It’s been a while, Friends. It seems like it’s always “been a while” when I sit down to write. When I catch a glimpse of the clearing beyond the mounds of inertia at my feet. It’s oddly unsettling, how this settling holds me back.

It’s been a while since I’ve connected thoughtfully with anything outside my private world. A while since I’ve concerned myself with things that matter, apart from random emotions and steadfast complacency. And it’s been a while since I’ve made viable contributions to these online communities where I used to thrive. It’s been a while since I’ve checked on my friends.

I looked back through my Facebook memories, laughing at the Bean tales I used to tell, remembering how everyone embraced them – and us. I looked back at all the friends we made here and wondered how so much life got swept aside. I wondered if it would be important again, or if the novelty had worn off. I wondered if I’d lost my place, before I’d found shelter somewhere new.

All this brought to mind the fundamental support, the weight we carried here, the bonds we shared. Virtual family, virtual friendship, virtual kindness and compassion virtually became something tangible. And I missed the people, the friends who’d been swallowed by the sludge I always seem to be wading through.

And so, I checked on some of those friends. I pulled up their pages and sought out their faces. I scrolled through the screens and searched for their stories. I finally tried – and found friends were gone. Not only from the virtual landscape, from the comments, the likes and the pictures, but gone from the real world. And it hadn’t just been days, or weeks, but months. Multiple months. Missing.

I knew one of our friends was sick and fighting. I’d seen the posts, the Go Fund Me pages. She was a warrior, but I’d worried about her. I’d valued her comments and her beautiful smile. I sent prayers and contributions. And yet, I didn’t notice her securing a new home for her dog. I didn’t catch her preparing to leave.

Another friend had health struggles. I assumed they weren’t life-threatening, but I couldn’t possibly have known. We were only friends on Facebook. We bonded through Bean, our babies, and books. The things that brought joy to us both. When I went to her page, I saw a post from her son. He’d found her deceased in her home – way back in February. He’d been worried when she’d stopped engaging online. I’d noticed too, but I hadn’t checked in – not for 6 whole months. The awful news was posted right there, if I’d only taken the time to look. I don’t know if she saw it coming. I don’t know if her son rehomed her dog. I just know I see space where it wasn’t before.

I lost my own dad this year. It’s part of life, losing people. We all know that. But people matter to us in different ways. And loss solidifies in different ways. And it’s hard to disconnect from people – even those you haven’t held in real life. It doesn’t make that loss, or their lives, any less real.

But it’s easy to separate. It’s easy to pull back and get caught up in our own little worlds. It’s easy to get stuck in the mire, to forget there are others stuck in that muck with you. When momentum escapes you, when nothing is moving, it’s easy to assume you’re all alone. You don’t notice there are others falling behind. You lose your way, you lose sight of the tributaries leading you back to your source. And it’s easy to lose yourself when you stop looking around for community. When it stops being a bright spot in your days. A comment, a like, a picture, makes a difference. And when we discard each other, we abandon ourselves. And when we recover – we finally realize just how long it’s been.

A while back, I decided to break up with alcohol. I’ve always been open about it and May marked three years. It’s hard to believe I’ve gone that long without, when it was once so ingrained in my immediate world. My family, my friends, my coworkers. We drank to celebrate, we drank to mourn, we drank just to be hospitable. We drank to loosen up, we drank to unwind, we drank to bond with the plethora of people who cross our paths. Alcohol flowed through our lives so naturally, we just opened the flood gates and let it pour in. Wherever we were, whatever we were doing. It was NOT raising your glass that raised so many eyebrows. It was moving against the current that created resistance, that made us skeptical, that had us questioning intentions. NOT drinking was foreign to us, and building that dam was like learning another language. It takes time to catch on, before it finally clicks.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped counting the hours, the days, the months, but I can’t help acknowledging the years. Whole years feel tangible. Like I’m really getting somewhere. And maybe that’ll stop one day – I don’t know. But for now, drawing that line on the bottle is a measurable victory. And somehow, I thought it was logical to embark on this challenge in the middle of a pandemic. While normal people were staying in, taking off their masks, tilting their glasses, and potty training their COVID puppies, I was living in my pajamas, eating ice cream by the pint, and looking like my dog died. And then, my dog really DID die, almost a year into this new walk of life. I was floundering. I wanted to drown my sorrows. But so many kind-hearted people reached out and proved to me that I could float. Even during a pandemic. Even when my dog died. Even then.

