January 1st

It’s been roughly six months since I last sat down here to write. Depending on your perspective of time, that equals both, ‘not long at all' and also, ‘how has it been so long?’ Short enough to be overlooked, and long enough to cost you everything.

I lost friendships I did not choose to abandon. I turned away from relationships that were toxic to me. I changed rhythms that I had never known life without. I curled into pillows and sobbed on numerous occasions. I felt my heart threatening to run away from me as anxiety pounded within my chest. I lost sight of hope and asked more questions than I was given answers. I grieved, and angered, and swirled close to despair. I encountered hurt, loss and betrayal beyond that which I had conceived possible to walk through in one time. I carried a life and then watched it wash away. I fought for so much, and it felt like I lost. 

2021 cost me greatly, and it also taught me a lot. 

It reminded me that we are never alone. It showed me the depth of gold which exists in those who choose to stick with you when you aren’t a bright, shiny unicorn. It crafted a new layer of resilience within my soul. It reminded me of the beauty of simplicity. It revealed the dangers of the shallow waters, and the emptiness of the platform. It stripped away much of what I once held dear, and left me cradling the bones of what is actually worth living for. It broke me, but did not leave me destroyed. It showed me gentleness and kindness in the midst of thunderous debate and confusion. It took me to the edge, and yet I did not fall. 

There are some seasons I can look back on and have a desire to repeat. This present version of me looks back at my younger self, and with the luxury of hindsight, wishes I had drunk deeper of certain relationships or experiences, made different choices, said ‘yes’ instead of ‘no’. It’s not regret, but more like an, ‘if only I’d known…’ This does not apply to the past year. I have no desire to walk backwards simply to have to walk forward through it all again. I don’t think my steps were perfect, I’m sure I faltered, but I’m just grateful to have made it through. 

One question that has continued to reverberate through my mind however is, ‘what did I do?’ I can’t help but wonder and ask the heavens if there is something that I did wrong which caused all these calamities to head my way this year. I’ve found myself landing with two responses, both a ‘no’ and a ‘yes.’ 

If I break down each momentous thing that happened this year, I can identify that my behavior wasn’t the catalyst for the losses which occurred. I know I am not perfect, but I also don’t believe I’m being punished by God for some obscure reason. As I reflect on it all once again though, I am reminded of the importance of character which is built by every decision we make, large and small, in private and in public. Character isn’t just about having the correct behaviors, it is about having the right posture. Maintaining gratitude in the face of hardship, humility when confronted, extending gentleness instead of anger, keeping integrity in all that we do and say. As I look back at this year, I haven’t hit the mark on all of these things every time. I think maybe I’m walking away with a passing grade, but there have been many days where the weight of sorrow has kept me from saying, ‘thank you,’ where anger has prevented me from seeing someone’s goodness, where pain has led my thoughts and words to collide in unkindness. Honestly, at times it has been easier to believe the worst about some people than to invest in their best. 

This is a sobering realisation as I sit here on the first day of another year. As much as some things have been done to me, I do not want to move into the new year a victim to the dashed hopes of the last one. I want to sow into 2022 the seed of renewed hope, of deep joy and eternal gratitude, kindness, goodness and gentleness, love for those around me, even those who have caused me hurt, and peace buried deep in my heart and soul. 

Safety Nets For Mental Health

Suicide deterrent nets at the Golden Gate Bridge.

Several years back I remember reading an article about the suicide crises in Japan. The report stated that new safety measures were being implemented by the government and large corporations in order to help prevent further deaths. An image of nets being installed onto high skyscraper buildings accompanied the piece as an example of one of the ways the country was working to protect life. Similar features are now common additions at well known sites and buildings the world over - the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, the Prince Edward Viaduct in Canada, the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol, England to name but a few. 

It was this image of a safety net that filled my mind earlier today as I lay in bed waiting for a headache to pass on over. It’s a sobering picture to hold in your mind’s eye as imagination dances with its paintbrush - the sterile image soon accompanied by the thought of human lives cut short, the families impacted, the loved ones left behind, the despair and loneliness which surely brought those souls to a brink they never returned from. 

Often, when faced with a thought, fact or circumstance that is not pleasant, we want to completely change it, to remove the offending part, delete the ‘bad’ words or images which project negativity. Maybe it’s a desire for perfection, maybe its denial, or it could be that we’re afraid of what this new truth might expose. If you were to remove every trace of shadow and darkness from a painting, can you imagine how little depth there would be? Removing what makes us uncomfortable does not suddenly cause us to be perfect.

I have been mulling over what catches us when the shadows have overwhelmed our feet and our thoughts. What holds us at the brink? Is there anything or anyone? Truly it is devastating that life can be so overwhelming and our lives so fractured that we have had to create mechanisms and structures in order to keep people from plummeting to the ground. But it is also beautiful to me that we have carved hands in different forms to catch them. 

Standing on the edge is a scary place to be. 

Whether it’s literally looking over the edge of a precipice, toes free of solid ground beneath them, or caught in a dark internal swirl with thoughts that keep you pinned in immobility, the danger to mind and body is alarming. It is no one’s aim in life to end up in this place. It is not a goal we seek as children and aspire to one day reach, but it is more of a common occurrence than we often want to admit. 

"1 in 5 U.S. adults experience mental illness each year.

Suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death among people aged 10-34.”

- NAMI

I have experienced many moments where life has felt too much, the circumstances facing me too crushing, and the amount of capacity I had for any of it - too meager. The desire to run away to some far-off island and escape from it all has been very tempting. It is also in these moments where hopelessness has snuck into my thoughts, like a shadow creeping over the ground at dusk. And the moment you begin to believe that there is no hope, is the moment that you have fallen for a lie. 

In my last blog, I described some of my more recent experiences and the place of wrestle that they have brought me to. There have been moments in amongst the last few months where the stress and hardship of these things have at times rung their hopeless gong. What I failed to mention in that post however, were the many safety nets that have caught me time and time again: A host of friends who between them gave us a place to stay when we had nowhere else to go, helped cover our moving costs, cared for Freedom, were our moving crew and constant sources of encouragement, who gave advice when asked and listened to our hearts process, who have loved us, laughed with us, cried with us and constantly brought us back to hope. 

A safety net can look like a deterrent on the side of a bridge, it can also be a kind word, an intentional ‘how are you?’, a warm hug or the decision to call a helpline. Sometimes we purposefully create these structures for ourselves because we know we will need them, other times we are caught by surprise as the love and care of our community catches us before we even realize that we fell. However the net forms and appears, its presence cannot and should never be eliminated. 

Here are some of the things that I have used and been caught by when life has threatened to completely overwhelm me:

• Changing my immediate environment by going for a walk, getting out into nature, moving into a public area.

• Journaling whatever thoughts are swirling in my head without putting a filter on them.

• Writing a list of things that I’m thankful for.

