Sharing the news

Love and pregnancy and riding on a camel can not be hid.
-Arabic Proverb

There was little I was excited about in the first 24 hours after I learned I was pregnant. Actually, I could find two things to muster excitement for. First, since we were not even teenagers my best friend and I had always talked about some day being pregnant at the same time. She was six months along in her pregnancy, so if I was going to have a surprise I was thankful from the first few minutes that it was at the same time as my friend. We had let go of that dream a few years ago for multiple reasons, so we both saw the timing of our pregnancies as a gift from God.

The other thing I could get excited for was telling people. I had thought about different ways to share the news for years... if I ever did get pregnant. Now it was here and I wanted to have fun with it. I woke my best friend up and she quickly decided it was the best wake up call ever. Johnie's brother almost choked, we think. (Those who know us well had pretty much given up any hope that we would ever birth children.)

We told my mom we wanted her to make the announcement to the church family. She said no for about five seconds, then cried about being offered such an honor and enthusiastically agreed. I sort of thought she would just shout out something like, "I'm going to be a Memaw!" Or, "Johnie and Amy are having a baby!" With a jubilance (I may have made that word up) only she can achieve.

But all on her own accord she wanted to be ornery too. She thought about telling everyone that there was a new special someone in her life, leading them to think of a romantic relationship. But she settled on another idea that I think was even better.

Circled up to pray my mom was given the floor for her announcement: "I just wanted to let everyone know I'm getting a new car (Karr)!"

Everyone clapped politely, albeit confused. My mom already had a nearly new car and isn't usually one to get caught up in material things.

"A new little baby car (Karr)." People were still clapping and some didn't really hear her. Those who did thought she was talking about a compact car.

A couple seconds of awkward silence. Finally Johnie said, "Do you want to give any more details?"

"Well, I'll get it probably around...." She looked to me. "In November," I said. I thought everyone might catch on then. But there was still confusion.

Finally she brought her arms up like she was rocking a baby. "A new little baby car (Karr)." And people started to get it.

Unfortunately I have managed to miss all the group pregnancy announcements among our church friends to date. I always end up being out of town, or sick, or with some conflicting appointment on the one burrito night I didn't make that year. They probably react similarly to anyone who shares baby news. Or maybe we were just the least likely couple to ever make such an announcement. (One friend said, "you just know some things aren't a possibility so you don't even consider them," when talking about why it took everyone a bit to solve my mom's riddle.)

I was overwhelmed. There were squeals of joy and hugs and laughter. I looked around and people were high fiving and hugging. Some had their hands over their mouths. Others were crying. I was thankful that my mom and Johnie were there to absorb some of the attention, but I was shaking and feeling all tingly.

Maybe it was too much too soon for me to handle, but my heart was reassured to see all the joy on everyone's faces about the life inside of me. As I told them as they asked how I was handling it and apologized if they were being obnoxiously excited, I just felt so thankful to see others feeling about this baby the way I wish I could feel. And in those fear-filled moments, I always found reassurance in a community who already loved and cared for my little one.

To treat people with respect

You brought them into this world. You need to help take care of them.

-Housing agency employee

Let me tell you the full story. Settle in.

My mom was considering her housing options. We were unsure whether or not she would qualify for assistance through Section 8. We called the housing agency in the county my mom wanted to live in to ask their requirements.

It was difficult for me to communicate with the lady who answered the phone. We had a hard time understanding each other. I was looking for specific income and asset thresholds. She was more focused on defining income. At the time I made this call my mother was unemployed and I made the mistake of saying she had no income. The lady on the phone explained to me that any money or goods my mom received was considered income. She actually said, "If you buy toilet paper for her, that's income."

She also refused to believe my mom was currently living in a house without running water.

After asking repeatedly, the lady would not give me specific "income" and asset qualifications. I was frustrated. I considered calling the state housing agency to complain about the level of customer service I received. Instead, my mom and I decided to give this lady the benefit of the doubt. I had called at lunch time. She may have been having a bad day. I may not have communicated well with her.