And now, I get the same question over and over. For three years, I didn’t know how to answer it. “Do you miss it?” Do I miss the alcohol in my life? And it surprises me when I realize I don’t. I don’t mourn the bottle, but I do miss the blinders and the ease of hiding behind a mask. And I still miss my dog. I’ve become marginally fluent in this second language, familiar with new territory, but it doesn’t change the place I call home. It’s not the alcohol I miss – it’s the MOMENTS. It’s the feeling of settling in, being welcomed. It’s embracing who I am – all of me. I didn’t notice how homesick I was when I surrounded myself with distractions. How far I’d strayed in pursuit of connection. How somewhere along the way, I sat down to rest and got stuck. Life’s direction isn’t linear, but I just stopped growing until I wasn’t moving at all.

The moments I miss are the times when we show up and believe we really see ourselves. When we’re present in our bodies, in our minds, and we meet ourselves right where we are. But those moments evaporate when you reach for a crutch, when you lean on it heavily and pretend not to see the obstacles in your path. There’s no such thing as liquid courage – it’s only false bravado. The conversations you have, the confidence you feel, the connections you make, are all emptied out by the drink in your hand. You won’t find yourself there, no matter how engaged you feel. It’s only in the moments of truth. When we’re authentic, when we’re vulnerable, when we accept ourselves completely. That’s when we come home. And there’s no place like it.

We talk about dogs living in the moment, loving unconditionally. We watch them eat, sleep, dream, play. And I do believe they grieve – in their own ways. And they still feel fear, at times. They have anxieties and insecurities, but their natural state is in balance. It’s proven that with a little guidance, discipline, affection, they come back to it. It’s not a choice – it’s just who they are. They’re present in everything they do, without question. It’s automatic. It’s their native language. And we can only strive to do the same – with a little guidance, discipline, self-care. It’s never automatic. We always have a choice. We have to REACH for our moments. Or at least, learn to recognize them for what they are, draw them out, and hold on like our life depends on it. Because it does.

What I never realized while I was drinking, is that alcohol doesn’t enhance these experiences – it eventually prevents you from having them at all. Those great conversations at “Happy Hour,” those brilliant epiphanies, that confidence we’re attracting, isn’t real. Those connections we’re making, that security we’re feeling, isn’t real. The ability to squelch our inhibitions, take off our masks, and throw caution to the wind, isn’t real. That peace, that escape we cling to at the end of a hard day, just isn’t real. But believing I’m capturing those moments – that’s what I miss. Having that crutch to lean on when I don’t want to walk on my own. Having something to take the sting out, something to soothe my nerves, something to sedate me when I just need to sleep. Believing I’m capable of creating my own joy, feeling purposeful, expansive, and full. That’s what I miss. Those moments.

But alcohol only masquerades as a solvent. In truth, it doesn’t fix any of those things – not in a way that’s authentic and productive. We think we’re boosting our moods, expanding our comfort zones, but we’re just building fences and limiting our horizons. So, while I miss that something to help me let my guard down, something to drum up “fun” as I knew it, something soothing to calm me when I’m anxious, lift me when I’m down. While I miss building “Me” time around liquid self-care, it’s only a guise. I have to find another way. I have to seek solace by turning within, squeeze satisfaction from a different experience. Because you can’t leave something behind without moving toward something else. You can only eat so much ice cream and have so many dogs.

And we all have our moments. We learn to recognize what truly makes us happy. We figure out what it means to draw boundaries without caging ourselves in. We find bits of ourselves scattered along the way, and we start putting those pieces together. Eventually, we have a foundation to build on, one that’s grounded in the present and facing the future. Then, we can finally come home to ourselves and really believe there’s no place like it.

As human beings, we’re encouraged to take care of every moment, to gather and celebrate life, even in times of great sadness. And it’s good advice. I hope we all do. But Memorial Day isn’t a celebration. Memorial Day is a day to honor those who’ve given their lives in service of something extraordinarily powerful. A force that stands nations under God, but somewhere far above ourselves.