• Calling my spouse / family member / trusted friend and inviting them into the moment.

• Identifying any people / places / reoccurring situations that cause me to be regularly triggered and creating new boundaries with them.

• Prioritising people and activities that are life-giving to me and remind me what is worth living for, what brings me joy, and how beautiful life can be.

• Releasing any pent up emotion or anger by working out.

• Asking my spouse to hold me.

• Calling a helpline number: 1-800-273-8255

• Practicing breathing techniques.

• Choosing self-care activities over to-do lists or even what my emotions might be telling me I want or need.

Unforced Rhythms of Grace

I didn’t intend to take a month off from writing, but then life happened and here we are. In one of my earlier blogs I stated that I am my most honest when I write, and this is still very true. It’s probably because of this that I have avoided sitting down to type out my thoughts and reflections these past few weeks. In fact, from the first time I sat down to write this, several days have elapsed full of deep emotion. When life feels like a giant, and you like a not-yet-grown David, it can be hard to find the words to describe it all.

The truth is the last four weeks have been hard. I’ve been fluctuating somewhere between stressed and depressed with moments of laughter and delight sprinkled amongst them, and rather than trying to make sense of my emotions with words, I have preferred the comfort and escape of Netflix, red wine and my latest iPhone game addiction - Two Dots. (Anyone else?!)

Out of the top 10 major life stressors that people are likely to experience in America, moving house, job loss and financial pressures are amongst them. In the last few weeks, Phillip and I lost our beautiful home in Harlem due to circumstances outside of our control. After the craziest year any of us have experienced in our lifetimes, we find ourselves houseless again in NYC. Then, in the same week that we were packing up our home and putting everything into a storage unit, I also chose to resign from my job. This decision was made for a myriad of reasons, but suddenly being forced out of our home was the final straw for me to need to find employment that is better able to support me, and provide financial stability for my family.

Both scenarios are nuanced and simple all at the same time, but experiencing them simultaneously in the wake of 2020 was not something I was ready for. Like many others, I came out of last year limping. My heart had been punctured and I was letting out precious blood flow with each step I took. I was desperate for a reprieve, and rather than finding that in the places where I had previously invested so much trust, I found nothing but empty platitudes and ‘I’m sorry dear’ smiles. 

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion?”

YES!

“Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

This is where I’m at once again, learning the unforced rhythms of grace. I don’t think I’ve felt this lost and broken in a long time - maybe ever. It’s a somewhat foreign feeling as I find myself wounded by those who would deny ever even holding the knife. I imagine my insides to look like marbled chocolate, a swirl of anger blended in with stress, mixed with thankfulness and stirred together with hurt, all the while sprinkled with laughter. I think maybe life always looks like marbled chocolate - a wild concoction of differing emotions, experiences, thoughts and perspectives. 

I also fully recognize my own choices as I’ve wrestled to process and respond in the right way to each situation. I have given in to the easy way out with a glass of wine one too many times, and taken my disappointment to bed like a blanket. My internal justice meter has kept a fiery anger burning that I know more forgiveness will quench. Daily I dance with decisions of ‘what I think I should do’, ‘what’s expected of me’, and ‘what I actually have the capacity for.’ 

All of the dancing, juggling, processing and wrestling has left me tired though, so so tired. Which is why most days as of late I have chosen the wine and the Netflix. I have picked the easy way out, because my trust has been broken, I’m hurting, and I just want someone else to please fix what has become so broken. 

Told you I’d be honest. 

She Believed She Could...

My husband loves Barnes and Noble. In fact it was in the Columbus Circle location twelve years ago, on New Years Day, that he first asked me to be his girlfriend. For Phillip, it is like a large treasure trove which he can get lost and found in; a cavern of memories and a safe haven in a bustling city. When life is full, there are a handful of stores that he will be sure to visit for some comfort - the Container Store, Home Goods and Barnes and Noble. Today was a B&N kind of day. 

When he returned home full of cuddles and kisses for Freedom and I, he pulled out a little gift for me that could not have been more perfectly timed. A bookmark with the R.S Grey quote, ‘She believed she could so she did’ inscribed into the teal leather. 

One of my recent, silent struggles has been that of purpose. 

Two weeks ago I crumpled to the floor of our kitchen whilst the baby slept and Phillip was out, and cried. Everything suddenly felt uncertain, overwhelming, and I was unqualified for it all. When playing to my strengths, I am naturally a strategist, so when the unexpected comes along I am able to go into emergency response mode and find us a route out. However, our most recent unforeseen situation has left us holding nothing but the short straw. 

When you find yourself suddenly vulnerable, it can easily throw everything else into question. Oftentimes for me, the first person I point the finger at is myself. “What did I do wrong? What should I have done differently? How can I make this better? What can I do to fix this? If only I could rewind time and do it all again…”

Once the door to self-doubt has been opened, every area of life suddenly becomes subject to its probings. I found myself looking back over the last handful of years and questioning every decision I had made. “Was I a fool?! What had I been doing?!” The onslaught of questions and replaying of old scenes from memory has kept me awake at night as I’ve feverishly tried to problem solve our way backwards, anything to avoid where we now found ourselves. Ultimately though this circling of thoughts came to a halt as the demands of the present grabbed me by the shoulders, requiring that new decisions be made and steps taken. 

Recently, I have not believed that I could. 

That is different from believing that things will work out. I know that they will eventually, they always do, but I have not had the unshakeable belief in myself that I once did. I used to be so confident in the big visions that I carried, convinced that I would see them come to pass and change the world. After the past eighteen months, I would not proclaim that so boldly. 

My bookmark reminder today arrived right on time.

Purpose is not garnered as a result of our circumstance; it is poured into the core of our very being at the moment of conception. Discovering its exact make-up can take a lifetime, but it can not be robbed from us by another’s choice or life’s events. If either of those have been unkind, then the strength to try again can be found in a simple act of encouragement; a reminder that we can.  

Maybe, you too, have found yourself recently crumpled on the floor wondering what you’re doing with your life and questioning the wisdom of decisions you have made. Maybe you’re wrestling with your purpose, or trying to figure out what’s next. Maybe your circumstances have left you feeling overwhelmed and tempted to give up on hope. Maybe you’ve simply forgotten that you can. 

Can I remind you that there is no one on this planet who is like you, created with the unique blend of gifts, abilities, ideas and personality that you have. I would love to pour some courage back into your heart as you read these words that it’s going to be okay. As wild and overwhelming, large and looming as this world and its problems might be right now, it will - somehow and in some form - get better. Even if you feel like all you have is an ounce of belief to see things change, it is enough. You are not alone, and we need you. 

So please, take a deep breath, shake off the stress and anxiety, throw away the swirling questions, and stand up. Go look in the mirror and say to that beautiful reflection looking back at you, “I believe that I can and I will!” 