My husband works in the IT department of the state housing agency, so I asked him for help. Within minutes one of his co-workers provided me with the information I was looking for. My mom would qualify for Section 8 assistance. The next step would be to go to the local office during the two hours each month when they allow people to sign up and put her name on the waiting list. (The wait is generally six to twelve months I was told. When your name comes up, you officially apply and then receive assistance if you qualify.)

A couple weeks later we pulled into the parking lot of the local office. It wasn't as crowded as we had anticipated. My mom confided to me on our way in, "I hope they have a private area for us to give our information. It's embarrassing to say all of that in front of other people."

A paper sign on the door told us what would be required when we stepped through. (Basically, if you can't provide this information, come back when you can... during our two hour window next month.)

Once inside, a lady standing behind a tall desk in a lobby area asked us to take a number and pointed to a room where everyone was waiting. With that one sentence I matched her voice to the lady who had answered my phone call.

We took our number and found seats in the room. People were making small talk and "the line" was moving quickly. Every few minutes a worker would emerge from the hallway and call a number. I assume those people were interviewed in offices. We weren't able to see or hear them after they walked down the hallway.

The lady in the lobby was also interviewing people. She would not come to the room, but simply called the next number from her desk in the lobby. We didn't have any problem hearing her, or the people whose applications she was taking.

I hoped we would get another worker.

People in the waiting room were mumbling about her rudeness.

I could hear her interviewing a man whose face I never saw. He worked in the automotive field, but things had been slow for the business that employed him.

"Right now we're living on $330 a month," he said.

He continued to answer the questions but there was a sense of urgency in his voice. "How long will it be?" he asked. "I really need something soon," he said. "Is there any way I can get help quicker?" And finally, "I just really need a place for my kids."

"Well, you brought them into this world. You need to help take care of them," the lady said.

I couldn't believe my ears. My mom and I looked at each other, wide-eyed. There was a visible and audible reaction around the room.

"I don't think that's her place," one said.

"This is worse than the food stamp office," another said.

I was seething. I pulled out my cell phone and began typing a text to my husband. I would find out how to report this lady. That was just inexcusable!

Before I could finish the text my mom's number was called. By the lady. I wanted to stall, but my mom was already out of her seat. She told me later she had decided immediately to be as overwhelmingly nice to this lady as she possibly could be.

The interaction went well. I felt ready to pounce on her if she said one thing out of line to my mom. She didn't.

I searched for a name tag, a badge, a business card that would identify her. I thought I remembered her name from the phone call, but I didn't feel like that was certain enough. What if two workers sounded similar? What if I remembered the name wrong?

I wondered if anything I might do could affect my mom's application. I decided that would be inappropriate and my husband could again connect me to the right people at the state level if that were to happen.

With her application complete we were ready to walk away. I felt like I needed this lady's name to report her, and I didn't know any other way to get it than to ask. So I did. And she told me.

There we stood with the desk between us. To thank her and walk away felt disingenuous. She was the person I was ultimately trying to reach. She was smiling and I was smiling. She seemed almost... open.

Before I could stop them, the words spilled out of my mouth: "I'm sure you have a tough job, but I feel like you've been really insensitive to people this morning."

She didn't seem open anymore. "How have I been insensitive?!"

I could have made a list. Truly. But I couldn't get that man out of my head, and probably if not for that one interaction I wouldn't have said or done anything. So I planned to start with him.

"The gentleman who was here earlier. You told him that he brought his kids into the world and he needed to help take care of them. That wasn't very nice and I don't feel like that is an appropriate thing for you to say."

The seconds felt like hours. What was going to happen next? Did the people in the room hear me? Did they feel empowered? Should I ask for a supervisor?

"Maybe you should take some additional sensitivity training or something."

Did I just say that out loud?

"We only have two hours to process everyone's application," she said.

That's not an excuse to be rude. Maybe you should allot more than two hours a month for this.

She had already called the next number. I wasn't sure what to say or do next, so I walked out the door.

Sitting in the car, shaking and crying the second-guessing began. Should I have stood up immediately and introduced myself to that man and addressed the misbehavior as soon as it happened? Should I have not said anything and just filed a formal report? Should I have not left until I spoke with a supervisor or saw some tangible change or result? Did I just make things worse for the people left waiting?

And the question I've been mulling for weeks: What should I do now?

