An Inspiring Woman

I am grateful for the many women who inspire me. I am fortunate to know many of them, to be surrounded by them in fact. Today I think in particular of one of them: Fern Karsten, whom I always referred to as my Aunt Fernie. Today would have been her 96^th birthday. She wasn’t really my aunt. She was my maternal grandmother’s sister, so I guess that would have made her my Great Aunt. But I always knew her as Aunt Fernie and so she shall always remain in my memory. Strictly speaking she wasn’t even “related” to me by way of blood, since my mother was adopted. That never mattered to Fernie. My parents, siblings and I were always family to her, which is one of the things I cherish about her. She modeled what it means to be family. It’s not about blood. It’s about the heart.

Fernie and my youngest child, May 1999

Although I’m sure she was an active presence early in my life, my earliest memory of Fernie came when I was 6 years old. Our family flew to Oregon to visit her for summer vacation. She took us to the Oregon Coast and planted the seeds of my love for the Coast that remains to this day, even when it is now quite remote. She spoiled my siblings and I, at least mildly. I remember her buying me a little stuffed animal skunk (why I wanted a skunk, I do not remember) which I very creatively named Skunky. (Creative names were not my strength. I had a pink stuffed animal that was named – you guessed it – Pinky. In fact I still have Pinky.)

When I graduated from high school, Fernie was there. As an undergraduate I attended college in Seattle, and her apartment in Portland became my second home, the place I would retreat to on longer breaks because it wasn’t feasible to fly back to Denver every time. I would hop on the train in downtown Seattle and she would meet me at the station in Portland. Often she would have arranged for us to go out to the Coast for a day or two. Of course she attended the wedding as a member of the family. After I married and while we still lived in Seattle, my spouse and I would frequently visit her, always one of our favorite little getaways. Fernie always made me feel welcome and loved.

Family is not about blood.

It's about the heart.

From my birth until late in her life, Fernie lived in the same 2-bedroom apartment in the Hollywood district of Portland, with a view towards downtown and the hills behind the skyscrapers. She always referred to her apartment complex as the “rabbit hutches” because she thought that’s what they looked like from the street. When Portland built the MAX line, her apartment ended up located just a block away from the Hollywood station, making downtown and points beyond easily accessible. I expect her apartment would command a hefty rent these days, if it hasn’t been entirely redeveloped. Her home was simple, cozy, and always comfortable. Gemütlich, the Germans would say, which is appropriate because the Karstens were of German heritage.

As I reflect on Fernie and her life from the point I am at now, I think of her as a bold, strong woman. Born in 1923 as the youngest of 12 children, she grew up in a small town in rural Nebraska. She never married and, to my knowledge, never went to college. During World War II she moved to Washington D.C. and worked in some capacity in the war effort. When she returned to Nebraska she settled in a larger town and took my mom under her wing, providing a second home for her where my mom could be introduced to a somewhat larger world than was available to her in her smaller hometown. At some point in the Sixties Fernie moved west to Portland, where she would spend the rest of her life. I admire her for independence, especially at a time when being a single, strong, independent woman was not the norm. She didn’t strive to fulfill the expectations of her society. She set her own path. While she had the usual complaints about life, I never heard her voice disappointment with things that she didn’t have, such as a partner, a better job, or more money. That’s not to say she didn’t feel those things. I don’t know. That was not something she shared freely, even when I became an adult. But from her demeanor and her actions, I believe that she was happy and content. She created the life she wanted and she lived it to the fullest. In that she inspires me and sets an example I want to emulate.

My children had the opportunity to know Fernie, though not to the degree that I was able to. She adored them as much as she adored myself and my siblings. Because we lived overseas she didn’t get to see them often, especially after their earliest years. The last time they saw her, her health had declined and she had moved to an assisted living facility in Salem, Oregon. She still had enough health to recognize and enjoy them, but not the energy to actively engage with them as she had with me when I was young. That’s natural of course. By that time she was in her 80s. I’m so glad that they got to know her at least a little bit. I never really knew my great-grandmothers at all.

Fernie died in May 2008, just a short time before I would return from overseas for a year, so I missed her passing and her funeral. I regret that to this day. She hasn’t been present during the journey of self-understanding I’ve been on the past few years. I wish she were. There are so many things I’d like to ask her, so many lessons I think I could learn from her as a single woman in my 50s. I don’t know whether she would accept me. I choose to believe that she would, though she’d probably have to do some work to get to that point. I think her deep love for me and her warm, welcoming nature would overcome any biases she developed from the time and space she grew up in. Fernie had an expansive heart – another thing that I hope I emulate.

I never got to say good-bye to Fernie. Perhaps this post is my way of doing so. I love you Fernie. Thank you for setting such a powerful example. I hope that my life honors yours. Your legacy lives on.

Phoenix Rising

Tomorrow will be my 50^th birthday. Not surprisingly, this has me in a rather introspective mood. Half a century. That’s a few trips around the sun. Enough time to gain some wisdom and to realize how much more I still have to learn. Enough time to make a few mistakes and, hopefully, learn from them. Enough time to experience significant joy, along with deep grief. To begin to understand this circle of life, but by no means to fully comprehend it.