Why Every Relationship Needs Felt-Safety

My Mum comes from the generation of letter writers. Not only does every card that she sends contain a mini play-by-play of the day’s events that she is writing on, but the card itself has been uniquely crafted together for that occasion to convey whatever heart-felt feelings or memories that she was having towards you at that time. Her cards are legendary, and you know you’ve made it when you start receiving your own!

I always wait for the right moment to sit down and read one of these such missives. Preferably the scene is set with a cup of tea and I’m by myself so I can take my time deciphering her elegant scrawl. Her latest card arrived a couple of days ago, but I waited until tonight to read it. I sat in bed, the bedside lamp casting a ring of light over my pillow, pulled out the pages and began to cry as I read her words. 

I miss you Mum. 

I should probably say that more… 

It’s been six and a half years since I lived in the UK and as the hands of time keep moving forward my sense of rootedness in the States grows deeper. The way I miss England feels different now to when I was first making home in New York. Without fail though, whenever challenges arise there will come a moment when I will crawl under my duvet, and wish that I could click my heels three times and be back in my parent’s home. There’s no feeling quite like the comfort and stability of your family’s presence. 

We were meant to spend this last Christmas and New Year in England, but Covid had other plans. I had kept hoping and hoping and praying and hoping until I was finally forced to come to terms with the reality that it would not be happening this time. Now that trip has been indefinitely postponed having fallen victim to new circumstances beyond our control. Enter: grief. 

I wanted to be done with this state a year ago when Covid first disrupted our world, shut us all down and changed everything. Here we are though, over 12 months later, and grief is still knocking on our doors reminding us of everything we’ve lost. I want to list all of mine, to acknowledge them and share each one with you, to justify my tears and sense of loss, but at the same time I know that my heart is not the only one aching, and sometimes hearing more hard things does not help us manage our own. So for now I will simply summarize and say how much I miss my family, the luxury of being in proximity to them, and the automatic safety that is felt with their nearness. 

As I write this, I am reminded again of a phrase I have been using a lot over the last few months, ‘the importance of felt safety.’

“Felt safety is when you arrange the environment and adjust your behavior so your children can feel in a profound and basic way that they are truly safe in their home with you. Until your child experiences safety for himself or herself, trust can’t develop, and healing and learning won’t progress.” 

- Dr Purvis, The Connected Child

Although Dr Purvis writes here of the specifics of raising a child, I believe her words apply to every environment which we desire for relationships to thrive in. I think about the conversations around race that have been freshly ignited this year as white people have undergone a ‘great awakening’ to the pain and experiences of their BIPOC brothers and sisters. Conflicts come to mind on both a global and a local community level, as people and nations with different experiences and perspectives wrestle to be seen and heard; valued. The onus lands in the lap of those who have been holding the power to adjust themselves in whatever way necessary in order for those who are in pain, who are more vulnerable, who are in need of support, to come to a place where they feel safe enough to be able to trust again and experience healing. Once felt safety has been achieved learning can progress which ultimately fosters long-lasting change. As long as felt safety is absent, relationships will continue to feel violated and true intimacy and authentic community will remain out of reach. 

The felt safety of home is what I crave on night’s like tonight where the world feels big and scary, and the unknown is looming ahead, creeping ever-closer. I think about the atmosphere that I create and hope that it is one of home for others, but who am I kidding? I am not perfect and the reality is I’m sure I have not always fostered this for others. Rather than getting defensive though that someone doesn’t feel safe with us, maybe we should be asking the question, ‘why?’ In what ways can we adjust our environment or behavior to ensure a person or group experiences safety in our presence? Is it as simple and challenging as admitting wrong and saying, ‘I’m sorry?’ Is it swallowing pride and humbly asking how you have caused or added to someone’s pain? Is it owning the impact of your choices regardless of your intentions, and making the necessary steps to right that wrong? 

It takes consistent intentionality to create this for one another. It requires a greater value for connection than personal comfort or preference. It is the gentle wooing of the soul that can involve letter writing and making cards from scratch, sending random packages full of items that ‘made me think of you,’ or out-of-the-blue text messages simply containing, ‘how are you?’ It is all the little things that once added together over time communicate in a basic and profound way that you/they are truly safe in your/their presence. And regardless of how much time passes, it always concludes with, “Come on over, it’s been too long!”

Mother's Day

If I’m honest, I didn’t really pay that much attention to Mother’s Day until a few years ago. Now granted, I did in the sense that I would celebrate my own Mum, Mother-in-Law, and close friends who had kids, but in terms of my own personal buy-in to the day’s celebrations, there was very little. I didn’t have any great emotional attachment to the day, and it didn’t hold many expectations with which it could let me down by. 

That all changed for me in 2016 when Phillip and I officially began our journey to starting our own family. We fell pregnant for the first time in September and suddenly our hearts and understanding were thrust open to this world of parenting, expansive love and devastating loss. Within a six month period we had two pregnancies and an equal amount of miscarriages. It was heart breaking, and I suddenly began to experience Mother’s Day in a whole new way. 

This year will be the second time that I’ve been able to celebrate this holiday with a gorgeous bouncing baby to fill my arms with, and that truly is a joyous and wonderful feeling, but there is still a part of my heart that feels the ache of loss and disappointed expectations. I feel it from the scars of my own journey, and I feel it for my friends who have found themselves walking down a similar path of pregnancy or child loss. I feel it for those who I know have lost their mums, and for friends whose relationships are strained or nonexistent. None of us asked to experience such things, but here we all are with so many stories to tell. 

As I scrolled through my Instagram feed this morning, a post from my friend, Ashley Abercrombie stood out to me:

Tender. That’s the word. That’s the meaning that encapsulates how my heart ends up feeling on this day. Yes, even with my fulfillment of promise sleeping peacefully in the other room, my heart still feels the softness and delicateness of holding both loss and deep gratitude. 

Before entering motherhood, I had so many ideas and expectations of what it would feel like to be a mum on Mother’s Day. I imagined that it would be a bit like your birthday, or being a queen for the day. I dreamt of flowers appearing everywhere and being waited on hand and foot by adoring family members. I pictured sunshine and rainbows and everything peaceful and sweet. I was sure that my heart would feel complete and the sense of bliss would be Hallmark worthy. That is the safety and beauty of dreams; they hold no shadows. 

Now, to be fair, there really is something wonderfully special about Mother’s Day. I can’t walk through our neighborhood with Freedom without someone calling out congratulations to me, or wishing me a great day. My phone lights up with messages from friends and family near and far, all celebrating me with words and pictures. My adoring husband does make me breakfast in bed and treats me with extra loving care. And although he does not understand it yet, Freedom does shower me with love, and hugs and kisses. 

And yet, as seems to be the ever-continual discovery: life is full of tension. In the same breath of celebration, grief is felt, and as we bask in the presence of others, we are aware of those whose absence we miss. 

