ways of viewing people and issues they may not have even considered.  I knew that my passion seeped out in my writing, and that it would come across in my voice.  It had to.  I care about this issue too much.

But you know what happened?  I wasn't silenced.  I wasn't shamed.  I wasn't told that I was too much, or that I had to find my voice.  I wasn't told that my voice would never be heard. 

Instead, what happened was simple and beautiful. 

I was heard.  And my voice -- it mattered.  It started conversations.  It sparked thoughts.  It may have opened minds.  I hope it opened some hearts. 

I spoke up.  I was heard.  And my voice mattered. 

The only words I have to describe what that feels like is that it feels like something in my chest is breaking open.  That happens a lot at church.  It's been happening a lot lately.  I don't even have words for this sort of gratitude.

So yes -- I was brave today.  My intention for bravery this year...it's working.  I am reminded again of my very favorite quote (which, I swear, will become a tattoo for me in some form one of these days):

"And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."  - Anaïs Nin.

Blossoming is painful.  It requires bravery.  But it is so much better than that pain of remaining tight inside the bud.

Let's blossom, shall we?