Many of us frame Memorial Day as the start of Summer. Schools let out, students graduate. We open our pools, grill, and play. And that’s ok – as long as we remember. And it’s ok to need a reminder. For those of us who’ve never known life-altering sacrifice, or been touched by devastating loss. We need reminders. However foreign the territory, it’s time to stand at attention and pay homage to those who gave, and continue to give, their all.

I sit here, on this Federal Holiday, my feet up, relishing the hot dogs and beautiful weather. I sit here, in a land I’ve never had to defend, in a home where my security has never been threatened. I have a husband, a father, a brother, I’ve never had to part with. I don’t have children who’ll decide to enlist or be required to fight. I’m blessed. I know this. But I need to be reminded.

And it’s not just the fallen we have to remember. It’s the families with gaping holes in their hearts, missing or mourning their loved ones, adapting their own lives around those who’ve been called to serve. It’s the many men and women who come home forever changed by the things they’ve done and seen. It’s the brave souls who survive their wars, but surrender to suicide. I can’t even imagine, but I still need reminded.

So gather, celebrate, enjoy the freedoms we’ve been given. And if you pray, pray for the grieving to find some peace today. Spend time with your loved ones. Let them know you remembered. – L. 🇺🇲💙🇺🇸

When I christened this blog, I invited all of you to join us, to witness our rebirth. I said we were dropping new roots, quasi-starting over. I asked you to grow with us, but planted faulty seeds of expectation on two levels: 1) I don’t believe in the concept of starting over, and 2) I’ve watered religiously, expanded every which way, although I’ve grown faster than I’ve managed to harvest or share. And the produce has been bountiful. We’ve covered a lot of ground, and we’re searching for the perfect place to settle in.

If there’s one thing I’ve picked up from Sproutie, it’s all about placement and tenacity. You can’t be too careful about choosing your location. When you finally uncover that opportunistic spot, you have to dig in, stand tall, decide what you’ll reap in that moment, and keep sowing until you get it. It doesn’t matter how long you have to wait. If you’re standing in the right place, at the right time, with the right amount of patience, those treats will rain down on you.

Now, we both have a few things to learn about etiquette, and I’m sure you can guess which one of us is more resourceful. In fairness, Sproutie’s been practicing her patience and I’ve been beefing up my bark. We make a good Pack of Two when it’s us against the World, but we could stand to be clearer on who’s leading whom.

One conclusion I’ve come to is we’re NEVER really starting over. We can stumble, we can move past unsuccessful ventures or detours. We can unload the burden of guilt or uncertainty. We can make restitution for our wrongs, and even change up the plot. It’s our story – we decide how to spin it – but we can’t start over. Not ever again. Every choice, every gain, every loss, becomes an integral part of our very being. We can change perspective, redirect, give new meaning to logistics – but we can’t start over.

When I’m being mindful, I tend to garden on the edge of grace. Muddied forgiveness maybe – or maternal acceptance. We’ve been warned about the hazards of inclement weather, been counseled that growth forms on a multitude of surfaces, in all directions, yet we struggle with climate change. We deny ourselves accolades when we slip or stagnate. We won’t rest or test our footing on softer terrain. We don’t tolerate faults in our foundation or grant reprieve for persistence. It’s all punitive by nature. We stop moving, abandon our efforts, and any remnants of progress are left to erode or wash away. We’ve failed to gain traction, so we give up our place and turn back, under the guise of beginning again. So much for tenacity. What happened to patience? Forgiveness? Acceptance? We claim to grant ourselves a second chance, but it’s simply not true.

And if you’re like me, it helps to level the ground once in a while, to kick up some dirt. If you’re like me, maybe you’re inspired by a perfectly unmarred frontier. Maybe steadfast commitment makes you nervous, and you fear the narrowing of the path. In that case, keep plowing ahead. There’s no need to atone for where you’ve already been – there’s only hope in where you’ll go from here. Keep going. Do what’s in your heart without judgement or undue explanation. Do. Do again. And keep doing until you can’t deny your progress. Give yourself credit for beginning, and then doing, and doing some more. This is your life – all of it. Plant your soul in the soil and let it thrive.