In moments like these, I’ve learnt to give my heart the space that it needs to acknowledge and feel all these things, to be present with the tension, and not push away the uncomfortable. I’ve never been too good at hiding how I feel, so now I just feel it and own it, even if I wish the feeling were different. I would rather be authentic with my journey than try and fake my way through because I somehow think it is required of me. 

Maybe you feel tender today too. Maybe you resonate with the tensions. Maybe you’re wondering if you’re alone. Maybe you’re trying to figure out how you feel. I haven’t yet discovered the remedy for this ache, but I do know that I/you are not the only one who feels it. My hope is that these words will act like an embrace to meet you where you’re at, to remind you that it’s ok and life is not linear. Maybe it would be easier if we could only feel one emotion at a time, but then again there would be no comfort in our grief, no joy to strengthen us through our sorrow, no laughter to chase away our tears.

So today I really do celebrate you, wherever you are at in the journey of motherhood, and I also hold space for the shadows, the aches, the memories and the loss. It is possible to do and be present with both, and in that you are not alone.

Self-Care for the Walking Wounded

My friend sat across from me in the popular New York cafe listening as I updated her on recent events. “It sounds like you’re all walking wounded…”

As the phrase hit my heart, my eyes glistened with the threat of tears before dissipating after a few swift blinks. Those two words perfectly described how I felt in the aftermath of the previous 12 months and all that had been thrown at us, both corporately and personally. I’ve found that there is something powerfully healing in naming what has caused hurt, loss or disappointment. This simple act of calling something out, putting words to what we have otherwise hidden with our silence, gives us permission to grieve, let go, challenge and change.

I was grateful for this moment of being seen, heard and validated. That short sentence went a long way in legitimizing the things that I had been feeling and carrying. Sometimes, when going through hard things, we can bring to mind the worst atrocities happening in our world to remind ourselves that we don’t have it that bad. It can be a way of minimizing our own pain, or even protecting our hearts from feeling the weight of it. There is obviously truth in this - there are horrendous things occurring all over the world at the same time - but placing them on a conveyor belt of comparison does not help to make any one thing better. I’m reminded of a scene from the powerful HBO series, ‘I May Destroy You’, written by Michaela Coel who also plays the lead role of Arabella, a young black woman in London who is seeking to rebuild her life after being raped. In a poignantly vulnerable moment with her counselor, she reveals that whenever a painful flashback occurs she will say on repeat, 

“There are hungry children. There are hungry children. There are hungry children.

There’s a war in Syria. There’s a war in Syria. There’s a war in Syria.

Not everyone has a smartphone. Not everyone has a smartphone. Not everyone has a smartphone.” 

Those words become her weapons of self defense from the traumatic memories of violation.

When we disassociate from our trauma or pain however, we deny ourselves the ability to be healed and restored from it.  And I believe that process begins with acknowledging, naming, what we have gone through. 

This weekend, following my lovely tea date, I have found myself with an unusual amount of space. My husband has been out working long days on a tap show project, and my 14 month old son has had a shift in napping patterns and has slept for four hours straight in the middle of the day. Rather than filling those times with people or events like I was tempted to, I indulged in the luxury of having time to myself. I took a bath and gave myself a face mask; I washed my hair and listened to one of my current favorite podcasts; I ordered Shake Shack and watched The Photograph which I’ve been wanting to see for a year, and when my son finally woke up, I reveled in time spent with him, took him out for an excursion in the neighborhood, and bought a heavenly-smelling new candle. 

There is no pause button in life, as much as we would probably all love one from time to time, but there are ways that we can reset, even as we keep moving. Not everything on our to-do lists is marked urgent, and not every message needs responding to right that second. This weekend has gone a little ways in giving me that reset, the space to not be responsible for anyone for a few hours and simply breathe. Self-care is imperative for the walking wounded that they may move into wholeness. 

Once a wound has been acknowledged, a treatment plan can be put into place, and depending on the injury it can be a complex list or a simple box of band-aids and antiseptic cream. Can you identify a wound in your heart right now? Is it the size of a paper cut, or are you struggling to stop the bleeding? Have you been able to ask anyone for help, or does trusting another person scare you too much? What would a reset look like for you, even if it’s just the beginnings of one? What is holding you back from investing in you? What is one thing you can do today for you? Who, if anyone, is taking care of you?

Towards the end of my New York tea date, my friend reminded me of the importance of retreats. They are not a sign of weakness, but are used as strategic withdrawals by armies to move back into a place of safety, a refuge, in order to build up strength so they can once again return to fight the enemy. I don’t know what your ‘enemy’ might be, but we all have things that we’re up against - challenges, injustice, hurdles, strained relationships, hope deferred, disappointments, financial worries etc - and we need to have the strength to face them. As my friend encouraged me to find a way to retreat, so may I also encourage you. Find a place of refuge, of stillness, of peace, and drink deep of the quiet waters, let them restore your soul.

The Verdict

A week ago today our bated breath was unanimously released in a communal exhale when Judge Peter A. Cahill read aloud the verdict reached by the jury of 12 in the trial of Derek Chauvin for the murder of George Floyd. 

“We, the Jury, in the above entitled matter as to count one, Unintentional Second Degree Murder While Committing a Felony, find the defendant Guilty.

We, the Jury, in the above entitled matter as to Count Two, Third Degree Murder Perpetrating an Eminently Dangerous Act, find the defendant Guilty.

We, the Jury, in the above entitled matter as to Count Three, Second Degree Manslaughter, Culpable Negligence Creating an Unreasonable Risk, find the defendant Guilty.” 

I was stood with my husband in our son’s bedroom, changing his diaper, as we watched the courtroom announcement play out from my small, phone screen. Relief and some sense of justice met us in that moment, but along with it was also sadness, knowing that as historic as this verdict was, it also didn’t suddenly make everything right. 

An Instagram Live came to mind that I had watched recently with Austin Channing Brown, the author of ‘I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness’. In it she referenced how her book, which was first released in May 2018, had hit the New York Best Sellers list in the weeks following George Floyd’s death, June 2020. She talked about the juxtaposition with which she found herself in - on the one hand wanting to celebrate a huge moment in her career, but on the other knowing that this was inextricably linked to the horrific murder of a black man, and ultimately the deep pain and trauma being experienced yet again by her community. A two-sided coin of success and grief. 

In the hours and days following the verdict, responses of, ‘this is not justice; this is accountability’, flooded social media platforms, blogs, news outlets and public statements. The very fact that relief was one of the first responses to the word ‘guilty’ is testament to how rare that verdict has been in US history in cases of police brutality such as this one. Questions have abounded as to whether such a result would have occurred if the video showing the killing of George Floyd hadn’t gone viral, sending an outraged world out of quarantine and into the streets, demanding justice. These questions then point to the bigger, deeper issue we face: the systems with which everything runs on and that are woven together in a broken fashion by the thread of white supremacy.