I don’t feel like I’m 50. I don’t really know what 50 is supposed to feel like. From the narrative my culture promotes I think I’m supposed to be well over the hill and heading into decline. I’m supposed to be going to sleep at 8 PM, staying home and watching reruns of Golden Girls, or something like that. That certainly doesn’t describe me, nor do I want it to (and if it does describe you, no judgment here). I feel more alive and energetic than at any time in my life. I feel like life has only begun. I am embracing life with a zest that I lacked for all the prior years. I might stay out till 2 AM on the dance floor. Or I might explore new expressions of spirituality. I might go on a new adventure. The world is open before me. I am finally myself and able to live in the world from that place of authenticity. It’s beautiful. Not always easy. In fact, it comes with a hell of a lot of tears. Still, it’s beautiful. I feel more whole than I ever have. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a woman who is past her prime. I see a woman who is only coming into it.

As part of my celebration of life, I got my first tattoo last weekend. I’ve been thinking about doing so for some time and finally had the courage to act on that intention, spurred in part by the encouragement and support of a couple awesome ladies I know. This tattoo seems particularly appropriate as I enter the second half-century of my life. A person who knows me saw it and asked what the significance of it was. I was rather dumbfounded. While by no means a close personal friend, this man has been around me long enough that I would have thought the significance was totally clear. Maybe he’s not the only one. Allow me to clarify.

The phoenix reminds me of the journey I have been on the past several years. I have risen from the ashes of the person I once was and the life I once knew to create a new life, to claim my true identity, to radiate that life and energy to the world around me as I shine forth the divine feminine within me. It is a symbol of rebirth, of new life. And therefore central to my understanding of myself. I did not arrive at the place I am today, on the eve of turning 50, without sacrifice, grief, and loss. I have been through the flames. And I have come out re-formed, stronger, more confident, more wholehearted. Every time I see this image on my arm I am reminded of this truth and of the courage it has taken me to come this far. I can draw on that to summon the courage to keep going. This journey is far from over. I may be 50 by the count of tours around the sun, but my life has only just begun.  

#Phoenixrising#

Emotional Labor

I was recently invited to participate in a class at the University of Arizona College of Law. In the class, students would be learning to apply empathic listening to help them design systems solutions to difficult situations. The class was given a specific scenario to frame the exercise. The scenario involved the Campus Republicans and a campus Christian group inviting Mike Pence to deliver a keynote speech on the university campus. The campus LGBTQ community was not happy with this invitation and wanted the university to block the speech, promising protests if it was allowed. The campus climate was particularly tense in the scenario due to the recent murder of two transgender students. With this scenario in mind, the students were to divide into two groups and ask questions of an informant from one of the two communities in order to understand how they felt about the proposed speech and, more importantly, why. This involved trying to understand underlying and background values and concerns that shaped each informant’s perspective. Based on what they learned from that process, they were to brainstorm systemic solutions that could change the impending conflict into a more productive outcome. For the class activity, I would naturally be the informant concerning the LGBTQ community. The head of the College Republicans would be the informant concerning the other side of the issue.

I accepted the invitation freely and voluntarily, knowing the proposed scenario. When I learned who the other informant would be, I felt more anxious, because I pictured in my mind an image of a certain type of Republican, the type who would be a loudmouthed Trump supporter, probably a frat boy, white, aggressive, belligerent. I wasn’t eager to deal with that type of individual, even though the class structure wouldn’t require us to verbally interact. As the class drew near, I became increasingly anxious, recognizing that this class could prove to be quite triggering, and that at the very least it would require me to practice vulnerability and to perform emotional labor as I educated a group of law students on life as a transgender woman. I have done this type of work before, and I choose to do so willingly, because I see great value in educating and informing others. But I’m understanding better each time the emotional impact this has on me, and the need to take measures to care for myself before, during, and after the interaction.

On the evening of the class, I checked in with a couple friends before driving to campus. I arrived a few minutes early, mostly so I could find the classroom and to allow myself to be in the space for a few minutes before things got started. When I entered the room Matt, the head of the College Republicans, and the lead professor were already there. We chatted briefly and in the process I mentioned that I was no longer teaching German and Russian because my school had not found me to be an acceptable teacher after I came out. Matt responded in a way that clearly indicated that he found that to be wrong, and that he accepted me for who I am, as I am. That helped significantly lower my internal anxiety concerning the evening ahead. Matt did not fit my stereotype of a College Republican in most aspects. He was white and, as far as I am aware, cisgender and heterosexual, but he was thoughtful, open-minded, and willing to engage in respectful dialog. He was young, and perhaps offers hope for what the future of that party might be like. I could see myself sitting down to coffee with him to discuss issues, even knowing that we might disagree strongly on key issues.

The class turned out to be quite small, just 8 students and one community member, because apparently the class is open to the community as well. The 4 students who worked with me turned out to be very thoughtful, sensitive, and if any of them held any objections to who I am, they refrained from allowing that to come out in any way. We ended up having a very open, candid conversation and they gained some understanding and perspective on why, in this specific scenario, a transgender woman like myself would not welcome a speech by Mike Pence. At the end of class, as both sides reviewed and discussed their ideas and suggestions, Matt and I were invited to share our feelings concerning the proposals, now that we had heard and seen what the “other side” had identified. We were pleased to find that we had some similar thoughts and ideas, and there was a willingness on the side of the conservative community as embodied in Matt to engage proactively and constructively with the LGBTQ community, even to the point of considering a different speaker. That surprised me.

