no reason to be sad

I was fourteen-years-old when I wrote my first suicide letter in the back of a plastic, snap journal my brother had gotten for Christmas. He was in Africa at the time on a mission trip and his steadying, protective presence is something I have come to rely on. At fourteen, I didn’t know the logistics of what committing suicide looked like, but what I knew was that my mind had me trapped in a darkness and sadness so deep that I knew I could escape. If my memory serves me well, by the time my brother returned I had dug out of the hole and it took years for him to find the letter. 

This week I found myself at the event Uncovered with Nichole Mischke. Nichole’s passion and belief is that we must tell our stories of shame in order to live our fullest life and that our stories will help set others free. That night we heard three stories—stories of alcoholism, opioid addiction, and sexual abuse. As I sat listening in on these stories of destruction and healing, I realized that I have kept the most shameful parts of my depression stories tucked safely away. As I unravel my story through this blog and on my Instagram, hoping my boldness will help someone else, I have truly kept it all hidden besides to those few who were walking my divorce story in real time. I don’t want to hide it anymore because my 

biggest secret hinges on a very common thread being spoken over young people with depression every day. 

I was raised in a Christian Conservative home. One where depression was a sign of unbelief, not of chemical imbalance. So many nights were spent sitting on a couch across from my mother telling her how sad I was and her refrain was always “you have nothing to be sad about”. 

You have nothing to be sad about. When a child or young adult heard they have nothing to be sad about that take that sadness and they bury it. They turn it into something else. Something more acceptable. I learned that my sadness was more accepted when it became anger. Think about your friends sitting around the table during a divorce or break up, a job loss, a death, a sexual assault. Think about that awkwardness of sitting in that moment with someone. Do you find it easier to console them? To let them cry on your shoulder without giving them a single answer to why the universe is unfair? Or is it easier to mock the other person? To swear and seek revenge? In our society, it seems to me gossip and anger are much more accepted than the tears and uncertainty of cruel situations. I learned quickly that I could have tantrums and I could let rage explode and both friends and family had an easier time wrapping their head around it. 

Four weeks after my sweet boy was born it was clear I was not okay. I wasn’t showering or sleeping or surviving. I had begged God for a baby for the six years I had tried to get pregnant. I had spent that time falling in love with other people’s children and working in Early Education. I had no reason to be struggling. I had no reason to be sad. I had moments I could feel the depths of my postpartum depression and begged Jim to institutionalize me. I didn’t have the strength to do the research in what that looked for. Mostly, I had moments of deep pride. “You have nothing to be sad about.” Newly married, a new city, a new baby. I leaned back on my rage. I hated Porter. I couldn’t mother him the way I imagined and so I took it out on him, not physically ever but I decided he was a boy I just couldn’t love and whom I resented. I hated Jim. Every thought of suicide I had in the three years we waiting out our eventual demise I equated to his inadequacy as a father. He became what I called the “fun uncle”. The man who just swept in to save the day while I fell apart. Each time he flew away on an airplane for a work trip I told him I hope his plane crashed since he was useless anyways when really all I wanted to tell him was I needed him home. The cruelty I spoke to Jim, both emasculating him and alienating him, when all I needed was to love him and for him to love me so I could get help still stands as unforgivable in both our minds. “You have nothing to be sad about.” I couldn’t admit my weakness because it was something I didn’t deserve to own. 

This year has come in as a gift. Following my suicide attempt my therapist told me to be depressed, speak my truth. I tend to want everyone to be comfortable and so I skip over anything that could be awkward. She told me it is up to other people how they receive what you have to say. What I heard time and time again while I told people “I’m done and tying up loose ends. I don’t want saved” was “we don’t know what to do”, “we’re here”, “we’ve never dealt with this but let’s figure it out together”. Slowly, my rage has unraveled into speaking my sadness when it is present. Slowly, my anxiety has caught itself before an insult towards the person inducing it. It’s not perfect but I’m growing. 

Remove “you have no reason to be sad” from your thoughts and vocabulary. I would even challenge you to step up when someone tells you they’re depressed and they have no reason to be. That, my friend, is your red flag calling you to help. 

Porter James Ulysses: Year 5.