As for me, I’m on my way. Our Pack is your Pack, if you care to join us. We’re stronger in numbers, so welcome to our anything BUT linear trajectory. Wherever you are, you’re in the right place. You’ll just have to catch up, because we’re not starting over. – 🌱L.

The start of a new week and I can hardly remember a time when it felt like a clean slate, when a morning didn’t carry with it the weight of monotony. I’m always tired. The same tired, day after day, after day. Sometimes with sparks of inspiration. I wake up early with ideas knocking around in my head, with possibilities tugging at my heart, but more often I sink back under cover, finding refuge in sleep. And the peace lost in the night sometimes finds me in the morning, when I know I’d feel better getting up and going about my day. Instead, I welcome sleep. Finally. And by the time I peel back the covers to expose the inertia, any promise of creativity, any semblance of rebirth, has already left me.

I’m learning. Maybe. There are days when I listen to the morning, when the right mood catches, pulls me up, and drags me along. When the mountain doesn’t feel impossible. When I reach for something to hold and expect to find it. And still, I rarely start that climb. Mostly, I stand there looking up and opt to walk away.

People talk all the time about imposter syndrome. How going about our lives can feel like masquerading. How we can’t just accept promise when it’s revealed to us, how we wrestle with belonging. How our accomplishments – big or small – are tainted with doubt. We refuse to take our places in the world, before we even know they’re ours. There’s always someone overhead with a fist full of stars, another climber destined for the summit we aim to claim for ourselves. Why are we so quick to pass on the glory? Why don’t we sport our success the way we wear our defeat? We strap our hearts to our sleeves and never listen to them beat. We belong. We belong. We belong.

Some say it’s fear of falling that keeps us stuck, but that’s not it for me. I’m not afraid to fall. I’m afraid I’ll never leave the ground. I’m terrified of missing the call, of going through life without purpose – without BECOMING who I’m meant to be, without giving what I’m meant to give. Because it’s all in the climb. Not where we start, or what we stake to get there, but the expansive fault in between. And I don’t know what to do with that – with the uncertainty on either side. I have trouble keeping my balance.

And I’ve been coaching myself. Teaching myself to acknowledge the smaller wins in life. To look at accomplishment, joy, success, with an attitude of, “Why NOT me?” If fulfillment and satisfaction is possible, why shouldn’t it be possible for me? What makes it attainable for those who find their way? If they’re not ordained, somehow special or chosen, what makes them better, more deserving, than me? Or YOU, and you, and you? And I’m encouraged. I can see myself reaching that summit, planting that flag, celebrating with all the other average people who took a chance on themselves and came out on top. There’s hope in that. There’s inspiration in that. And when I see it, when I feel that promise, I find faith in the journey. I can straddle that fault. I gain balance.

But lately, I’ve been grappling with something heavier than just imposter syndrome. I take a step further and start to lose my footing. I look to my mentors, my teachers, the people who’ve done the things I want to do, the people who have the things I long to have, and if I trust that I can do the same – my faith will only falter. When I see they have weaknesses and vulnerabilities, when I realize they make mistakes. If I accept as truth they’re sometimes wrong, even unlikable. If I’ve been misguided or deceived, disappointed or hurt. How do I recover from that? When I’ve accepted I’m not an imposter, not unworthy, no different from anyone who’s gone before me – how do I reconcile that?

And maybe I’m packing too much weight, but it’s hard for me to carry. I guess I’m still that little girl who needs to trust wholeheartedly in something. I don’t want to grow up and change perspective. I don’t want to know if my belief systems are wrong. I don’t want autonomy to mean I disagree with the people I love on things that matter, or I’ve learned from teachers I can’t respect in real life. I don’t want to doubt the heroes of my youth because they’re fallible, just like me. I want a safety net. I need that safety net.

And maybe the kind of reassurance I’m looking for doesn’t exist. Maybe there IS no safety net to make me brave, to scale my doubts. Maybe it takes profound confidence to go in the direction of your dreams. Maybe it takes a willingness to make mistakes, to reset and restore, to embrace the imbalance. Maybe it takes resilience and redirection. Maybe it’s about forgiveness – that being wrong or falling short is inevitable – for everyone. And when you start to get discouraged, or you feel like a facade, you take a minute, you gather yourself, and you just keep climbing.