My mind runs to the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in his 1967 book, ‘Where Do We Go From Here: Chaos or Community?’

“In the days ahead we must not consider it unpatriotic to raise certain basic questions about our national character.”

By some, these big, hard questions sound like rebellion, unpatriotism, or even hatred. I think however they are simply the questions that need to be asked, answered, and acted upon in order for us to truly become the United States of America that we so proudly profess to be. The violence which took place on the intersection of East 38th St and Chicago Ave in Powderhorn Park, Minneapolis was not a one-off event. It is tied to the murders of Ma’kiah Bryant, Daunte Wright, Adam Taylor, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Philando Castille, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, and the list goes endlessly on…. It is tied not by individuals but by systems, by a culture, and by a continual abuse of power leaving one people group as the primary victims.

So, as MLK so perfectly said, where do we go from here?!

Firstly, if you haven’t already read this book, I would start there.

For some reading this, you have already been fighting for a long, long time, maybe your whole life. You are tired and your heart is aching because these names and faces that I have referred to here could well have been a member of your family; they could have been you. I am sorry and my heart grieves with you. Please, if you are able, take a moment to rest, find some space to breathe, let yourself be poured back into in some way. Your body, mind, heart and spirit are worthy of these things. And I know this fight is far from over, but what did occur last week is worthy of a celebration. If I may share another quote from MLK, and the same book, which I was reminded of this week:

“A final victory is an accumulation of many short-term encounters. To lightly dismiss a success because it does not usher in a complete order of justice is to fail to comprehend the process of full victory. It underestimates the value of confrontation and dissolves the confidence born of partial victory by which new efforts are powered.”

The guilty verdict for Derek Chauvin was partial victory, the beginning of accountability, and a slice of justice for George Floyd’s family. It is a stepping stone of hope for us to place our feet onto. And so for those of us who haven’t inherited the trauma of racism from the generations gone before us, or have had to have ‘the talk’ about what to do when pulled over by the police, we have strength, and energy, and capacity that our brothers and sisters need. We have shoulders that can be leant on, voices which can speak up and intervene, money that can be invested, time which can be given, trust and belief that can be extended when the next deadly encounter with the police occurs. We are rich with resources, and as ones who have not suffered, we have a duty to find a way to bring healing.

Here are some resources to invest in for getting further equipped, deepening your understanding, and becoming a greater advocate for justice and accountability in all of our communities:

• The Love and Race Podcast

• Be The Bridge

• Brownicity

• Faith and Prejudice

• Peace Building: Race, Politics and Justice (online course)

• Anti-harassment and Violence Trainings (free online trainings)

• Grassroots Law Project

• George Floyd Memorial Foundation

Learning to Live in Tension

How much sorrow can a heart take? How many stories can it hold?

I’m asking for a friend… 

Yesterday, the jury in the trial of former Minneapolis Police officer Derek Chauvin started their deliberations over the charges brought against him in the killing of George Floyd. 

Just before 11pm on Thursday, April 15th, 19 year-old Brandon Hole opened fire on workers at a FedEX facility leaving several injured and eight people dead. He then turned the gun on himself and committed suicide. 

Mass killings have claimed four or more American lives every week for the past six weeks, leaving 48 dead.

On Monday, March 29th, 13 year-old Adam Toledo was pursued down a dark alleyway in Chicago by police and shot dead.

Ten days ago, a video surfaced from December 2020 documenting the stopping, mistreatment and pepper spraying of Second Lt. Caron Nazario by Virginia police. 

Although occurring at different times, all of these items hit our news cycles, here in the States, within the space of a week of one another. This short but weighty list is not comprehensive though; it does not touch on what has been happening beyond our borders or in our individual lives - the surge in outbreaks of violence and protests in Goma, DRC; the military coup and protests in Myanmar; President Idriss Déby of Chad passing away at the weekend from injuries incurred on the frontlines of battle with rebel group, Fact; the pandemic continuing while we hit 3 million deaths worldwide as a result of Covid-19, and the list goes on…

How do we hold it all when our arms will only stretch so far wide? 

I find myself, more than ever before, living in a space of tension. Feeling like a creaky old bridge stretched across water that I didn’t ask to be positioned over, every step taken across the wooden planks causing me to bend and shudder at their weight. I look into the innocent, loving face of my son - the fulfillment of promise and the delight of my heart - and I encounter the beauty, wonder, delight and joy with which he embraces each moment. The worries, stresses and heartaches momentarily fading away as I watch him move about with such comical curiosity, and hungrily receive his random displays of affection. 

Maybe this is the ‘privilege’ which comes with growing older? As our tent pegs get stretched out a little further, and a little further more, we do not just gain a bigger house but a larger community. We no longer have to simply have capacity for our little village; we have gained the whole world within the flimsy canvas walls of our homes. 

I started writing this blog in response to a question which I was genuinely asking myself. That friend is me. How much sorrow can my heart take? How many stories can it hold? I think the answer is actually far more than it may feel like in the moment. The resilience found within the bones of those whose hearts have been broken, is far stronger than the sum of that which tries to overwhelm them. 

The truth is that I have moments where I don’t think I can take another headline, another piece of bad news, another situation which will result in me having to alter and pivot my plans because the luxury of choice has been removed. It feels overwhelming. And yet, here I am, still going, still reading more headlines, finding more space, shifting and making room, learning and adapting.  

This doesn’t make me superhuman, neither does it leave me unscathed, but I am struck by hope as I type these words. Delicate though it may be. The weights of our world are many, they are heavy and overwhelming, but they are not greater than hope, they are not greater than love. 

“I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.”

― Maya Angelou

How much sorrow can our hearts take, and how many stories can they hold? I’m not sure, but I’m realising that it might be more than we first thought, and with those stories and sorrows also comes joy and delight, comes connection and community, comes comfort and strength. 

For Such A Time As This

There are some Bible stories that have become so famous in our Western world that they are tales in their own right - Noah and his ark, Moses and the plagues, Daniel and the lion’s den. They’ve transcended the confines of our Sunday School rooms to become staples in our story times and references for us to pull on when we need some inspiration. Along with the well-known characters come well-known phrases which get quoted in memes and motivational posts, are referenced in speeches and slip into encouraging dialogue. We have them memorized, but how often do we really pay attention to what they’re saying?

This week I was in a coaching conversation when my therapist referenced the verse which says:

“And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?”

She talked about the importance of knowing what we are meant to be doing in each season and posed the question, ‘what are you doing for such a time as this?’ As the conversation continued my mind stayed on this thought, processing it in the background like a computer program downloading new software. A realisation began to form and take shape… 

I have allowed the vision and desires of other people to shape what I give my time to and where I pour my energy. I do not know what I am meant to be doing ‘for such a time as this’, because I have been too busy focusing on what everyone else is doing ‘for such a time as this.’ 