The class ended up being a much more positive experience than I had anticipated. I appreciated the two professors who led the class that night: Mary and Stacy. They cultivated an environment of open, healthy, engaged, and respectful conversation. I did not feel in anyway demeaned, dismissed, or tokenized. Nonetheless, it was still an act of emotional labor and I left feeling drained. Thankfully I was able to talk with a couple of friends after returning home and process the experience with them. I am grateful for the several friends who offered their time when I shared with them that I would be participating in this experience. They are my family, the ones I know have my back when I need support.

The only aspect of the evening that felt uncomfortable in the end was the presence of the community member. He hovered on the edge of my group part of the evening and his mannerisms and general aura left me feeling uneasy. It wasn’t a concern that he would cause me direct physical harm. It was more a sense that he was looking for material to use against me and my community. He bore a namebadge identifying him as being with a group called Liberty Watch. Later I looked them up online and found a pretty wacky conservative/libertarian group. I’d like to say harmless, but I’m not at all convinced of that. In interacting with another professor afterwards I heard that this individual was actually pretty unlikely to hold my identity against me, that his issues were with other things. Still, his presence did impinge on my feeling of emotional safety in the classroom. He only really spoke one time, at the very end of the class, to make a ridiculous statement about the best solution to the issue being to have Mike Pence and a member of the trans community resolve the conflict in the boxing ring, thereby allowing free market forces and the natural inclination toward conflict to come into play. He and I would have some deep philosophical differences in that regard.

I believe strongly in the value of situations like this classroom experience. I believe in creating dialog and forming relationships as the best way to reduce the barriers that separate and divide us. But I recognize that this is inherently risky, vulnerable, and laborious for those of us in minority communities. I don’t demand or expect that every minority person engage in this type of work. I choose to do so myself because I feel like I can do it. It does drain me, but I won’t let that stop me. I am learning how to better care for myself around these types of engagements. I am also affirming to myself that I don’t have to accept every opportunity like this. It is not my duty or responsibility to inform and educate. When I am willing and able though, it is a tremendous chance to change the narrative of our society in regards specifically to the transgender community, as well as in larger ways. This is a key part of my chosen work and an important way in which I use my voice.

Uncomfortable?

Last week I wrote about my experience dealing with Tempest du Jour, a popular local drag queen. I also questioned the allyship of those organizations and individuals who choose to stick with her despite the message this sends to the transgender community. I have challenged cisgender white gay male privilege. And I’ve felt pushback because of this. I’ve had people contact me to say that this is not the Tempest they know. I’ve seen posts in which people have spoken that their character speaks for itself. Which doesn’t really surprise me. We have seen this line of argument before in some very high-profile incidents in the last year or two. People denounce those pointing out problematic behaviors (or worse) on the basis that “so-and-so would NEVER do that. I know them.” In this way the harmed individual becomes the one to blame for raising the accusation and has their voice silenced and marginalized. The initial trauma is magnified and multiplied.

It is possible for someone to have problematic behaviors that are not visible to everyone, especially to those who are not affected by it. To point to a very high-profile situation, many people came to the character defense of Brett Kavanaugh, despite the bold testimony of Christine Blasey Ford. When you choose to believe what you “know” about a person in the light of testimony to the contrary, you silence the voices of those that most need to be heard. Which happens most often to those more marginalized than the accused individual or group. There is a huge power imbalance at play in these situations. It certainly influenced the decision by the Tucson Interfaith HIV/AIDS Network (TIHAN) to retain Tempest as their hostess because she brings in a lot of their fundraising, which is clearly far more important than hearing, believing, and standing in solidarity with the transgender community. After all, what does the trans community offer TIHAN?

I have also heard from others who attest to seriously problematic behaviors by Tempest over an extended period of time. These individuals are afraid to speak out, because they have been bullied for so long by Tempest and her supporters that they are traumatized. I can’t blame them. Challenging those in positions of prominence and power is always risky, difficult, and further traumatizing. I know now that the behavior I have seen from Tempest in and following the comedy show is not entirely an outlier. This doesn’t mean that Tempest cannot also do good things. It just means that there are problematic issues that must be addressed rather than ignoring them for the sake of the “good” she can do for the community. When that good comes at the expense of marginalized people, then we must question whether it is worth it.

I don’t know Tempest personally, but I do know Scott Blades, Executive Director of TIHAN. I will attest that he is a man of integrity. He’s also a man who can be wrong. He is a man who can be blind to his own privileges. I recognize that gay men have fought and continue to fight their own marginalization. I do not discount that history at all. But that history does not exempt them from owning their own issues. One’s own marginalization does not give one a pass on marginalizing others less powerful than oneself. It doesn’t give a pass on misogyny. It doesn’t excuse transphobic words and actions. It doesn’t excuse racism. Yet I see this attitude being expressed. It can happen within any marginalized group. Our challenge within the LGBTQ community is to critically examine our own behaviors, words, and choices. We must be willing to hear difficult feedback and rumble with it. We can’t just retreat into self-righteously defending our impeccable characters. That will not transform and dismantle the oppressive power structures that enslave us all. If we are willing to give a pass on problematic behaviors simply because somehow it benefits the “greater good,” how are we any better than those we take issue with in the larger society?