There are days when I chastise myself for not writing. For not putting my words on a page where I can see them, mold them, form them into thoughts. When I’m writing, I can dictate, ration, revise. I can spread my words across the page, control the tempo, lessen the impact. It lets me show up as an edited version of myself. Vulnerable, but virtually unassailable. Or maybe, ONLY virtually vulnerable – depending how you look at it. Either way, I get to choose.

Then, there are days like today, when something needs to be said and there ARE no worthy words. No matter how you phrase it, how you write it, you can’t capture the essence of the feeling. No matter how you try, you can’t manipulate your sentiment into an adequate expression of compassion. There’s just no language for it. No human-readable text can effectively act as a conduit for despair. And still we try. We have to. Because language is all we have. Art is all we have. Creation, movement, physical touch – is all we have. And on days like this, it really feels like we’re losing that too.

On days like today, I feel helpless and disconnected, but also a bit cowardly. While I frequently defend the validity of my virtual community, I admit it’s been a useful place to hide. There’s safety in the distance that goes beyond simple introversion and crosses over into avoidance. Territory where I can camouflage my existence, and even partially disappear. This is where I feel most at home.

And there are times when I relate my life experience to the rest of world’s, even days when I dare to compare myself with other moms, just because I have a dog. And yes, I make my dog my world, but it’s my world. And I mostly like it here. Until days like this.

It’s when the semblance of order in the outside world is shaken and its existence threatened, that I struggle most to show up. Even the edited version of me has no authentic representation. Not only do I lack the words, I don’t even speak the language. And then I wonder if I really do live the way I write. Camouflaged, in hiding. Have I traded my shot at real intimacy for the convenience of selective disappearance?

Today, people are grieving on a level I’ll never comprehend, because of senseless acts of violence no one can explain. And I know I should say something to acknowledge their grief, but I have no words, and I feel like their grief isn’t mine to acknowledge.

I can pretend that being a dog mom is equatable to human parenting, but I don’t send my dog to daycare, afraid she won’t come home. We can go to the dog park without the risk of open fire. If a dog tries to bully, or gets too aggressive, we address it with their handler. But these are humans we were ultimately responsible for. How do we handle that? It’s just not the same.

And sometimes I wonder if I’ve lived this way on purpose. If I’ve orchestrated every action, every decision, every connection, from a place of fear. Did I censor my existence? Did I ration my experiences to control the narrative, to lessen the impact? Am I really at a loss for words, or did I choose not to speak the language?

Maybe I’ll never know for sure. Maybe I’m not meant to. Maybe it was free will, or maybe it was God’s plan. Either way, I’ve been spared the pain of devastating loss. I won’t sit around and wonder if my child left this world, knowing how much I loved him. Knowing how much he mattered. I won’t have to wonder if he loved me too. All I have to do is take a look at my dog, and I know that she knows. And I know that she loves. We may not have the words, but we speak the same language. We feel at home here. Protected. We believe in each other. I believe there’s a plan for my life, and with a little reassurance, I believe in God too.

When people say everything happens for a reason, it often comes as consolation for our struggle to reconcile reality with our version of what should’ve been. When we lose, when we grieve, when we just can’t make sense of the world unfolding around us. Believing there’s a reason for the unexplainable, even if we fail to comprehend it, becomes a life preserver in a place where we can only fathom drowning.

If you’d asked me years ago what I thought about it – if everything really does happen for a reason – I would’ve said I think you can find a reason to substantiate anything. It was safer that way. Scientific even. But I wasn’t being honest with myself, because I couldn’t find a reason to substantiate my lack of faith. And that’s when I knew I had to find some. I’d been treading water for too long.

So, I embarked on a pilgrimage of sorts. I started exploring possibilities, looking for signs, expecting tiny miracles. And to my surprise, I found them. As if accepting the nonsensical suddenly made sense. I didn’t know exactly what I believed, but grabbing that life preserver felt infinitely safer than braving the waters alone.

I’ve been working on my spiritual acumen. I have a long way to go, but I’m making progress. And when it comes down to it, it’s all about the journey anyway, isn’t it? It’s about connection, consistency, growth, and wellness. It’s about relationships, and most importantly, our relationships with ourselves.

We get advice from family and friends, mentors and therapists. We’re told we have to love ourselves before we find love, before we have healthy relationships. I’m beginning to understand what that means, and it’s not about our egos.