One of the many casualties of 2020 has been vision. The majority of the world has been in survival mode as we have all navigated through the impact of a global pandemic, pivoted our schedules and expectations more times than we care to count, and sought for equality and justice with renewed vigor. Rather than making grand plans for the future and getting excited for what tomorrow might hold, we have found ourselves reeling in grief, processing trauma and just trying to get through yet another news cycle. It’s almost harder to keep going once the heat of the blaze has died down, the shock of the fire has worn off, and all you are left with is a massive clean-up job. 

This is where I have found myself as of late: plodding along in survival mode just hoping that soon everything will ‘resume programming as normal’.

When we’re exerting all of our energy on just trying to breathe and keep our heads above water, everything else can feel like excess - not essential and therefore not important. But what if we’ve got it the wrong way around? What if the visions and dreams, the hopes and desires we have are not luxury items but actually the stimulus by which we’re meant to live by? What if we stopped believing that dreaming was only for the privileged instead of a non-negotiable for all? 

What would we do differently?

If you find yourself in a similar place to me, staring at a vision board full of words and images you don’t recognize, can I suggest that maybe it’s time for you to pause and revisit what you’ve given your ‘yes' to? Did 2020 steal more from you than the freedom to leave the house without a mask? Have you stopped imagining things for your future because you’re so focused on getting through today? 

If you answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions, then please take the time to read on and answer the next few too. As Dr. Barbara Shabazz says, “It’s intentional.”

When was the last time you felt fully alive?

How are you making space to cultivate that feeling on a regular basis? 

What makes you angry?

How are you turning that passionate anger into something which will bring about change and healing in that space?

What comes to mind when you hear the phrase ‘for such a time as this’? 

How would you respond today to the question, ‘What was it that you were born for, for such a time as this?”

If you were to create a vision board, what would be on it, and is it reflective of the life you are living?

You Have A Choice!

“Joy, you have a choice!” My friend’s words rung in my ears through the phone receiver, and their impact caused my eyes to smart with tears. 

Have you ever had one of those moments where someone states what’s blatantly obvious and it lands like it’s a revelation from heaven? It’s as if sometimes we just need someone to hit us around the face with the truth before we will actually receive it for ourselves. This weekend phone call was one of those for me. 

Sat on the bed at home, I listened as my friend rallied me to remembrance. She poured value back into me after I confessed how a situation had left me feeling worthless. She exhorted my heart, reaffirmed my place in the room, and in doing so empowered my voice. Her words resonated deep within me, and as I took them in, I realized how hungry I had been to hear them.  

I’m one of those ‘deep-end-of-the-swimming-pool’ type folks. I love to go in with people, and once I’m there I’m fiercely loyal. For the most part, this trait has served me well as long as I’ve been operating from a place of health. However the moment my loyalty becomes blind and mute, is the moment abuse can go unchecked in the relationship. In layman’s terms, ‘abuse’ is when something or someone is misused. Just think for a second how easy it is to use something for a task it was not created for. Now apply that same thought to your relationships: how often have we misused someone for our own gain? And also, how often have we been misused for someone else’s profit?

“We fail the people in our world when we choose silence, never opting to raise a fuss. We play what we believe to be our role in the kingdom. In reality, we empower a broken empire.”

- Tiffany Bluhm; Prey Tell

Tiffany Bluhm hits the nail on the head in her book, Prey Tell, when she unpacks the difference between loyalty and faithfulness, and yet how often do we speak of them interchangeably? Misused loyalty can keep us in a relationship, environment, position or job well beyond the parameters set for health. We have a choice. Slim though it may be, it is still present. 

choice [ chois ]

noun

• an act or instance of choosing; selection:

• the right, power, or opportunity to choose; option:

• the person or thing chosen or eligible to be chosen:

• an alternative:

There can be circumstances where the privilege of choosing has been removed from our artillery whether that’s due to a lack of financial freedom, a set of rules enforced by the law, an absence of opportunity etc., but for the most part when it comes to our relationships, the freedom and ability to choose lies in our hands. Even when someone makes a choice that negatively impacts us, we do not have to be a victim of that. We can choose a response that is centered in peace and justice.

As I have mulled over all these things the last few days, I have grasped again at the options I do have. Sometimes our choices are so simple we don’t even have to think about them. They hold no real significant consequence, but are simply the threads which make up the tapestry of our day-to-day comings, goings and interactions. Then there are times where the choice before us actually requires us to “be our own advocate”, as my friend exhorted me the other day. So how do we ensure that we make the right choice without causing a misuse of relationship in the process? Here’s a little checklist of questions to think and ask if you find yourself at a similar crossroads:

• What will I gain by choosing this?

• What scares me the most about making this decision?

• Are those fears valid, or am I projecting outcomes on myself and others simply to prevent myself from acting?

• If the fears are valid, what action plan can I put in place to ensure my safety - mentally, emotionally and physically?

• Who will be impacted by this choice?

• How do I ensure that they will be honored and respected in the process?

• What does it look like to maintain personal integrity as I walk this decision out?

• What is my timeline in taking action, and who can I share this with to keep myself accountable?

“You cannot control the behavior of others, but you can always choose how you respond to it.” 

― Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

Advocating for yourself isn’t always easy, especially when your instinct to be loyal is in full swing, but the projected outcome is worth taking those few steps forward, and the consequences of refusing to do so will only be detrimental to you. 

When Life is Full

full [ fool ]

adjective,

completely filled; containing all that can be held; filled to utmost capacity

I’ve been using this word a lot recently. 

Full. 

It’s been a full last few weeks. 

It’s been a full whole year. 

My mind is full. 

My heart is full. 

My hands are full. 

I would often associate this word solely with positive images and feelings - a full belly after a large meal, a heart bursting full of gladness, fields full of beautiful sunflowers - but more recently I have been using this adjective to incapsulate all that life has been churning out; no longer cherry-picking the good from the bad. 

One of my favourite times of the year is Christmas. The way the air smells different as the crispness of winter whips about the face; the cozy rooms lit by candles and scented with oranges and cloves; the closeness of family and dear friends; the way time stops still and we can entirely forget what day it is in the presence of those we love. When I think of all the warmth of feeling full, I think of Christmas Day and my post-feasting belly as I curl up in the couch and watch a movie with my family that I may, or may not, fall asleep to. There is a contentedness that comes with this sensation; a knowledge that ‘everything is well with my soul’. 

That sense of fullness has been hard to capture in the past year. 

Instead, when catching up with friends, I find myself trying to find words to describe what my days have looked or felt like since we last sat and connected. My mind runs over the time that has passed, logging events that have happened, interwoven with the daily rhythms of chores and the highlights of Freedom’s face or Phillip’s tender gaze. 

Life is full. 