I try to own my own shortcomings, although I most certainly don’t like to. I want to resist, deny, retreat into self-justification. I’ve been called out for words and actions on my part, and it was quite uncomfortable and painful. And walking through that discomfort, acknowledging the harm and hurt I caused were essential to creating opportunity for resolution, healing, and growth. This entire situation could have been resolved months ago had Tempest du Jour been willing to humbly acknowledge her error and offer a sincere apology to those she harmed – the transgender and gender non-conforming community. She still has not done that, so the harm continues to multiply. TIHAN pointed to an apology she offered on her personal (not performance persona) profile. Except those of us offended by her words do not hear a true apology in what she wrote. Only the community harmed has the right to determine whether a sincere apology has been extended. Until I hear that apology, I will continue to speak out on behalf of myself and my community. If being challenged on your behavior makes you uncomfortable, then I invite you to sit in that discomfort and reflect on it. Then resolve to change.

This is Not Allyship

In February of this year I did my first ever stand up comedy set, and it was an amazing experience. I didn’t write about it at the time because, unfortunately, the event ended on a quite negative note whose effects continued to intrude into my life for weeks to come. Eventually the ripples calmed and the internal tension I felt as a result subsided. Until recently, when new provocations awakened them once again.

I have refrained from writing about what happened because I prefer to address things on a personal, direct level whenever possible, as I tried to do in this situation. However, I feel like my efforts to respond in this way have reached a stand still. No, worse, I feel that my voice as a woman, and in particular as a transgender woman, have been disregarded by those involved, who have preferred to stand with someone who can boost their status and profile and bring money and recognition to their organization. And I call bullsh*t on that.

The problem began with the final act of the show in February. The show, called the Estrogen Hour, highlights female comics and raises money for the Leukemia society. In that particular February show, the closer was a high profile local drag queen name Tempest Du Jour. Part way into her set, which included jokes about mental health and body size as well, she launched into a series of “jokes” about trans people. I couldn’t believe my ears. The jokes were inappropriate in any context, especially from someone who bills herself as a leader in the LGBTQ community. That they came after two openly transgender/non-binary comedians, including myself, had already performed, made them particularly tasteless. My friend and I got up and walked out in protest. Afterwards the organizer of the show came up to me in the lobby and asked if I was okay. I told her that I was most definitely not okay, that Tempest’s jokes were deeply offensive. She responded that she was sorry but that she couldn’t control what the comedians in the show chose to say. Later she posted a picture of herself and Tempest with a glowing caption.

I do not know Tempest, or the individual who plays that role, personally. I shared what had happened with other members of the trans community who did have personal contact with her. Through private messages we communicated the deep offense she had caused to our community. The response we received was rude, dismissive, and entirely unapologetic. She issued pseudo-apologies about being sorry “if someone was offended” and told us to get thicker skins. She chose to play the role of victim. She pointed to her status as a “leader” in the LGBTQ community. She claimed she couldn’t be anti-trans because, after all, she once had a trans boyfriend. Rather than respond with a willingness to listen, apologize, and learn, she chose to blame the trans community for attacking her.

When it became clear that no sincere apology was coming, members of the community along with key cisgender allies started communicating our concerns with local organizations who had relationships with Tempest. She was slated to host a high profile LGBTQ fundraising event the following week. When the problematic nature of having a host who had offended the trans community and refused to acknowledge the problem was brought to the attention of the event organizers, they chose to remove her from the event and replace her on extremely short notice. In the coming weeks, other organizations similarly removed her, standing in solidarity with the trans community at the potential expense of their fundraising efforts. This is allyship. Tempest responded with further statements of victimhood, but still no acknowledgement of the underlying problem.

The issue then quieted down for a time, until in June when I noticed a post on social media by the leader of another local organization that works with those with HIV. This post praised Tempest as a leader in the LGBTQ community. I reached out privately to the organization’s leader and shared what had happened, letting him know the deeply problematic nature of Tempest’s response, which at this point is more significant than the original jokes. This individual thought about it, then asked me if I would meet personally with Tempest. I declined, because doing so would be to retraumatize myself, and I did not feel like the goal of the meeting was true reconciliation. Rather, it was viewed as an attempt to bring equally aggrieved parties together. But without an apology, there can be no attempt at reconciliation. This is not a situation where both sides are in an equal situation.

Then, just two weeks ago, I heard again from the leader of the organization, informing me that he and his organization were going to have Tempest host their major fundraising event again this year and that he hoped I would understand the reasons for doing so. I initially responded that in this case there was no way I would be attending the event. After reflecting further on it overnight, I wrote further that I felt like I was being gaslighted, that my word as a woman concerning what had transpired earlier in the year was not being believed. It did not have the same credibility as the word of a cisgender gay male, the person behind the persona of Tempest. They preferred to support Tempest because they valued the relationship with her and the money she could bring to their organization more than their allyship with the trans community. The director of the organization took offense at my calling out this gaslighting and marginalizing of my voice as a trans woman. His response reflected the response received from Tempest when she was initially confronted with the problematic nature of her jokes.