Our relationship with ourselves is the foundation for every other interaction in our lives. It dictates how we behave in the world – how we function creatively, physically, professionally, socially, spiritually. It determines who we are with our families, our coworkers, and even our pets.

The way we live together, work together, teach together, learn together, is dependent on an energy exchange. Productive interactions can’t occur without it, and to control or influence an outcome, we have to tap reserves. We can’t sell an idea without the right energy. We can’t communicate with our partners. We can’t even walk our dogs.

Our uncertainty, our insecurity, inevitably leads to fear. And when we’re fearful, we drain those reserves quickly. If we don’t have the confidence to accept ourselves, to sit with ourselves as we are, we can’t find our place in the pack, let alone lead it.

So, I started listening – REALLY listening – and taking inventory. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was going to start looking. I needed to believe my life was out there, waiting for me to live it – REALLY live it. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost sight of the promise I used to see hovering over the horizon. I thought I was stuck, but maybe I’d just forgotten how to hope.

I packed up the things I wanted to take, even things I hadn’t tried on in a while. I singled out some things I thought I’d need when I got there. But mostly, I realized how much I had to unpack. The heavy things I couldn’t take with me, the non-essentials that just didn’t fit. The effort to shed the limiting beliefs and non-productive patterns weighed less than the cost of carrying them along.

I did a lot of reflecting and dissecting, minimizing and decluttering. A lot of leveling to make way for progress and rebuilding. And sometimes I forget how hard I was hanging on, and how much I had to lose before I let go. And sometimes I don’t see the tiny miracles as they happen. Sometimes I wonder if they’re ever really there.

And this past Wednesday was a milestone for me. I’ve spent most of my life getting creative with the art of avoidance. Even as a kid, I had a lot of anxiety. And part of growing meant facing life head-on, making better choices, not going into hiding every time I’m overwhelmed. I had to get comfortable being uncomfortable. I had to start sitting with myself.

This week marked 2 years since I’ve had a drop of alcohol. I don’t blame alcohol for my problems. If anything, drinking was an effective coping mechanism – until it wasn’t. And I didn’t want to take it with me. I know alcohol filled me with anxiety that may not have been there without it. I also know it didn’t create the underlying angst. But it wasn’t the liquid courage it used to be, and it wasn’t the fuel feeding my resolve to face myself.

It wasn’t always easy either. Change is hard. Letting go is hard. But what’s been even harder is knowing where to go from here. You can escape the cages your heart and mind lead you into, but it’s up to you to figure out what sets you free.

I thought Wednesday would be a rewarding day, maybe even worth a celebration. But it was just an ordinary Wednesday. I didn’t have any epiphanies or witness any miracles. I had to remind myself how far I’ve come.

Departures and arrivals are only 2 points in a journey. We make a lot of pit stops along the way. We can never stop listening, learning, living. Pay attention. You don’t know what milestones you may be missing. Be grateful for every last one, plot it out, and keep going.

It’s a warm, cloudy day, and it’s probably going to rain. I don’t mind so much, when the weather reflects how I’m feeling inside. I like days like this, when the clouds hover over like a weighted blanket – heavy enough to swaddle your psyche, but tender, non-threatening. Clearly brimming, without spilling over. Filled with emotion, on the verge of a good, cleansing cry.

Maybe it’s me, but I need days like this. Restorative days. Comforting days. Days when I take cover without piling on the guilt. When staying inside is a way of self-soothing, when I sit quietly in the company of my thoughts. I can’t say I’m uncomfortable in this climate. Maybe I’m more myself this way. I think I have many selves, many layers. Maybe we all do.

Like most Saturday afternoons, I had a lot I wanted to accomplish. I wished one of my selves would step up and take action. And like many other Saturdays, I sat here while the hours passed, knowing I’ll never get them back. The missed opportunities, the chances to be productive, to make changes. To do better, to BE better.

And then I read that it’s National Dog Mom Day. Imagine that. Even dog moms have their day. And I felt obligated to act, because that’s what good moms do. Follow their instincts, lead by example. Or at the very least – do a little laundry, take out the trash.