Dearest Porter Pie-

Every year when I sit down and write your birthday letter, I think through all the things we’ve lived the year before. My biggest prayer for our lives is that no moment would be without purpose; that no moment would be without laughter or growth or meaning. There are so many moments this year that feel like they are without but, Porter James, the plan is never ours to know. Slowly things fall into place and the beauty of the story that is being written is revealed. This year has felt like the constant restarting of chapters ruthlessly re-edited into something that makes your little heart sing. 

This year my heart ached for you in so many ways. Looking through the window between my classroom and yours and knowing so much of your acting out was because you could not process your world. You almost lost me at the beginning of this year and as my heart and mind fell further into an abyss of depression, your actions came to a point you were dismissed from school. I tried to protect you as much as I could, to keep your world untouched by the thing that I couldn’t control in my own but you, my sweet boy, are the most empathetic and emotionally intelligent child I have ever met. It was felt in the way you always cozied up to me when my heart hurt. In the way you rubbed my back at night, like you were so used to me doing to you when you couldn’t sleep. It was felt in the way you would ask for stories about when you were a baby. 

On the days you were with Dad, my heart felt like it was being shredded into a million pieces. My purpose, the reason for my moments, has always been you. Without you anchoring me, laughing with me, adventuring with me, living with me, I wasn’t sure what life looked like. The more I struggled to find my footing, the more it was clear that you could not find yours. Your dad and I fail in a million different ways as ex-spouses but in a million different ways we navigate co-parenting better than a lot. When my heart has missed you, I have been able to see you. 

The summer served as a reset for us. Your grandma came. Miss Julian stepped in. Your Dad took time off work. There are times in life when people need structure and learning and hard work and then there are times when people need rest and love. You were held as we figured out the next steps of what life looked like for you. You needed the daily reminder that you were not an inconvenience, that you were not a trouble maker, or a difficult student. Day-by-day I saw your smile return. I saw the stress fall away from your face. I saw the destruction of a label given to you over and over again for a year change. It changed for inconvenience to loved. It changed from difficult to growing. It changed from too much to unique. It turned from angry to sweet. As each piece of your identity was shown, the way you interacted with the world and the world interacted with you changed. 

I have never met a more polite, sweeter boy, Porter. I am proud of you at every turn because I know that the things that shine in you are not nurtured but rather just the nature of your sweet little heart. I remember taking you to babysit with me and you sitting right now with the kids and joining in the fun. The Dad observed that you are secure because of the deep love you know exists in your world. It made me proud to know you can walk into a crowded room and always be comfortable because you know no matter what your Mom or Dad is there to catch you and love you when need be. We will always be here. 

Life this year will again change for you as I prepare to move across the country. I know you won’t understand as a five-year-old why this is important for me, for us. The truth is that my job is to create the best life possible for you and right now I don’t have that ability from where I’m standing. I want to build a better life for you. That means for the next few years while I go to school, there will be a sacrifice of time for both of us. My heart doesn’t know how to feel about it in this moment but I know in the future this will build the life we need. This decision has already come at a loss for me. The attacking of my position as your Mom. I’ve said it often but I will say it again here—I am not perfect. I am human but try each day to be better for you, and for myself. Even in the moments I have failed you, it was never my intention. I came out on the other side of every accusation leveraged against me because I see the truth when you jump into my arms after school, hold my hand when your nervous, and insist on cuddling with me until the moment you fall asleep. I love you well and in return you love me so well. I am in this life with you, whether here or in New York. 

I love you to the depths, Porter James ❤️ Happy Fifth Birthday, Pie. 

Mommy

Suicidal in America.

For several years now I have shared bits and pieces of my mental health struggle. Mostly, it has been the victory, the forward motion. Struggling again the past few months has felt like a failure, an embarrassment. The shame that often is associated with depression and suicide found it’s way back to me, making it difficult to talk about it in any honest or real way, even to my nearest and dearest. The story is still evolving but life feels better. It feels like it’s in a place of deep healing but also in a place after the storm when I must look back at all the damage that depression left in it’s wake. I cannot put together a full narrative for you because I cannot yet see the full narrative. As always, I share the bits and pieces of my heart I feel safe sharing in the hope that there’s someone who may read them and not feel so alone in their journey and that people who have never had this darkness sneak in grow a little more compassion. 