I thought about filing a formal report. I thought about contacting the local newspaper and doing some investigating, possibly even undercover. I thought about going to the housing agency during their two hour window every month and interviewing people to see how the interactions made them feel. I thought about also doing that at the local food stamp office. Sounds like they may have some customer service issues there, too. Or just going and talking to the people and brainstorming ways to help them in less than six months, in more than a two hour time frame. Or offering to sit or stand with them as they answered the questions. 

I thought about surveying my friends about how to handle it. I thought about writing an open letter to social service workers, asking them to strive for kindness in their interactions with their clients.

So far, I haven't done any of those things. 

The other night a blog post popped up on my newsfeed retelling the story of a woman standing up for the mistreatment of a minority couple in front of her in the grocery checkout line. I thought back to this incident and felt like I could relate to her.

As I have reflected on that encounter that day, I have felt a range of emotions. The lady's words underscore many popular misconceptions about impoverished people and those who seek assistance from the government. There are many examples of how programs meant to help don't quite reach what they're aiming for. And the people's reactions and interactions only highlight the destructiveness it can bring. 

I'm not sure I did the right thing that day. On a scale, I don't think I landed at the bottom. But my reaction was not perfect by any means. And I don't even know what kind of impact it had. I hope the lady became more aware of how she was treating people. I hope the people in the waiting room were encouraged and reminded that even though they are asking for a hand up doesn't mean they should be talked down to. But I could have just made things worse. I may never know.

Still, I can't help but thinking that doing something is better than doing nothing. 

What if we all stood up in our little, imperfect ways? What if instead of grumbling or acting out passively or just wallowing in apathy or despair or hopelessness or powerlessness we chose to stand next to our brothers and sisters -- like we would for our brothers and sisters -- when they are so blatantly wronged? (And with the understanding that those on the other side are also our brothers and sisters.)

I think we could make a difference. 

And I think people are already making a difference by standing against injustices in their own quiet and peaceful ways. I hope that by sharing experiences like these we can spur one another on. I hope this is just the beginning of something beautiful.

Note: This post was forwarded (without my knowledge) to the state housing agency and I have been contacted personally by staff in the Frankfort and Louisville offices. While the housing agency that we had this experience at only falls under the jurisdiction of one, both have expressed deep apologies that any housing employee would act in this way. Both have extended offers to help my mom in any way possible. In short, I have been overwhelmed by the immediate and heartfelt response. And am reminded that while some government employees are not stellar, many are devoted, hardworking and often don't get the recognition or respect they deserve.

Having lupus, Part 5: More on the pit

The sick soon come to understand they live in a different world from that of the well and that the two cannot communicate.
-Jessamyn West

Note: As I have said before, I do feel like I live in a different world now than I did before I got sick.  And it is hard to explain.  However, we each live in our own worlds and every experience is difficult to convey to those who have no similar frame of reference.  One of my goals in life is to break down communication barriers, and with this series of posts I hope to help open up lines of communication between "the sick" and "the well."

When all my lupus symptoms reached their apex in the summer of 2013, I thought I might seriously have some sort of mental illness.  I was seeing multiple doctors and their diagnoses didn't seem to match my level of illness.  I just felt sick and tired all the time and it never got better.  And there was no explanation.

I kept thinking after I reached this milestone or that milestone at work or at home, I would feel better.  When I was sick during winter, I thought I would feel better come spring.  When I was sick at work, I thought I would feel better when things slowed down.  I thought I'd feel better on vacation.  On trips, I thought I'd feel better when I got back home.

But I kept feeling worse.  Random symptom on top of random symptom kept piling on. 

I had been trying to lose weight unsuccessfully for several months.  I thought I just wasn't trying hard enough.  So I took on a fundraising challenge in May that would require that I walk 10,000 steps a day.  That would hold me accountable and then I would lose weight.  One month and more than 300,000 steps later the scale hadn't moved.

Maybe I needed to watch my diet more carefully.  I ate A LOT of salads in June and drank A LOT of water.  And counted calories every day.  Another month and another 300,000 steps and the scale STILL hadn't moved.  Not one pound.

That first day I walked those steps, my legs ached.  They continued to ache the next day and the next one.  I was more out of shape than I thought I was when I took on the challenge.