As I sit and let myself be present with my heart in this moment, a lump has formed in my throat and tears have encircled my eyes. My heart is full of the stories of those I am walking through life with in this season, feeling the pressure of the burdens they carry as I lean in to hear their voices. The friends who are longing to get pregnant, the one who is walking through divorce, those who are seeking to find a life mate, the ones wrestling with their faith and those crying out to be seen, to be heard, to receive justice. Then just outside this circle of intimacy are all of the stories which come sailing through the cracked bedroom windows and from the ever-blinking phones - the stories of the neighbourhood, the outside world, the news cycles and hashtag trends, the atrocities and triumphs which rock our world and cause our systems to shake and tremble.

My heart and mind is full of all these things, trying to give adequate space to every part and chapter, every person and voice, whilst also scraping up enough scraps of time for moments like this - being present with my own heart. It is in the quiet of my room and in the space which these words create, that I experience an emptying, a letting go, a breathing and releasing. 

To be full is to exist at your utmost capacity. There is no room for the more until you allow yourself the space to pour the excess out, until you give yourself permission for a little emptying. Our souls weren’t created with the capacity to hold the whole world’s sorrows. Only God can do that. We were not built with the ability to hold every story’s tensions without some outside help. We are not superhuman; we are humans being. 

If you’re like me, perhaps you find yourself feeling full all the time and with little capacity left to hold another thing, another heart, another story, another event. Can I invite you to join me in a little time of pouring out? Would you pick up that small scrap of time which you were about to discard, and instead shape it with me into something you can treasure? 

Find some paper and a pen, or if that is too old school for you, open your laptop and click open a blank page. Turn on some Ludovico Einaudi, or maybe Sad Moses, or William Augusto. Make sure the lighting is just right, maybe light a candle, open a window, set the scene of your room to one of peace. Now sit with these questions, let them enter your heart and roll over your tongue. There is no right or wrong response, you will not be graded in whatever words you allow to hit the page. My simple charge to you is let your heart pour out the truth, let it exhale all of its excess, and in doing so find the capacity to be once again. 

What does it feel like to be you right now?

What emotions are you experiencing in this moment? 

What have you been thinking about as you’ve sat and read this blog?

What stories / tensions / people are you holding, and how are they making you feel?

What helps you feel connected to hope right now?

What parts of Scripture (if any) have been helping you connect to God / hope / faith recently?

What is delighting your heart in this moment? 

Upcoming event:

Check out The Refresh Gathering coming up on Saturday April 10th, hosted by my dear friend Danielle Beckmann and the incredible Dr. Barbara Shabazz. A workshop space designed to invest back into you!

Racism Is A Virus

This week kicked my butt. 

Do you ever have those days or weeks where you just feel like you’re constantly behind, just running to keep up with your own tail? And it’s not simply that I’ve felt late on things I have to do, my heart also feels like it’s trailing behind. 

On Tuesday March 16th, 21 year-old Robert Aaron Long went on a shooting spree in Atlanta, Georgia, specifically targeting three spas. He killed a total of eight people, six of whom were Asian women. These are their names:

Daoyou Feng  (44)

Delaina Ashley Yaun  (33)

Hyun Jung Grant  (51)

Soon Chung Park  (74)

Suncha Kim  (69)

Yong Ae Yue  (63)

Paul Andre Michels  (54)

Xiaojie Tan  (49)

Their deaths have shaken the nation once more as a conversation that has been bubbling just below the surface suddenly burst into all capitals onto every screen and platform #STOPAAPIHATE #RACISMISAVIRUS !!! 

For those in the Asian community, this is not a new topic. They have been living these experiences of marginalization from the moment they first stepped foot on these shores. In the last year however, there has been increasing concern for the safety of the Asian American and Pacific Islander communities. Stop AAPI Hate recently released their latest national report which tracks incidents of hate throughout the 50 states from March 2020 - February 2021. During that time they received 3,795 reports of anti-Asian hate, and 35.4% of these cases took place within a business setting. In contrast to the previous year, this is an increase of about 150% of reported anti-Asian hate crimes. 

On March 16th, 2020, President Trump first tweeted the phrase “Chinese virus”. This sparked a massive increase in anti-Asian sentiment as suddenly it became ‘ok’ to blame one ethnic group for a global pandemic, because our President said so. Three months later he added “kung flu” to his vocabulary, this time using it during a rally speech. In doing so, Trump placed a target on the back of anyone who could be identified as Asian. 

Exactly a year to the day later of Trump’s tweet, 8 innocent people are murdered by a young white male who is simply described by Capt. Jay Baker as, “having a bad day.” None of this is unrelated. 

As the week has gone on and more details have been revealed, I have taken the time to read the names of those who were so brutally murdered, to hear about their lives, and to honor their memories by holding space for their stories. A statement made by one of Suncha Kim’s grandchildren, Regina Song, on a GoFundMe page stood out to me with its poignant humanity:

"My grandmother was an angel, to have her taken away in such a horrific manner is unbearable to think about. As an immigrant, all my grandmother ever wanted in life was to grow old with my grandfather, and watch her children and grandchildren live the life she never got to live.”

We are doing something deeply, bitterly wrong when a culture of hate is allowed room to breathe, grow and take out the lives of elders in our communities and country. It is painfully problematic when we hand the nation’s loudest microphone to a man who carelessly throws his words away, and then refuses to be held accountable to their devastating impact. We are merely paying lip service to the grieving if all we do is shake our heads at the news reports, and then carry on our merry way of building our machines and businesses without taking stock and holding space for those who need a moment to be heard and to heal. 

This isn’t a new conversation. It’s been happening since the moment the first colonizer stepped foot on this land, and declared their skin and life as superior to the inhabitants that they encountered. The difference is, are we going to allow it to continue?

* The image used for this blog was created by @by.hojeong - an aspiring children’s book author and illustrator.

Breaking the Silence

Women have ruled the headlines this week. From Meghan Markle’s truth-telling interview, and all of the backlash which ensued, to the discovery of Sarah Everard’s body in woodland in Kent, England following her disappearance in London on March 3rd, the cries for the voices of women to be heard have been resounding. 

Although now living in New York City, I grew up in England, living primarily in Liverpool until I was 25 and finally received my visa to come to the States and marry my husband. In watching, reading and listening to the stories and conversations, the challenges and demands for change, which have come from the very bones of women across the UK I have found myself remembering and relating, understanding and coming alongside. 

England is no anomaly to the mistreatment of women, I have experienced objectification everywhere that I’ve lived and traveled in the world. There is not one place that I’ve gone to where I have not at some point needed to put into practice the ‘survival checklist’ in order to ensure my safety. These are tips and tricks if you will, not guaranteed to work, but recommended to shield you from potential attackers.