It was a simple trip to REI to look for some new workout clothes. I remember getting halfway through trying on clothes and feeling exhausted. Not the type of exhausted that sneaks up after a long day of work but the type of fatigue that made me question if I had any choice but to curl up on the bench in the dressing room and wait it out. I made it to the car but knew I could make it no further. My body nor mind had the fuel necessary to continue even the four blocks home. It didn’t feel like something had triggered this sudden shut down my body was experiencing but I recognized it all too well. My flight or fight response was screaming at me but paralysis came over me instead. There were tears but no crying. I couldn’t turn the key to start the car to go to a safe space so my phone became that safe space. I tried to call a friend but when they picked up no words would come so it was the feverish texts still present on my phone that came out. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t go home. I can’t stay here. I don’t know how to make it through this day. I don’t think I’ll make it through the next minute. What do I do?” 

This to me now is ground zero. It’s the moment of the mental break. The moment that makes absolutely no sense but held hostage the next six months of life. This was the mental break that lead to the depression that lead to a month of planning my suicide. I know some of those words are scary. I know they make people look away or see me a different way but don’t look away, because there is a broken mental health system in this country that is deeply concerning. I guarantee someone you know is afflicted in some way and the lack of understanding, or perhaps care, around mental health is astounding. 

Anti-Depressants:

I told myself if I ever found myself in the throws of an episode again I would immediately go on antidepressants. Within a couple weeks of my parking lot meltdown, I was prescribed my first antidepressants. Everyone has a different experience with antidepressants and I know plenty of people who see them as a God send. I am glad that they have found a system that works for them. At my particular doctor’s office, I was asked 3 questions to determine what drug to be placed on. These questions basically assessed my energy level and hygiene while being depressed. The first round of antidepressants made me detached. I could read the emotions of a room around me but I could never quite feel them. I found myself back at the doctor’s office to answer a new set of 3 questions. I became very ill on my second antidepressants. I can handle a lot of things but physical illness brings out the wimp in me. I couldn’t stay on them long because of vomiting, migraines and the fear of seizures. My therapist suggested I do genetic testing to find which drug my body metabolizes with the least amount of side effects. I felt encouraged by the idea of not simply taking a stab in the dark. However, instead of that medication helping my mood, it detached any sense of connection I had to existing or surviving. On this drug, I found myself very logically planning my suicide. I called my son’s dad to let him know when I’d be making my exit. I told friends where my legal documents were and what I needed them to do to help with Porter. I told family that it was no different than scheduling a dentist appointment, the time had simply come. As everyone around me freaked the fuck out, I wrote a logical plan and a letter to my son. 

Antidepressants felt like the answer. They’d always been packaged as the one thing I hadn’t tried. I was completely discouraged that I could somehow be on antidepressants and still be having panic attacks and suicidal ideations. My therapist simply said to me “you have to decide you want to fight like this is life or death”. I knew with this medication subduing my mind there was no way I could get depressed enough to be scared or joyful enough to see hope. I knew in my heart getting the drugs out of my system was the only way to even have a chance of survival. What I did not anticipate was the struggle to convince a doctor you don’t need antidepressants once you’re on them. I drew the line at trying a fourth antidepressant, a fourth opportunity to have an adverse reaction. Yet today, I still received a phone call that the refilled the prescription I asked them not to. 

Safety Checks:

From first contact with the police by a friend who called for a safety check on me to the moment I opened my front door was 7 hours. 7 hours. I cannot imagine a suicidal human who would not have completed their mission in that time. I also cannot imagine a world in which the first person you want to see while under distress is a uniformed police officer. Let me break down for you how a safety check works. 

“People are worried about you. Do you have a plan to hurt yourself?”

“I rather not talk to you about this.” 

Police Officer hands you the number of crisis services. 

I guess that’s all it takes to stop death by suicide? 