A conversation occurred between SAGA and the organization. The board of the organization followed this meeting with an email that was remarkable in its tone-deafness to the deeper issues. They expressed that they felt it was only “fair” to invite Tempest to share her perspective with the board, but that regrettably there was not adequate time to do that before the event (even though I had made the director aware of the issue two months prior.) Nor was I or others directly involved invited to speak directly to their board (It was assumed I would come as a member of the SAGA delegation.) The burden is being placed on me and the trans community to peacefully resolve the issue, rather than on the one who perpetrated the offense in the first place.

The board email also leaned strongly on the financial impact of Tempest’s presence at the event, indicating that the organization cared more about the potential loss of funding than the statement her presence makes to the transgender community. They tried to balance this with statements about how they serve everyone under the LGBTQ tent. I have no doubt that they would not discriminate in their services to trans people with HIV. But their response, and a similar response directly from the director to an individual who wrote expressing their concerns about Tempest’s presence, indicate that the organization and its leadership remain blind to their bias and privileges, and place greater value on the voices of those they perceive to be more powerful and influential.

I have been deeply involved in this conversation from the very beginning. I have sought to raise and resolve issues privately, but it has reached the point for me where I feel like my voice is not being respected in this conversation. I was at the original event. I have seen the emails. I have seen the “apologies” posted by Tempest. I have not sought to hide my identity in this issue. Tempest has blocked me from her social media, and the person behind her persona has not acknowledged me directly in any way. I have been accused to seeking to destroy her career. I am not attempting to destroy anyone’s career. I am, however, stating that you cannot claim to be an ally of the LGBTQ community if you are willing to throw the T part of that community under the bus for the sake of your career or your fundraising. That is not allyship. What I have seen so far is an exercise in white cisgender gay male privilege that refuses to acknowledge its own biases and privilege. And I will no longer let that pass unchallenged. For us to be a strong, united, LGBTQ community, we need to be able to have the hard conversations. We need to be able to sit in the discomfort of being called in for our words and behaviors that offend others. This applies to me as well. When I’m invited to that kind of conversation, I’m willing to join. Until then, don’t ask me to sit at a table of reconciliation that isn’t about acknowledging the harm done by one’s insensitivities.

Peace out.

My Home

I like a good meme, one that captures some aspect of human existence or expresses a truth that resonates (or a good humorous one!). I return to this one somewhat regularly.

If we think of our lives as a series of interconnected stories that form one large narrative, we can see various chapters that help define it. Like any good novel, parts of the plot will carry over from one chapter to another, but there come points when there is a clear and significant change in the setting, the action, the characters, or some combination of these. As the creators of our own narratives, sometimes we resist the urge to bring a particular chapter to a close, even when we sense that the time has come to do so. Letting go may feel too difficult, or the outline of the next chapter too uncertain. But as the meme reminds us, until we stop re-reading, or dragging out the previous chapter, we cannot move on to a new one.

I wrote earlier this year about letting go of various things in my life. One of those was the nest I had lived in for the past 3 years. I was very fortunate when I divorced and came out publicly that my brother graciously allowed me to rent a townhome he owned here for rate I could afford at the time. It allowed me to get on my feet and establish myself financially and socially, at a time when things were pretty rough for me. I don’t know how I would have made it through that time without that. My youngest child continued to live with me there, after a very brief period of living with their aunt and uncle. While happy to provide a nest for them to transition from high school into adulthood, their presence in the living space impacted my ability to create the home environment I desired for myself. Last summer my oldest child also moved in with me. I was delighted to welcome her home after several years of living apart, but adding her to the mixture shifted the environment still further from what I wanted and needed for myself. As time progressed, I recognized that I needed to change this situation, for my sake as well as theirs.

But I hesitated. The townhome was a good living space in many aspects. It was comfortable and convenient. It felt safe. At the same time, the energy within that space drained me, inducing a sort of low level stress at most times that robbed me of peace. I sat in this tension for quite some time. Inertia was easier than making the decision to disrupt the status quo for myself and my children, even if that status quo was not what I really wanted for myself. I kept rereading the previous chapter, not willing to step out boldly and start the next one.

Until this spring, when I finally took that step. Encouraged and supported by my closest friends and in conversation with my therapist, I acted on the intention I had in mind for a long time. I told my children that they would be needing to find new living arrangements for themselves and proceeded to find a place of my own. I located a comfortable little apartment, signed a lease, and moved in at the end of June. It’s in the same complex where one of my closest friends and her mom live, so I have chosen family as part of my community.

I’m delighted to have this space, to create the environment and atmosphere I want for myself, to enjoy a home that I want to be in and where I want to welcome my friends. Yet it has not been easy starting this new chapter. This is the first time I have lived on my own in my entire life. I married while still in college and spent my entire adult life living with family. This is a big adjustment for me, especially as someone who is highly social. Frankly, it feels scary at times. When I got my keys the first day, I walked through my new home and felt the weight of its emptiness and the grand adventure I was embarking on. And I cried in the face of it. Thankfully the friend who was with me wrapped me in a warm embrace, welcomed the tears and breathed confidence and peace into myself and my new home.