I thought my legs would adjust after the first week.  But they didn't.  Surely they'd feel better after two weeks.  The more steps I walked those two months, the more my legs hurt.  My muscles ached.  I was exhausted.  And I was only walking.

I thought I must surely be the biggest wimp on the face of the planet.  I felt like a big, fat loser.  Literally.

I began to wonder if I might have an anxiety disorder.  If I might be making my symptoms up. 

I was an emotional wreck during that time and I wondered if I might have depression.

There were days when I did not want to get out of bed.  When I wanted to hide away from life and everyone I know.  Days when every single little thing felt like an insurmountable task.  Even taking a shower.  Even reading a book.  Even eating.  Food is one of my favorite things and when I didn't even care about meals anymore, I knew something was wrong.

I scheduled an appointment with a counselor, but as I talked with my friends during this time they encouraged me to take ALL my symptoms to a general practitioner and ask (again) for some lab work.

I wrote them all out.  Months of symptoms and doctors, and then read them to the physician at my appointment.  He listened and then said, "You're depressed."  No need for lab work.

I acknowledged that might be a possibility and even brought up that I already had an appointment with a counselor, but asked (again) for lab work.  (He finally did agree to a few tests -- one that eventually led to my diagnosis.)  I had been dealing with physical symptoms for more than a year before I noticed the mental symptoms I was struggling with at that time.  It didn't make sense to me that the physical symptoms of depression would manifest themselves months ahead of the mental symptoms.

I left that appointment wondering if I might have a mental illness even more serious (or in addition to) depression.  I began quizzing my friends and family and asking if they noticed anything questionable.  And then I wondered if they were not being truthful in their answers because it was obvious that I was unstable.

While my diagnosis turned out to be lupus, my brushes with depression and anxiety have made me more sympathetic to friends and family who battle those things on a regular basis. 

And as I am learning to manage my lupus symptoms, I have found my mental health to be one indicator of whether or not I'm in the pit. 

Like I said before, I have days -- though not nearly as many as I would like -- when I feel completely normal.  For me, this is being on solid ground.  And it really feels -- physically -- like being on solid ground.  When lupus is attacking me, I seriously don't know if I can hold my body together.  Sitting up and walking feel like acts of faith.  I'm never sure when I might just topple over.  When I don't have to use energy to sit up or to walk, when my legs feel solid beneath me and my arms feel capable and I have energy all day long, those are my best days.  That's when I remember what it was like not to have lupus.  My solid ground days.

Most days for me are not quite this good.  They're not horrible, they're not intolerable, but they're not great either.  Shaky ground.  It's kind of like going on vacation.  And boarding your flight and getting seated in front of that obnoxious guy whose volume knob got stuck on high.  And he decides to give his seat mate all the details of his hernia operation.  You're still glad for the break a vacation brings (in this case a break from the pit), but you just wish that guy would shut up or that you could get off the plane already.

The shift between shaky ground and falling in the hole happens when the physical symptoms intensify and then mentally I start to break.  Shaky ground: My eye waters and I wipe at tears all day long and go on.  Annoying, but no big deal.  I feel like I'm going to throw up and I sip some water.  Headache, I take medicine.  Some dizziness, and I make no sudden movements.  I feel tired and I take a nap, or I ask Johnie to do the dishes, or I put off paying the bills.  All very manageable. 

But when my head is hurting and I'm feeling dizzy and queasy and I have some random pain in my leg and I'm just so exhausted and I think about that dinner out at my favorite restaurant that we have planned and it just feels like that will be the hardest chore to complete.  That's when I know.  I'm in the hole.  And that thing I love to do only seems like it will be miserable because I'm looking up at it from down deep in the lupus pit.

That has become my barometer.

When that happens I throw my hands up in surrender.  I go to bed and I wait for however long it takes to be lifted back out of the hole again.  For that morning when I wake up and feel rested and want to get out of bed.  And I stand up and my legs feel stable.  And I'm hungry and I know just the thing to eat.  And three hours later I still have the energy to do whatever I have to do that day.  That's when I know I've been lifted out of the pit and am back on solid ground.

---

This post is part of a series on how lupus has affected me.