Criminalization of Suicide:

As it became clear that I was at an alarming place, several friends came together to contact a crisis service on my behalf. This time it didn’t take 7 hours but 5 days for them to get ahold of me. I do not love people being in my home. I like it to be mine and Port’s space but I legally had to allow them in. It instantly put me on my guard. Upon entering my home, my safe space, they handed me a dumbed down version of the Miranda Rights and told me I had the right to an attorney at any point in the process. 

Since when is it a crime to have a mental illness? Clearly, we as a society have felt this way for some time as we call it “committing” suicide. I have a controversial view of suicide but here is how I feel; if we would not criminalize a cancer patient for refusing treatment, why would we make it punishable to choose not to seek treatment for a mental illness. Pain feels different for us all. We have not lived in each other’s stories. How can any of us be the judge for someone else’s pain? In the end, do you know what it feels like? The system in place seems inadequate to just someone’s mental state unless you present with the stereotypical suicidal profile. If you can just answer the ten questions correct about how you’re feeling and why, the system in place can pat itself on the back and sign off liability for your death, should it come to that. 

Community:

There aren’t many people around me who can relate to suicidal ideation. The one thing I cannot express enough is to just show up anyways. There were friends who stayed up with me for almost a whole weekend straight and mostly it was to say “we don’t understand”, “this is awkward and uncomfortable”, and “you’re not leaving even if you want to be pissed at us about it”. I know all the things that didn’t save me. It wasn’t the survey of why I feel like shit. It wasn’t the questions that came with the shame of a plan. It wasn’t medication or distraction. It was people showing up and not knowing what to do. They didn’t try to convince me to stick around, in honesty. They laid out the options and said “pick”. The beautiful reminder in their tough love was that when you’ve seen the finish line, you can decide to brush off all the excuses and build exactly the life you want. There truly is nothing left to lose. 

The last six months have made me afraid, not for myself, but rather for people who don’t have community. The people who find themselves staring into a system that is not equipped to treat them as humans but rather as people who are “crazy” or “attention seeking”. The truth is we are aware of how uncomfortable our reality is. It is not who we are but rather the power of our mind to make us believe the unimaginable. It is you who must adjust. I would encourage you to stare into the uncomfortable with us. It sounds cliché but you never know what that one smile or “hello” can do to reground someone in the throes of an episode. 

Bravery:

Bravery looks like staying. Bravery looks like hurting and healing and struggling through the pain. Bravery is looking the face of the people who held you through it in whatever way they saw fit and humbly saying “thank you”.  Bravery is looking at what you lost in the process. Bravery is knowing that people now have notions about you that aren’t reality but what people must tell themselves to feel safe with their interactions with you. Bravery is repeating to yourself that you want to be here until your heart matches that refrain. Bravery is being scared you’ll reach the lowest low again but living life anyways. Bravery is giving yourself permission to smile and laugh again. Bravery is hard. 

home.

I've been thinking a lot about the idea of home lately. A decade has brought seven houses in four different states. Home was no longer the permanence contained in any four walls like it seemed to be living my first eighteen years in my parent's home. I have learned in those ten years that just because I possess a key to a door does not mean that comfort, safety or love exist once I cross the threshold. Before even taking off my shoes, each home created a world of it's own. There was the Oakwood apartment where friends laughing upstairs would draw my attention from the fist holes in the hallway wall from one more heated, drunk fight. The sound of Jeff or Jaime writing music in the studio of our Nashville house. The screen door slapping back as you came in off the wrap around porch of the Hampton house. Carl running to meet me as I took of my shoes at "Chenutica Farms". Our first home in Spokane where I was so fogged by Postpartum depression that I don't remember coming or going, or even where the closest light switch to the door was. Now the house on Sinto where I put my keys on the familiar Simon Pure tray but my eyes land on items I no longer consider mine even if I helped pick and pay for them. Each time I packed up boxes to leave one space, I slowly and carefully wrapped up every picture frame, pair of heels and coffee mug as though these things would preserve my identity once the movers had removed the last box and I had scrubbed the last finger prints off the kitchen counters of my current living situation.