Now that I have moved my things in and begun to get settled, the initial anxiety is subsiding and the positive energy of starting a new chapter is becoming more pronounced. This is the beginning of a new chapter for me, with new possibilities and opportunities. It’s a blank page, waiting to be written, as one of my favorite songs says. I don’t know yet what this chapter holds, but I am excited to write it and am grateful for this new space that will form a key part of it. For the first time in my life, this is MY home and I look forward to shaping it into the space I want it to be.

Fighting for Our Rights

I’m tired and I’m angry. And I’m tired of being tired and angry. Every time I think this immoral, unethical, corrupt, and repressive administration cannot do anything worse, they find a new level of low. The latest being the laws restricting abortion that are being passed in a number of states, with Alabama’s being the most egregious of them all. Those passing them know that they will be challenged in court, and probably initially blocked. Which is just fine with them, because their goal is to get one or more of these laws to the Supreme Court. Which they have now stocked with ultra conservative justices that they are confident will overturn Roe v. Wade and recriminalize abortion across the land. This has been one of the key goals of conservatives for years. I give them credit for their fixation on this issue, and for playing the long game to achieve their objective. We who advocate for the right of women to control their own bodies have been lulled into complacency, even as the right to abortion has been slowly wittled away in state after state. We couldn’t believe we would reach this point. Yet here we are.

I used to be anti-abortion. I don’t even like to admit that, but it’s the truth. I even participated in “pro-life” protests outside a clinic in my teenage years. Today I’d rather provide protection for the woman seeking the services at her local Planned Parenthood clinic. Now I see the hypocrisy behind the “pro-life” movement, a movement in which many, like one of my family members, will actively advocate for the “unborn” but won’t support any efforts to provide for the well-being of the child, or mother, afterwards. Who don’t have any problem with children being torn from their mothers because they “illegally” crossed the border. Who refuse to demand measures to limit guns despite the murder of children in school after school. Many of these conservatives will loudly and vehemently protest any attempt by the government to regulate the environment (I mean, who really needs a planet to live on in the future anyway?) or business (because the rights of the business owner supercede all others) or a number of other societal issues, but have no problem whatsoever with the government regulating womens’ bodies. Because women aren’t really equal to men. It’s really about enshrining the preeminence of men, as evidenced by the fact that the Alabama law imposes a greater penalty for abortion after rape than for the act of rape itself.

The simple fact is, if you don’t believe in abortion, you do not have to have one. I’m absolutely against forced abortions, as is every other woman I know. If you think doctors shouldn’t be required to perform them, guess what? The laws already protect them. I don’t have any problem with the fact that many people, including many women, believe that abortion is wrong. I do have a problem with them forcing that belief on others by passing laws that restrict the rights of others to choose what they do with their own bodies. I believe in freedom of choice. Which, ironically, the conservatives claim they believe in. Except when they disagree with your choice.

It may seem odd that I would advocate so vehemently for this issue. After all, it doesn’t directly affect me. I don’t have a uterus so therefore the entire debate is moot to me personally. Except it’s not. I am a woman and stand with all women as our rights are being taken away, when our freedom to control our own bodies is stripped from us by men with utter disregard. I will not stand idly to the side as if this does not affect me as well. Make no mistake, this is not just, or even primarily, about the right to choose an abortion. It’s about the right to exercise control over your own body and your own choices on a broader scale. It’s also intimately linked to the struggle for transgender rights, which is also about the right to be who we are and make our choices without being required to conform to someone else’s expectations about who and what we should be. It’s about power, because those passing these laws see the writing on the wall if they cannot disempower and disenfranchise women, and with them minorities and anyone who doesn’t subscribe to the white patriarchal status quo. That status quo is crumbling, and they are scrambling to hold it together.

The past two years have been a period of increasing darkness. I struggle to see light on the horizon, to find hope for the future. But I have to hold on to hope. Barack Obama called it the audacity of hope. I have to believe that a better future awaits us. I choose to believe audaciously that this better future is not distant, but near. To relinquish that hope is to fall into despair, and I refuse to dwell in despair. However, to get through this time and to build that future, we must stand together. There are still dark days ahead, perhaps even darker than those we’ve lived through for two years. We women are strong. We are resilient. And we need one another. We need to support each other in twos and threes and twenties and hundreds and by the thousands. Because united we are a force that cannot be defeated. But divided, we can be picked off one by one until our conquerors herd us into their reeducation centers and enslave us. We will have our differences and disagreements. We must be able to work through those and even to work together in spite of them. The threats to our liberty are real and they are serious. Are we serious about opposing them?

More Letting Go

My wife and I separated more than three years ago. We’ve both moved on with our lives. The initial intense grief has faded to the background. Even after all this time though I find I am still healing. I am still letting go of what was, and each step in that process reawakens the grief that I had hoped to have left behind.