Click on the links below to read more:

Part 1: Introduction, The horrific mystery disease

Part 2: The bad times

Part 3: How lupus made me a better wife

Part 4: A practice of patience

Part 6: Exhaustion

Part 7: Saying no

My diagnosis

My herbalist and the treatment option I am choosing right now

My recent lifestyle changes

To learn more about lupus, you may visit the Lupus Foundation of America.

Worth the wait

Earlier this year my husband instituted a weekly date night and charged himself with all the planning and coordinating.  Time with my handsome, sweet, funny hubby and no work involved for me?  Yes please!

Don't worry, this isn't a post about that kind of waiting. 

Felt like I needed to say that.  I didn't want you all to get the wrong impression when I lead a waiting post with a story about my husband. 

Anyway...

On our most recent date my husband took me to a local diner.

The place is quaint, antique signs hanging on the wall.  We situated ourselves in a corner booth.  My view was a tree-covered mountain outside the window.  Resting my eyes on a Kentucky mountain fills my soul like good food fills my stomach.  And with my eyes fixed on the scenery, I listened to the sounds behind me. 

The waitress's voice matched the mountain.  I grew up here and Kentucky twang was normal vanilla until I visited and lived other places.  Now it is pure, sweet music to my ears.

She called an elderly gentleman by name, joked about flies at a funeral and confirmed the order she already knew he wanted. 

When she made it over to our table we asked how big the hamburgers were, trying to decide between a single or double patty.

"Well, are ya hungry?"  We laughed.  One patty would be plenty.

I listened as the man visited with a lady seated near him.  They both grew up here.  They talked of their brothers and sisters.  Their parents.  Their spouses, now deceased.  I heard a sweet courting story and fought back tears to hear how it ended. 

Eyes on the mountain, it felt like home and happiness.  This culture, these sounds, these conversations, these views.  This is why I love Kentucky.  This and so much more.

When we made it to the cash register to pay, we were just behind the man we had heard throughout our meal.  He himself was hard of hearing.  With a smile on her face, the waitress repeated his total a few times.  He counted out dollar bills -- with her help -- and came up one short.  He took the money back, pulled out a five and asked her to take three ones from the stack he held in his hand to settle his bill.  She gave him change.

Putting his wallet back in his pocket, he realized he was missing a rubber band, and the young girl -- both waitress and cashier -- came from behind the counter to help him look.  Not for lack of diligence, they didn't find it. 

Only when the man started to walk away did she turn her attention to us, just as friendly. 

I couldn't help but check Mr. Regular's table on the way out. He left her no tip.  I'm sure she knew how it would be but offered him wonderful service the same.

I could tell story after story after story like this one.  And also story after story after story not like this one.

I enjoyed the waiting that night, but haven't always appreciated slow service.  Even when it has been the price for building relationships and honoring others.

I complain a lot about how much longer it takes to do just about anything here. But I've never complained about friendliness or about hospitality.  About neighbors willing to help.  I wait more, but I do it surrounded by people who smile and chat and don't get worked up.  Plans change on a dime if someone is in need -- and that someone can be anyone.

It's a great lesson for me.  I plan and rush and juggle and fight to keep up.  My schedule is my holy grail.  Not honoring it a grave offense. 

And like much of our American culture, I'm getting it wrong.  Progress should never come before people.  Advances and experiences mean nothing without people to share them with, and they definitely aren't worth devaluing others for. 

I have to remind myself that the fast-food workers hear my loud sigh when I wait for my order.  They can see me roll my eyes.  Shouldn't I use that time to engage those around me in meaningful conversation?  Or at the very least not be so passive aggressive?  And is a seamless ordering experience really worth it if I pick my number, swipe my card and get my food without ever even having to make eye contact?  Is that something that would make that equal human feel valued?

I get it. We wouldn't accomplish as much if we didn't pack as much into our day.  Checking e-mail while standing in line is great multi-tasking.  Fast service is a prerequisite for a busy life.  We can't just all hang out all day, every day. 

But I wonder if we've taken "efficiency" too far?  Or if we've inadvertently swapped relationships with amazing, wonderful people for amazing, wonderful products?  Has achieving modern convenience resulted in modern struggle?