In each subsequent house, the basement got fuller as only the most useful items ever found their way into the new rooms. It was never the Hero Design posters, my grammy's crystal juicer, or Porter's baby blankets. Unpacking in the rush of life was always limited to the pots and pans, pillows, and bath towels. Decorative items were bought time and time again instead of dug up from the dank attics. With each passing month, and eventually years, I realized I loved pretty things but that they were truly a nuisance. Home and my identity were not found in possessions or sentimentality. Things created a guilt in me for not caring about them more, misplacing and breaking more than my fair share even though I had put in hours and hours of work to afford them.

If nothing about physical walls and the contents within provided home, only shelter, I had to assume that humans were the real providers of home, of belonging, of rest. But the story of those same ten years held two sets of broken vows. Home became a scary word. It became a place of lies and pain, of false safety, and dashed hope. If the person whose last name you share cannot shelter you from the storm, where do you reside when the world feels unsafe? When grace runs dry and you're forced to look at the truth of the damage done, you find that your heart looks like a home hit by a hurricane. Only the damage is that of trauma to your soul and your mind. Two years ago, in the midst of life-altering trauma, 2,480 miles from my blood family without a home or a partner, I had to question once more what home was.

Will Reagen sings a song, 'Climb", whose lyrics became my anthem.

          "I will climb this mountain with my hands wide open. There's nothing I hold onto."

Life. Love. Security. Depression. Friends. Pain. Stability. Possessions. Home. They all became fluid. Sand running through my hands. I was so longing to find home here on Earth since I first left my parent's house. I had changed locations, partners, careers, habits all the find the one key that would unlock my true home. The reality, the right in front of my face truth, is that I was not made for this place. The longing to find home is natural but the answer to where home exists is supernatural. The moment I learned to hold the things of this world loosely (which happen quiet recently) I started to learn what home, my true North, felt like. 

Home is found in my early morning prayers, still lying in bed. It is found in signing along to worship songs in the car on lunch break with my best friend. It is found taking communion at church with a friend's hand in mine. It is found extending kindness and grace when I least want to. It is found in the deep cries that come with my depression. It is found in being broken but asking one more time for forgiveness. It is found falling asleep wrapped in the arms of my person. It is found in knowing myself better than ever before and loving myself, glaring flaws and all. There are moments of heaven on Earth, moments that are sacred if you take time to notice. That is home to me these days. Not a place or a person but the simple moments of great Love.

Porter James Ulysses Simon: Year 4.

Dearest Porter Pie-

You were curled up on the side of the tent in layer of jackets, sleeping bags and blankets, a Carhartt hat pushing your red hair down and out the front of it, your Cotton and blankie a forgotten memory next to your boots at the door of the tent. My cell phone had service but it hardly matter because the below freezing temperatures were draining the battery faster than I could find the perfect Instagram filter to put on the picture I had taken earlier that day of you hiding sticks for the squirrel I had convinced you was following us on our hike from Lake Louise to the Lake Agnes Tea House. The little girl in the tent next to us wasn't as good of a sleeper as you and with each one of her cries there were grumbles from the tents next to ours. The same sweet mannered college kids who had let you build them a campfire, the young couple who had helped us take the perfect photo in front of the alpine lake adjacent to our tent, the family who shared their son's string cheese with you simply so the boy could ask you your name, had far less grace and kindness for this late night interruption than us. You and I. We didn't mind. 

When the sun rose three short hours later, you awoke with it, eager to greet the day. It was the last morning I remember you wearing footie pajamas. Your little feet scampered across the frozen soil, covered in green and yellow dinosaurs, to collect firewood. I had said hundreds of times over the previous year, "We're going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.", speaking into being the way I wished life to be. Here in this mountain air, poorly made coffee in hand, you cuddled in a camping chair next to me dropping marshmallows into your hot chocolate was the first time I knew not only would we be okay, but we would grow something beautiful from the ashes.

The thing about growing is that it doesn't happen in a linear fashion. As much as people will tell you there is some magical equation to the growth and well-being of a child, that is simply a lie. The truth is that growth happens in whatever way a little mind and body decides to be impacted and influenced by the world around it. Your growth, Bug, came with tears and rage. It came with hours of time outs, and meetings with your teachers, and the hope that we could make it through just one more day without having to find you another school. Bogged down by still slow speech you chose to use your hands to stand in the place of words. I remember the day you pulled a little girl's hair. "Because". Just because. Just because your toddlerhood had been tumultuous. Just because you had lost your other family in the midst for your dad's breakup. Just because you and I had moved homes for the second time in 6 months. Just because your little heart didn't know that when the other little boy in your class threw you up against a wall you were not to to follow his example. Just because your interactions and influences with the wold, at age three, were already telling you that this world was unpredictably difficult and so you strained for control. 