In February, while going through a box of personal items I had tucked away, I discovered a large pile of letters, cards, and notes that she had written me over the years, dating back to when we first met and began our dating relationship. At first I opened a few and reread them, then quickly realized that this would lead to even more intense emotions than I was already encountering. The cards spoke of undying love and devotion, of how I was the only one for her, how she couldn’t imagine life without me. That’s the way love often feels when it first awakens in our hearts. I doubt that any of us ever imagine that at some point we’ll be looking back at this “undying” love knowing that it did in fact die. It’s probably better if we don’t. But our culture’s obsession with eternal love, with finding the “right” one, with the myth of lifetime romance make it really difficult for those of us who don’t experience that – especially if we start out convinced that we will. It feels a lot like failure, failure that we’re ashamed to talk about. Failure that hurts to share. Failure because we tell ourselves that if we’d only been “enough,” if we’d only been more X, the marriage could have made it. But what if marriage isn’t always meant to last a lifetime? What if we allowed ourselves to express our feelings of undying love and devotion, while allowing space for the possibility that it won’t, in fact, last forever? Does that mean we are setting ourselves up for failure? Or does it mean we are being honest and realistic that life and love are complex and that no one can predict at 21 years old or at any other age, who they will be and how they will relate to this other person 20, 30, 50 years down the road? Because people change. And sometimes those changes are significant enough that staying together is no longer an option, that in fact it might be the unhealthy option.

Letting go after a marriage ends is hard. There’s no softening that reality. There’s a lifetime of mementos and memories to process. In the case of the letters and cards, I chose to release them in fire. This felt more cleansing than simply dumping them in the trash, which was my first plan. Keeping them was out of the question. Why would I want this collection that would awaken painful memories every time I looked at it? That they had lasted three years is due to the fact that I had tucked them away in a box 3 years ago because at that point I wasn’t ready to release them. Now I was. I had a little ceremony on my porch as I fed each letter, card, and note into the flames. The tears streamed down my face. It was simultaneously liberating and grief-filled. Another step in the process of letting go.

Sometime after I burnt the letters, I realized that I still had my old wedding rings. (We each had two because we got simple bands to wear when we moved overseas, lest they get lost.) In the initial grief of the divorce I had tucked them away in another box, out of sight and mind. At that time I wasn’t ready to let them go. Three years later the time had come to take that step. They had no value to me any longer. Actually, they had a negative value, because they were associated with a time that has past, with a relationship that is no more and will never be again. It took me a little searching to locate where I had placed them. Once I found them, I created a little releasing ceremony (at the suggestion of a friend) to let the energy associated with them into the universe. 

Then I found a jewelry store and sold them. It wasn’t about the money. I’m going to give that away, transforming the energy and memories represented by the rings into something positive. The day I went to sell them, some of my co-workers were in the office talking about divorce and how great second marriages can be, unaware that I was working through the grief of selling this core symbol of a marriage I no longer have. I had to step out of the room and let the tears flow.

I’d like to think that I’ve let go of everything related to my former marriage, but that’s not the case. Some things, like our two children, will always be part of my life and, in some sense, a reminder of what was. Other things may be hiding in old boxes, waiting to evoke another wave of grief as I let it go. Then there are the pictures, and all the memories they represent. I still don’t know what to do with them. Since our marriage started in the pre-digital picture era, I have old photo albums as well as thousands of digital images from a life that was and is no more. I can’t bring myself to delete and destroy them. Neither can I bring myself to look at them. Given my journey, it’s more than just recalling a marriage that no longer exists. It’s recalling a person who was me and yet was not me. I only share pictures from my past with those I feel the deepest trust and connection with, a handful of people in my life. Maybe that will change with time. This, like everything else related to releasing and healing, is a complicated process filled with a complex mixture of emotions. I can’t say there’s joy in this aspect of the journey, but I hold on to the belief that in the releasing I open space for new life and new growth.

Letting Go

I played my last regular season soccer game last night, at least for the foreseeable future. It’s one step among several that I am taking to let go of some things, to declutter and make space in my life. Over the past three years I have actively explored new opportunities, confronted fears and stepped into new spaces. I’ve chosen to engage my time and energy to address some of the current pressing social issues. I’ve become an active storyteller, tried my hand at stand-up comedy, started playing soccer again, joined the boards of 3 nonprofit organizations and chaired one community council. I’ve done it because I wanted and chose to. I’ve done it because it was important to me. I’ve done it because I found some measure of enjoyment in doing so. But I’ve been feeling since the beginning of the year that my life has become too full. I am giving out more than I can sustain. I have more than once felt overwhelmed by the commitments on my plate, and while I have managed to fulfill all of them to the best of my ability at the time, I have also recognized that I need to make some changes if I want to live a sustainable, healthy life.

Letting go is not easy for me. I am not releasing anything that I don’t care about. Such as soccer. I have really enjoyed playing again. I questioned whether I would be up to playing again at this point in my life, and I proved to myself that I was. I’m proud of myself for going for it. As I’ve written previously, it has been a pleasure playing with a team that cares for one another as much as the Fierce Pride does. I can’t imagine another team that would go winless through 3 seasons and still actively support and encourage one another on the field every game. Now I’m proud of myself for letting it go.

Sometimes we have to let go of things we enjoy to allow space for the things most central to our lives. I enjoy soccer, but I love dance. Over time, the impact of soccer on my body and my time has come to have an increasingly detrimental effect on my ability to dance with the level of enjoyment and commitment that I want. So something has to give. Dance has been a central part of my identity for almost 6 years now. It is an activity that centers and grounds me, that opens avenues for expression and creativity, that helps me be physically, mentally, and emotionally healthy. As I considered all the activities I had committed to and realized that dance was getting crowded out, I knew that I needed to make adjustments to rectify that. I will miss playing soccer, but I am at peace with my choice to let it go.

