year of yes review.

I just finished Year of Yes.

As in, I put it down 10 minutes ago.

And let me tell you – it wrecked me.

If there was ever a book to recommend? This one is it. This one takes the gold, stands at the top of the mountain, speaks from the sky. Shonda is an amazing writer but even greater – she is an amazing teller. Her words connect with emotions inside other human beings. Her words wrecked me. I finished the book (in two days) with tears in my eyes. Because it was that good.

My life lately has gone off the track. If I’m being honest my life has been off the track for over 3 years and I’ve done nothing to correct it. I have been standing still, the train still moving, but my tracks? They stopped somewhere long ago. I stopped somewhere long ago. My life has gone off the track. I am broken, I am lazy, I am scared. Making a new move, adding some new track is terrifying. Scares me to my core, terrifying.

And yet.

Life will not move on until I do. Until I lay down some new track and make the next move and face the things that scare me. Until I choose to say, “I can do this, it’s not so bad. I can do this.” I’m getting there. I’m almost at the point of jumping off the clip and making the next move. I’m almost ready to lay down some track.

Year of Yes. It changed me, in boldened me, it forced me to take a good look in the mirror. It rattled things inside of me that I forgot were there. I can do hard things, sure I can. I just have to believe it. I have to face it, and own it and want it.

Life is always going to be hard and scary and sometimes dark. If only we can say YES to the things that mean something. The things that light our souls on fire, even if they scare us a bit. Say yes, show up in the face of fear, work it out. We can do this. All of us. We just have to say yes.


I couldn’t get out of bed today. I couldn’t sleep. I just tossed and turned and rolled. And I wished with every fiber of my being to just drift off for a while, get some shut eye.

But I couldn’t. I was tired but I was wired and my body couldn’t get on the same page as my brain and so I lay there, wishing. Waves of anxiety took over me. As if they crashed into my blood stream and declared today was a day I would feel out of my mind, riddled with anxiety.

I would know the rational part of it. I could tell the symptoms and the parts I could control. But I couldn’t stop myself from swimming in those waves for a while, bobbing up and down with the current. I couldn’t stop myself from being scared of things only capable of scaring you when you’re weak.

So I sat on the steps of my best friends house but I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t get the words out that I couldn’t get out of bed today and I was anxious over silly things and that all I really wanted to do was cry. I just wanted to cry and let go without explanation.


But here I am. Typing this out on the glow of my computer screen, sitting indian style on my bed, tears streaming down my face. Wishing I could do today over. Hoping my fears are just that: fears. Counting on the darkness to have only come out to play for today and that tomorrow will bring light. Praying my anxiety will subside and the rational being that I am will be back in the morning. Because morning always comes. It always comes.

there’s always an and then. 

In January 2015 I faced my second battle with depression. Not that the first one ever really ended.  The battle of depression doesn’t have an experation date. It’s always treading right below the surface. 

There’s a moment, a fleeting moment when you think, I’ve got this. Ain’t no thing like a little 10 letter word gonna chew me up. 

And then. There’s always an and then. The world keeps moving. It moves in leaps and bounds around me. It moves to a different tune then I hear.

The world hurts me with its happiness. It hurts me with its pain. Always sending something spiraling toward me, cracking me down the middle. Taking parts of my heart with it, taking parts of my soul.

Do you think it’s easy?

I can tell you that they love me. The people around me, I mean. I can tell you that and believe it.

And I can tell you I’m ok with being alone in this season of my life and when I say it, I’ll mean it.

What I don’t believe is that I belong. That I have a place in this little life of mine, that I actually matter. That outside of everything I may have to offer -it might be all that keeps me present: the things I can give.

What happened to showing up for other people? What happened to offering out a hand.

There are still mornings I contemplate if it’s worth getting out of bed that day. There are still afternoons I sit in parking lots in tears.

Who do I call then? Who will pick up the phone and say, “You’re ok. You’re ok. I’m here, I’m right here.”

If I could pin it on a map, if I could label the entirety of my heartache with a tiny blue push pin would I be able to contain it? Would I be able to point and say, there, right there – that’s when I started to break, that’s when I started to loose?