As your control slipped, so did mine. For three years my identity had hinged on "mom". I had sacrificed years of my peace, crying myself to sleep trying for a baby. I had sacrificed a marriage taking no time or care of myself and that relationship out of the guilt of feeling unfit to raise you. I had sacrificed my mental health, my body, my dreams, my needs. Hear me now, Bug, I gladly gave it all up for the gift of you, the one I had been praying about for so long. What it took me until this year to realize is that you didn't need me to sacrifice anything for you. What you needed of me was to be whole, joy-filled, loving, and purpose driven. I was working on my own growth as that person you and I needed until I was hit with the first phone call home. It was the first of firsts. It was quickly followed by the first behavior-based incident report, the first meeting with you teachers, the first anger spell so bad you were projectile vomiting from stress on your circle time carpet. Like the ocean returning to high tide, my identity instantly returned to "mom". In the past, the lie of my identity had been that being a mother was the only thing I was good at. In this moment, the lie that attached itself to my mom identity was failure, not good enough, unworthy, damaging, unnecessary. I couldn't control the sobbing, hiding in the car while you played in the front yard. "His behavior is because of you." With each subsequent discipline the lies became louder and stronger. "You ruin everything you touch."  Each time I would hide in my car, in the corners of my classroom, into my pillow at night, crying, believing that I was nothing but a poison that could not be controlled. 

The thing that did not change in this season was my grace for you. I am a broken hot mess, like every other human, Porter. The good news is that when we were yet sinners our Jesus went to a cross. He gave us a grace without question. I will always guide you, discipline you, and teach you. I will give you consequences and have uncomfortable conversations about your actions that make you hide behind your hands. Likewise, I will always pour lavished, undeserved grace upon you. I will assume the best and listen to your heart of why your actions felt necessary. I never stopped holding you to sleep, reading you one zillion bedtime stories, and trying my hardest to guard your heart against the still uncertain circumstances of what family looks like. 

The sweetness I saw in you never changed. In meetings with Teachers, Directors, and Principals the word "sweet" came up over and over again even as they described hard to stomach stories of your behavior. Your compassion, your care, your love, your excitement of life's littlest joys overflow out of you. In the war of nature versus nurture, I know this is all nature. Your dad and I both fight against our inner demons to possess these qualities. We found ourselves sitting back this year in utter awe of the love you show us and your little friends, at your ability to giggle at almost nothing, your way of hugging as a form of communication, your way of crying when a loved one does because you hate to see them hurting. I held on to these two unwavering truths as tightly as I could as hope and instruction for this season. 

It was almost 6 full months later that I found myself in the car, crying once again, calling your dad. "I'm picking you up in ten minutes. We're going out to celebrate." You had made it through your first week with not a single incident or visit to the Director's office. It has been months since that first week and it has not been perfection. In our family, perfection is not a goal. Perfection is nothing more than another lie meant to bring down the happiest and healthiest of humans. Our call is to understanding our own limitations and lean on God for all that we lack. 

Porter James Ulysses, Dad and I are faithfully here. We are a non-traditional family, and may always be, but we are a family who shows up, who tackles the difficulties, who grapples with the depths of our own self-doubt for the good of one another. We do not sweep things under the rug, or give up, or allow our hope to be transformed to hopelessness. We walk out love, and grace, and humility to the very best of our ability. More than anything, Porter, your Dad and I are adults with our own bumps and bruises. Our identity nor our worth hinge on how well you behave, what you accomplish, who you eventually chose to love, who you worship, what gender you identify with, or what you eventually chose to do as a career or as a human. We ask nothing more of you than to be your most authentic, kind, beautiful self and allow us to meet you there. 

Happy fourth Birthday, my sweet, deeply feeling, little boy.