How many problems would be solved if every single one of us was valued and embraced and honored with time by the whole community?  To do that would take sacrifice, but wouldn't it be worth it?

Or the real question: Isn't each person worth it?

...because the world of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self.  Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom.  The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation.  This kind of freedom has much to recommend it.  But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying.  The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able to truly care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty unsexy ways, every day.  That is real freedom.  The alternative is unconsciousness, the default-setting, the "rat race" -- the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing.

-David Foster Wallace, This is Water: 2005 Commencement speech at Kenyon College

I choose authenticity.

Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage.  Truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they're never weakness.
-Brene Brown, Daring Greatly




I feel like I need to come clean.  I haven't been completely open with this blog.  I've been holding back.  I've been too scared to say what I really wanted to say because I was (and am) afraid.  Even more afraid than I initially realized when I told all my friends how reluctant I was to start this kind of blog.  Of people reading.  Of people not reading.  What they may think or not think.  Do or not do.

And there's more: Right now I don't know when -- or even if -- I'll find the courage to say what I really think and feel.  I'm not even sure if blogging is even right for me.

I've been struggling with being more open, more real, more vulnerable in my personal life and in that process I've realized that I haven't been truly authentic in this blog either.  I think I'm going to try to do better here, but it's still much too early to know whether or not I'll chicken out.

But at least being open about not being open is more open than I have been. If only barely.

Because of my private nature, many of my friends and family members throughout the weeks and months and years have encouraged me in their own various ways to be more open, more authentic.  A few weeks ago, when discussing this blog with a friend, she mentioned the work of Brene Brown. 

It was a hectic time for me, but I mentally filed the name away, deciding to google her TED talk later.  Later never came.  The following week I was doing a completely unrelated internet search on a topic for my husband, clicked on a blog related to that search and saw in the sidebar the picture above.  I choose authenticity.  Intrigued, I clicked.  It was Brene Brown's website.  I decided I should probably listen up.

In one of her TED talks (which you can find on her blog), Brene asks her audience if they feel like admitting their struggles and failures is weakness.  Hands go up all around.  (Mine would have too.)  Then she asks if they viewed the others on the stage before her during that event who admitted their failures and vulnerabilities as courageous.  More hands in the air.  (Mine would have gone up higher.)

But still, recognizing the connection between vulnerability and courage doesn't necessarily make it easier in practice.  I thought back to times in my own life when I've taken leaps of vulnerability and what Brene calls "the vulnerability hangover."

Some of my more open friends talk about the relief that comes from talking and sharing.  The feeling of a burden being lifted.  For me, after I let someone in  -- no matter how much or how little -- it's brutal.  I contemplate running away.  Physically running away, cutting all my ties, changing my name and starting a new life.  Seriously.  And I never want to see that person who now "knows" ever again.  Ever.  It takes weeks and months for me to feel comfortable again.  The vulnerability hangover.

But I can say that there is healing in being open, even if it takes years. 

When I thought back over blog-related vulnerability, I couldn't help but recall writing my marriage proposal story.  It took me four years to work up the courage to tell any other living person the details of Johnie's proposal(s) to me.  Whenever people would ask, I would say, "Oh, it was low-key."  If they pressed, I would say, "It was private and we decided not to talk about it."  If they were too close for me to keep things private from them, I would say, "It was a little disappointing and so I just don't want to talk about it." 

In truth, it was very disappointing and embarrassing to me.  And I was afraid that if people knew all the lackluster details they would think I had failed somehow in my husband-picking efforts.  That they would judge me, my husband and our marriage as somehow less than.  And during those four years, any time marriage proposals would come up in conversation, my heart would sputter and my mind would race for what I could say when eyes turned to me.  During those four years, thoughts of my proposal would regularly bring me to tears.

I began writing the story of our relationship still deciding how I would handle the proposal story.  I didn't think I would have a big audience, but when the day came I had an uncomfortable number of eyes on the story.  I knew I couldn't just skip the proposal and I didn't want to lie.  I thought about making the proposal a couple sentences at the end or beginning of an unrelated post:  After a low-key, private proposal, wedding plans began in earnest...