And you know as dog moms, we put our dogs first. We think we’re spoiling ourselves by spoiling THEM. More food, more play, more attention. We create an atmosphere of lack, where there is none. Imagine wants, conjure needs that don’t exist. We can’t admit they’d be just as happy wagging their tails and waiting for our scraps.

What’s that The Dog Whisperer says? Exercise. Discipline. Affection. In that order. It’s how you satisfy a dog’s primal needs. You don’t lavish attention without rules, boundaries, and limitations. That’s parenting. Shouldn’t it be the same for us?

Over the past few years, I’ve thought a lot about self-care. People think it comes naturally. That we have some innate sense of how to care for ourselves, protect our peace, follow our dreams. We learn that being adults, mothers, women, role models, is about pouring out everything we have to water our worlds. It’s not good enough to hover and hint at a shower. We need to RAIN. All. The. Time. And it’s not good enough to soften the ground. We have to kick up the dirt. We have to STORM. And all the while, keep our eyes on the calm that’s supposed to come before.

What people fail to realize, or at least what I’ve failed to realize, is that self-care isn’t selfish. And it isn’t simple either. It’s not about waiting for the storms to pass and picking up debris. Self-care takes practice, discipline. It won’t settle in like a warm, weighted blanket. It’s challenging. It takes commitment and resilience, consistency and persistence. It takes knowing how to parent yourself and when to ask for help.

You can’t be happy without effort. Contentment and joy aren’t spoils easily won. You make choices. You learn to choose yourself. Through exercise, routine, by feeding your mind and your body. By knowing where to draw your boundaries, even when we blur the lines.

And leaving something behind isn’t the same as moving toward something else. Every choice, every step, we advance and retreat. We’re constantly in flux, always in motion. It’s not linear. It doesn’t come to us naturally. It takes rules and limitations. When the day looks dark, when the skies are overcast, shift your perspective and keep going. Do the laundry, take out the trash. Spend time with your people and your pets. Ask for what you need and receive it willingly. Give it to yourself if you can. Do it first. Lead by example. Appreciate your autonomy, be grateful you have agency. Make choices with certainty. Choose yourself in the way that only you can.

Well, it’s been a minute. I’d planned to share Sproutie’s report card from Dogtopia, but then there were Birthday parties to be had, cakes to bake, wishes to make, shark Easter Baskets, and laundry. I guess I deserve a failing mark in parenthood planning. And now it’s Mother’s Day, so what better time to size it all up and decide if we’re making the grade.

Last year, I spent the day alone. My first Mother’s Day without Bean. Sproutie was just a baby and hadn’t been planted here yet. It was a sad day for me. I call myself “Mom,” but I’ve never gotten comfortable claiming the title around mothers of human children. In a Dogtopia, maybe I could swing an honorable mention.

I miss Bean every day, but that day was particularly hard. I felt a void I’d never felt, a void maybe only a mother could feel. I felt homesick. Barren. And then I felt guilty for drawing the comparison. Yes, she was a child to me, but the void I was feeling could only extend as far as my experience could fathom. I’m sure a real mother would say the same.

I’ve thought a lot about Motherhood over the years. Finally comprehending the magnitude of sacrifices my own mother has made for me, for our family. I became a part of new families, watched friends become mothers and others say goodbye. I’ve watched loved ones I know in my heart were just BORN to be mothers, grieve for children they’ll never hold. It’s heartbreaking. It’s beautiful.

I made a decision not to have a baby, or at least, procrastinated long enough to make it implausible. In my world, indecision becomes a choice. Like so many other things, I chose not to choose. I accepted all the lives that may have slipped away. And I carry the weight of them with me. What if I’d chosen differently? What if I’d tried and tried and failed to create this ideal life I’d purposefully chosen? Or what if I’d done it all and it was taken from me? It happens all the time.

And yet, I’ve stressed to these loved ones and friends that Motherhood doesn’t define us. We’re more than just mothers and daughters and empty vessels. We give birth all the time – to dreams and ideas. We love and ARE loved. We change. We grow. We thrive.

Motherhood is a state of being. “Mothering” is a verb. We have life-giving opportunities every day. We have chances to mother and be mothered. I’ve been held and shaped by many amazing women in my life. I’ve had mentors and caregivers who’ve nurtured me through countless seasons of gratitude, grief, and growth. Every one of these mothering souls is much more than the wisdom and love they’ve shared with me. Every one of those hearts has infinite capacity to mother, but it’s still only part of who they are.