Love you forever and always,

Mommy

September 2017: Banff Hot Springs

October 2017: Apple Picking at Walter's Fruit Ranch

November 2017: Thanksgiving

December 2017: Snowshoeing on Mt. Spokane

January 2018: Hiking at Tubbs Hill, CDA

February 2018: Exploring at Manito Park

March 2018: Quinn Hot Springs Paradise, MT

April 2018: Easter

May 2018: Swimming at Sparks Lake Bend, OR

June 2018: Dirty Dash Piglet Plunge

July 2018: Camping at Dry Falls State Park

August 2018: Hiking the PCT in Snoqualmie Pass, WA

September 2018: Exploring Fire Trucks Downtown 

Again for the last time.

After 18 months of fighting so hard for the opportunity to fix my marriage, I found myself standing before a judge, tears streaming down my face, holding Porter's blankie in my hands, asking for a final trial date. Eight hours earlier I had been dating my estranged spouse. The last string of any trust I had for him had just been cut in one final betrayal. The refrain in my head was what an idiot I had been. Time and time again over the last two years I had been hurt, given grace, forgiven, loved and started all over again. 

"I don't even know what God might be doing at the story at this point. You have a better vision of the whole story. Do you know?"

A sweet friend met me quickly for coffee after court. My only answer was "I honestly don't care where God is. I am so very angry at Him."

In the weeks since, that question has been rolling around in the recesses of my mind. The answer has not come clearly and it hasn't come strong. Instead this is the moment in time when I am learning what faith is. I know that I must look at what God has done for me over and over again throughout the recent years of my life. That means believing that the healing and faithfulness that have come before will come again. It means believing that He is truly greater than I. It means believing that the story of redemption that I truly believed God had called me into was not the one that was meant to be. It means believing that God does have my story in His hands but that my story no longer contains an us. 

Over a year ago I felt called into a period of waiting but that call has changed to a period of motion and movement. Here's what I know about motion. Motion can overwhelm us and take us to places that we never expected to find ourselves. Motion can wear us out and make us busy. Or motion can be life giving and elevate our lives. I don't want to find myself motionless or going through the motions just to get by. If I am going to continue to grow my life out of this space, than I am going to build something beautifully intentional. 

I don't know what that looks like but I know there are stirrings of something meaningful here. I have hesitatingly whispered the plans and passions I have to strangers on hiking trails and to friends at work. I have started business plans and started to dream what it could look like to respond to the pull on my heart. I have been fighting for one dream for so long now the prospect of giving it up fully and moving on to fight for something else is daunting, and honestly uncomfortable and scary. But I will step into the motions of this new life, knowing that something beautiful will be built here. 

Porter James Ulysses Simon: Year 3.

Dearest Porter Pie-

It was difficult for me to sit down to write you your birthday letter this year. I've spent weeks mulling over how to explain to you what happened in the last year. At first my heart and my mind instantly went to the heartbreak, the struggle, the betrayal,  the time that I spent across the country from you gaining my life back, the anger, the hours I have lost parenting because of joint custody, and the scars that at times still hurt like they are new. I've written you a journal entry now for over 300 days and those pages are pages of mourning and rejoicing. They are the stories that you will someday need to know because they are the story of a breaking of my heart and spirit so bad that I had no choice but to conquer my mental illness. Of all the beautiful, stubborn, broken things you have inherited from me I hope this is a gene that does not touch you but I cannot be sure. After weeks of staling, procrastinating and thinking maybe I would forgo this years letter and let the journals stand on their own, I realized there is something I wanted to tell you about this year. It is the story that is bigger than all the pain and mess. It is the simple story of love.

Porter, you have been loved and protected since the moment I knew you existed. I still remember that it was January 7, 2014 at 7:09 pm. Your dad was in Chicago. At the time we lived with your Godfather in a little house on the Westside of Buffalo. He was the first to know I was pregnant and he probably told me I was an idiot (because that's an Uncle Mikey thing to do). The love and protection that started at that moment didn't end or even skip a beat in the year between your second and third birthday. You were thought about in each moment and each decision. When your dad and I failed each other in all the ways our vows said that we never would, we never broke the vows or visions that we had for you. We have joint custody because neither one of us would ever dream of losing a single minute with you. Neither of us would dream of taking an extra minute from the other because we know the deep love and joy we have for you. There isn't a week that goes by that your dad and I don't thank each other for being good parents and loving you in the unique ways that we each do. The way that your dad and I are able to move forward together as strong co-parents is because your health and well-being hang in the balance. Neither of us are willing to sacrifice any piece of your heart or happiness for the disagreements and hurts that sometimes threaten to end all kindness between us.