But that was cheating the story.  So I took the plunge and told it.  And then fought waves of nausea.  Hovered my mouse over "delete" and resisted the urge to click. 

I received more feedback from that blog post than any other I have ever written.  Private messages from girls also embarrassed and disappointed by their proposal.  I had unknowingly created a secret sisterhood without even trying.

It didn't happen overnight, but several years after being open about my painful proposal  I've healed from it.  I laugh at it.  It really doesn't bother me anymore.  I think it is a beautiful, quirky part of our story.  I went back and re-read the account I had written a few years ago and realized I add in even more details when I re-tell the story these days.  I have some trouble remembering why I thought it was that bad for so long.

So even though I fully recognize the pay-offs of vulnerability, I still can't find the strength to make the jump yet.  But maybe tiny steps of boldness are better than being fearfully frozen still.

And maybe you can join me in the scary, daunting, but very-much-worth-it quest toward living openly, wholeheartedly.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.  The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.  -Theodore Roosevelt

www.brenebrown.com

Be informed

The fact is, that the public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing.  Journalism, conscious of this, and having tradesmanlike habits, supplies their demands. 
-Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man under Socialism



If you know me, you know I love my job.  Mostly because somehow I convinced people to pay me to write stuff.  I used to have to work for money.  That really cut into my reading and writing time and I didn't prefer it.  This arrangement is much better.

But I also love my job because it requires that I stay informed about many of the big (and little) issues facing my favorite state.  Yes, I'll admit... I wouldn't sit through a two-hour meeting of the Interim Joint Committee on Transportation if it wasn't part of my job.  But I'll also admit I've enjoyed many moments in the meetings I've covered.  And I especially love the wonderful mix of passion and talent, ideas, opinions and beliefs showcased at the Capitol throughout the year.  It's such a beautiful (usually beautiful) representation of the diversity and culture of our state.  And at its best, it is a living, working example of the benefits of our democratic government (not to say that there aren't also drawbacks).

I have never been loyal to any one particular news outlet, but one thing my job made crystal clear is that it is difficult (okay, impossible) to get a good grasp on any issue through just one source.  And in less than five minutes.

But that is how we consume news.  Through headlines and sound bites.  Status updates, shares and snarky comments on social media.  140 character reactions to significant, life-altering issues.  We pick a favorite news source, journalist, activist and trust him to tell us the full story.  And fast.

I bet most of you can't -- or would never even want to -- stay glued to KET's live streaming coverage of legislative proceedings at the Capitol.  If I wasn't getting paid, I'm sure I wouldn't be this interested, either.  That is the other extreme. 

No matter the topic, we must find the balance between consuming quick sound bites of what is really non-news and allowing the news to consume us.  The double-edged sword of the Information Age we live in is having more ability than ever before to access the world's news and knowledge but seemingly less time to process it all.

Some of the most publicized arguments are extreme and devoid of substance.  Or worse: The truth tailored to fit a specific belief or ideology.  This is not a characteristic of one particular viewpoint or news source.  This is a general statement about much of the so-called debate swarming around us today.

Many people are quick to share a witty meme that may support their view, but reluctant to read a multi-page analysis of a problem and the merits of various solutions.  As a lover of cheese and sarcasm, I firmly believe those memes have their place, but it will take much, much more for true progress in our world.

Combine passion with knowledge and strive not for a clever comeback but for reasoned response.  Seek out and emulate respectful debate.  I truly believe that is the only way to bridge the massive divides splitting this country and the world.  The voices I respect most are not necessarily ones I agree with, but ones that have considered all the options and are seeking a way for all of us to move forward together.

I have written before about effective communication. (Post 1 and 2) It is impossible to effectively communicate without being well informed. And that takes time and effort.

For those who feel compelled to speak out and join the discussion about one or more of the issues facing our nation and our world, then I encourage you to first read up.  Whether its economics, politics, religion or social justice, do your research.  Listen to what many of the (reasoned) voices (on every side) are saying before adding your own. 

I will talk in upcoming posts about engaging in debates on particular issues, but I do feel like this is such a crucial first step that so many in our world today overlook.  Some have taken their passion, their outrage, and simply reacted.  We would all do better to slow down and thoroughly consider the situation before proceeding.