And if that statement proves true, we can all experience our own adaptations of Motherhood. We get to decide who we mother and who we allow to mother us. We get to choose who we become, whether we actively choose or passively stand by and wait. I guess I’m a waiter.

I’ve been fortunate to find my way with words, with my family, with my friendships, with my dogs. I tap into the mother inside me, the mother who lives in all of us. And I’m grateful for every moment I’ve spent nurturing another life.

Mother’s Day is hard for those who’ve struggled, who’ve tried, who’ve questioned and wondered. For those who’ve loved and lost, or feel small in comparison. But that’s NOT what this day is for. It’s a day to recognize all the ways Motherhood is instrumental in our lives, and in the lives of others. It’s a day to celebrate the Nurturer in all of us, to honor the Mother within.

Happy Mothers Day, Everyone!

– 🌱L.

Would you look at this, Friends? I’m posting 2 days in a ROW. I know, I know. I impress myself too. But I have to say, I may be overcompensating for a ruff morning. Well, not exactly RUFF. More like pleasantly DISORGANIZED.

First of all – MAD props to all the human moms (and dads) out there, who regularly manage to get ready for work and drop the kid(s) at daycare or school. I know you do it every day, and on a schedule too! I thought of you warmly while I fumbled through Sproutie’s 1st trip to Dogtopia for her Meet & Greet. Well, maybe more like luke-warmly, but you get the idea – RESPECT.

For those of you who don’t know Dogtopia, it’s a boarding, daycare, playpark, grooming facility where pups can go to socialize and have fun with other pups. I had to wait until she had her spay surgery (the World isn’t quite ready for baby Sprouts and neither am I) before she could take part in the festivities, but I’ve been looking forward to a positive interaction with her peers.

If you know Sproutie, you know she LOVES people and has to say hello to every person she sees. Her besties are her Blue Shirt Friends at PetSmart, where she’s been offered employment as an Honorary Greeter, but she doesn’t discriminate. For the amount of time and money we spend there, we should probably start leaving our toiletries and toothbrushes.

Anyway, I’m not quite sure how she’ll do at Dogtopia. She aced her Meet & Greet with the Front Desk, but Moms aren’t permitted backstage. That said, they DO have cameras where we can watch the playrooms on a mobile app. And they’re supposed to send pictures around lunchtime. Things have come a long way in the daycare realm, even for dogs. Thank goodness this kind of technology didn’t exist when I was babysitting, but I digress.

So I posted yesterday about the dogma a Dog Ma is subjected to, and let me tell you, daily life in Dogtopia is no exception. I was grateful to be dropping off without an audience. Yes, we were running a little late (though early for a Saturday in my book), but I felt strong when an equally disheveled dog mom came in with her 3 month old. That was before she hung herself with a leash for forgetting her baby’s lunch, and I realized I hadn’t brought Sproutie’s (I was supposed to bring lunch??) either.

Then I decided to confess that Sproutie is house-trained (meaning she goes to the potty IN the house) and may not know how to ask for outdoor pee places. Yet another thing I hadn’t thought of, so I was more than relieved when the Dogtopia employees told me all the dogs are expected to “relieve” themselves on the indoor/outdoor play floor (SCORE!). Anyway, I left feeling good when none of us cried, and I’m only having marginal separation anxiety while book hoarding and hibernating at the Barnes & Noble.

After splurging on 3 new books, an Irish Cream Cold Brew, and a cookie (don’t judge me – it’s my Birthday), I figured I would check out some camera footage on Dogtopia TV. I scanned the rooms and had a hard time locating Sproutie at first. Then I saw her streak by in her Birthday Suit. I didn’t realize they would undress her, so I hope she wasn’t too embarrassed to get some skin in the game. From what I can see, she’s not exactly a Kardashian on the social scale, but I don’t think we’ll take her off the air just yet.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my own pee places before I pick up the girl. They said she’s getting a report card and I’m already a bit nervous. She’s not exactly Miss Manners. And if we’re being honest, we’d probably have a hard time keeping a human daughter off the pole. Happy Saturday, Y’all. – L.