It may be obvious that your dad and I love you and will choose time and time again to put your little life first but that isn't where it ends, Porter. There is a family who has stood faithfully with us and for us for three years. When I felt like I had nowhere to go, no one to be loved by, they opened their home to us with 3 sweet boys of their own. They didn't offer out of pity or necessity but because they wanted to walk this road with us, they wanted to be your shelter from the storm. They didn't just make room for us in their home but also in their hearts. They held our story, prayed with us and for us. They let me breakdown over and over again on their couch, disciplined you with the sweetest of loves, and picked up responsibilities for me, and in turn us, when I simply couldn't.

I never wanted you to have siblings but for 5 months you had the best brother-friends. They didn't ask for you to come and take their crib, take their toys, take some of the attention from their mommy or daddy, but they took it in stride. They didn't know that they were blessing our hearts by just being themselves. On days when you weren't with me, they would simply ask me to play games or watch television with them. I never once saw that as a benefit to them but to me who was missing you with all my heart. I still have no dreams of biological siblings for you but I am so thankful that the boy squad exists to fill the hole in your little heart that longs to have buddies to play with, to fight with, and to feel safe to be wholly yourself with.

There is a woman who took over when I couldn't physically be with you for a period. I don't know if by the time you're old enough to read this she will still be a part of your life, but when I needed to selfishly step away in order to be able to rebuild something beautiful for us, she picked up responsibilities that should have never put on her plate. She picked you up from school and watched you while your dad was out of town. She invited you into her family without missing a beat and loved you when you were missing me. Porter, we will always live our lives based on a model of community, and as much as it pains me at times, it will never harm you to be loved by one more person. I will always be thankful of her care of you this Spring.

The greatest story of love throughout this year is of a God who has called us redeemed and wanted and held. I thought for a long time that the best redemption story for you, Porter, was a Mom and a Dad living in one home. That is not the redemption story that God has chosen for us. The redemption story God has called us into is one of two separate, but healthier, homes. He has put our Gospel Community in our life to serve as your anchor. The families who have chosen to walk with us and invest in us over the last 3 years were there to love you, to encourage you (and me), to hold you, to rock you to sleep, to watch you when I worked, and to be there day in and day out, brutal hour after brutal hour. All the broken that they held you in has turned into something beautiful. Beauty is you asking for Lincoln and Asher as continued staples in your life. Beauty is you running up to Aaron and giving him a hug. Beauty is you asking if you can go to church each Sunday morning. Beauty is you never being shy when you walk into a party, knowing that each face is a safety zone for you. Beauty is you grabbing Grace's hand after not seeing her for a few weeks because she has invested in you. Beauty is your place in our community reminding me that I have a place in this community too, even on days that I feel alone.

We live a life of great adventure, Porter. It is what makes your soul shine. I want to be able to feed that every moment I can. We live in a less than ideal home, in a more than shady neighborhood. We don't buy things but we daily step into simple experiences. Fancy is not something that I can do for you but nature, and art, and dancing, and joy, and community, and love, that's what I have to offer you. I have decided that we would minimize our life in order to grow these things exponentially. I don't know that this is always something that you will value but right now it seems like you love this life we lead just as much as I do.

You are still standing so bright and beautiful because you are loved, you are wanted, you are cherished, you are imperfect but washed clean. You are a blessing and a miracle. You are stubborn and moody and can be outright defiant but that can never make you less than my heart beating outside of my body.

I love you, Porter James Ulysses. Thank you for loving me back.

Mom

September 2016

October 2016

November 2016

December 2016

January 2017

February 2017

March 2017

April 2017

May 2017

June 2017

July 2017

August 2017

September 2017