In evaluating my involvements, I have been considering not only what I’m doing and how it aligns with my core values and passions. I’ve also been contemplating WHY I pursue so many different things. My therapist pointed out that I am an overachiever. More significantly, she helped me recognize that I am an overachiever because I am trying to prove to the world, and more importantly to myself, that I am worthy of love and respect. I am trying to demonstrate, really to convince myself, that I am enough. That I am not a failure. This awareness shook me deeply. I realized that I am doing the very thing I had striven to get away from. I am, as Brené Brown speaks of it, hustling for my worth. I have released much of the armor that I used to protect myself from feelings of inadequacy. But I am still chasing validation, rather than finding it inside myself. This pursuit has led me to some great opportunities. It has brought me out of my comfort zone to discover new passions and interests. It has empowered me to live boldly, but it has been fueled by an unhealthy motivation and I have as a result overextended myself.

I have had the intention to create space in my life since the beginning of the year, but I kept hesitating. It is difficult for me to let go of things. I wonder if I am letting others down. I wrestle with internal feelings of failure – that doubt that says by letting go I’m admitting that I’m not enough. I struggle with the fear of missing out (FOMO), in which I compare my life to others and feel that if I’m not doing what they are I might miss out on something amazing. Maybe I will. But I have the power to choose what I want to do and the ability to reflect on why I am making the choices I am.

Letting go of some of my involvements is not just about finding a healthier life balance. It’s self care at a deeper level. It’s making space to recognize and affirm my worth apart from anything I do. It’s giving myself the freedom and making the choice to invest in myself and in those things that nourish me. It’s reflecting on my core passions, like dance and time with friends, and making sure I devote time and energy in them. It means slowing down and enjoying the moments of life, rather than rushing from one thing to the next, filling my life with activity that provides an elusive external validation but leaves me tired and drained. Letting go does not rule out trying new things. In fact I have a waiting list of things that interest me which I hope to pursue. But I want to try them out at a more reasonable pace and from a healthier motivation.

So tonight I’m going to stay home, drink a relaxing cup of tea, read a book, maybe play some music, or whatever else will nourish my soul in this moment, because I don’t have to prove to anyone, least of all myself, that I’m good enough, strong enough, smart enough, engaged enough, or anything enough. I am already enough as I am.

Not Sorry

I saw the pass coming into the penalty box and realized that I could get there before the intended player on the opposing team. I put on a burst of speed and was just about to make contact with the ball to clear it when my opponent got her foot on it and redirected it away from me. Thankfully, it ended up in the hands of our goalie, who booted it upfield. As the opposing player and I jogged upfield after it, she apologized. I paused, laughed gently and complimented her on a well-executed move that had robbed me of what seemed like a sure clearance. She had no reason to apologize. She had made an excellent play and had every reason to feel good about herself.

I noticed through the course of the game that this player apologized frequently. When she bumped into our goalie as they made a save, she apologized, though she had done nothing wrong. She would apologize if she got in my way as both went for the ball. Not once did she need to say she was sorry. Not once did she actually do something that merited an apology, unlike several of her teammates, particularly the male ones. I observed that her behavior stemmed in part from a lack of support from her teammates. After one shot on goal that was blocked by our goalie, one of her teammates complimented her on the shot, to which another responded by asking why she was being complimented. After all, the shot had gone directly into the arms of the goalie. I felt sorry for her at that point, playing for a team that couldn’t even offer supportive, encouraging words to their teammates for anything short of successful actions. I wanted to invite her to play for our team. We may not be particularly successful in terms of goals or wins, but we succeed very well in supporting and encouraging one another. We actively promote a culture of affirmation.

As I reflected on this other player, I realized how often I, like her, say I’m sorry. I do it on the soccer field. I do it in other social settings. It has been pointed out that this is a classically female behavior. We apologize unnecessarily. We try to occupy less space in the world and, when we feel we have occupied too much, we apologize for it. We deny ourselves the credit we are due. We take blame upon ourselves that is not ours to bear. I cannot think of one time on the soccer field that I have seen a male player on the opposing team apologize unnecessarily. Most often they fail to apologize even when they should, such as when one of them aggressively knocked me off my feet last night, earning a caution from the referee. It didn’t even appear to occur to him that he should say he was sorry for his action. After all, that’s the nature of soccer. I, on the other hand, often find myself saying “I’m sorry” when I bump into an opponent while pursuing the ball, even when the contact is normal and insignificant.

I am working on this behavior in myself. I am training myself to refrain from saying “I’m sorry” when there is no genuine reason to do so. Which is not to say I refrain from saying it when I truly need to do so. If my actions, behavior or words have caused hurt, I will apologize. But I won’t apologize for my existence. I won’t apologize for occupying space in this world. I won’t apologize for pursuing that ball as actively as my male or female opponent. I won’t deny myself the credit I have earned. I won’t make myself smaller. I’ll still promote and empower other women (and men, though they do that pretty well for themselves), but not by diminishing myself. Being a kind person does not require me to erase myself. It’s time we women start claiming our space in this world. Part of that, for me, means saying “I’m sorry” less often.