• Wear bright clothes

• Wear shoes that you can run in

• Don’t wear clothes that might be considered ‘suggestive’

• Text/call someone to let them know you’re on your way and what time to expect you

• Carry your keys in your hand to be used in self-defense if needs be

• Carry a rape alarm

• Walk only on well-lit and populated streets at night

• Cross to the other side of the road and double-back on yourself to be around more people if possible

• As soon as you turn a corner ahead of someone you are suspicious of, run, to create more distance

• Don’t take the short cut home

• Talk to someone on the phone as you walk

I have done all of these things throughout the years, many times without even thinking about it. Even as I write, memories come to mind like watching a twisted highlight reel…being followed home as a teenager by a man who then stalked me for several weeks… the adrenaline of fear and instinct rushing through my veins and putting me on high alert as I walked home alone… being sexually assaulted in a nightclub… being followed, propositioned, and threatened by a curb crawler when I was just fourteen… called out to, whistled at, approached and followed by random, older men on numerous occasions. The memories don’t stop there, some hold more intense violations, others of the subtler kind, but the fact remains that the streets have never been the safest for women. 

‘Reclaim these streets’ has been the chant that has reverberated around the country and world as women have gathered to honour and mourn the life of Sarah Everard. Her death has struck a chord with womankind; the realisation that, ‘that could have been me’, causing a wildfire for justice to be set alight. This week comes on the back of three years of the #metoo movement becoming a prominent part of our conversations and campaigning. It follows multiple high profile stories of leaders in church and state being accused of sexual misconduct towards women who were working for them. Sarah’s life and subsequent death are a fresh reminder that she could have been us. 

Around the world, 1 out of every 3 women have experienced physical and/or sexual violence and 200 million girls are missing. 

According to a 2016 Center for Disease Control report, 1 out of every 5 women in the U.S. have experienced rape or attempted rape.

- Silence is not Spiritual

In the UK, 1 in 4 women will experience domestic abuse and 1 in 5 sexual assault during her lifetime.

- UK Home Office

As the grief has poured out, so has the anger, and with it the demand to change the narrative from centering the conversation around the woman and ‘what she should have done differently’, to calling out the man who has perpetrated. For too long the woman has often been blamed or questioned for how she ‘allowed or welcomed’ her assault to happen. 

Woe unto us for how we have treated the hurt and abused, for how we have allowed sexism, racism and every other ism to run and rule our institutions. We have not been our sister’s keeper, our brother’s keeper. We have placed the power in the wrong hands and sacrificed our most beautiful and vulnerable on the altar of power, lust and greed.  

If the last couple of years have taught us anything, it’s that a lot of injustice has been allowed to prevail for too long, but those who have been on the receiving end are DONE with being subjected to this cycle. #timesup

In reading this, you may identify with that vulnerable feeling of being a potential walking target for someone else’s ill intent. You may be entering this conversation from a different perspective and set of experiences. You may be the brother, husband, friend or father of a woman who has been on the receiving end of this kind of trauma. Wherever you find yourself, there is space for your story, room for your voice, communities you can connect to and actions that can be taken. 

Please see below for a list of linked resources that I hope will aid you in continuing this conversation in your space. Let’s invest our time into healing, caring for our mental health, learning what changes can and should be made, and adding our voices in support of a movement that seeks to love our women, not just better, but WHOLLY. 

• Times Up Now - An organization committed to the ‘safe, fair and dignified work for women of all kinds.’

• Silence Is Not Spiritual - A global network of women faith leaders and their allies calling the church to stand with and for survivors of gender based violence and abuse.

• One Million Thumbprints - A grassroots organization working to stop violence against women and girls in conflict zones.

• Restless Network - A safe, social network for women by women.

• Prey Tell - (book) Why we silence women who tell the truth and how everyone can speak up.

• Dr. Hillary Mcbride - therapist, researcher, speaker and writer.

• Resources for Allies

• How to Serve as an Ally

• Why Tho? Podcast

What Meghan Said...

It can be startling to realize that the people and places which we once deemed as safe, comfortable, full of goodness and well-meaning, even going so far as to describe them as ‘perfect’ to others, are actually a facade; a pretty veneer with a hollow inside. 

This evening I sat and watched the Oprah interview with Harry and Meghan and was brought to tears by the things that I heard. As a little girl, I dreamt of one day becoming a princess. A serendipitous encounter with a prince resulting in me being swept away from my ordinary existence and taken into one of singing birds and rapturous beauty. Turns out that’s not quite the way it works…similar, but not quite… Anyway, the point is I have always loved the Royals. My husband, Phillip, jokes that there are two things which will get me riled up 1) someone talking badly about my husband or son and 2) someone talking negatively about the Queen. I mean, he’s not so wrong. I love the country I am from and I have a particular fondness for our Queenie. 

But there is something that gets my goat even more than those things do: injustice, and in this case - racism. 

It is sickening, humbling, scary and confronting when you begin to see how racism has been woven into the very fabric of the institutions, belief systems, relationships, structures and ways of thinking that make up your world. The very insidiousness of it can cause some people to refuse to believe the truth, yet for others who are trapped under the power play, they are screaming for someone to tear it all down. 

For me, most recently, it is almost triggering an identity crises. Maybe it is for you too?

It’s like that moment when you realize that you’ve been lied to, and not just a little white lie that has no consequence, but a massive deception that has impacted every decision you’ve made from its inception. Who you’ve chosen to listen to and allowed into your inner circle, votes that you’ve cast, petitions you’ve signed, jobs you’ve taken and stories you’ve passed on to your kids were all decided by that lie of inferiority, that distortion of history, the whisper of doubt, the questioning of another’s true worth. And what’s more, you agreed with it. 

I write this in the final few minutes of International Women’s Day, my mind swirling with so many stories of courage, bravery, strength and passion belonging to women I know and love dearly. Each one inspires me and brings me to tears in equal measure. I think too of Meghan, whose honesty and bravery is now being laid bare before the whole world. An invitation offered up for compassion and understanding, and also a bold confrontation of one of the world’s oldest institutions, which even now continues to perpetuate a system of caste and oppression, including the very ones it worships. 

So, in the words of Dr Martin Luther King Jr, “Where do we go from here?” 

“In the days ahead we must not consider it unpatriotic to raise certain basic questions about our national character.” 

― Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?

I think we need to continue to wrestle with the hard questions, to allow our ignorance to be called out, to do the work and learn our real and full history, to be ok with not being perfect and instead embrace the beauty, ugliness and vulnerability of our humanity. If you find yourself, like I have done, having the foundations of your cultural identity being shaken, lean into that, don’t ignore it. Ignorance is not bliss. It is the permission given for injustice and oppression to continue. There is no superior race. The Romans were wrong. The British Empire was wrong. Hitler was wrong. White Supremacy is wrong. We need to dismantle the lies and break agreement with them. We need to stop, in order for anything new to begin. 

Oprah’s interview may not be enough to completely overhaul the institution of the Royal family, but it is certainly causing ripples, and if given enough encouragement by the wind, could cause a tsunami of change. 

Acknowledging Racial Trauma

I bolted upright in bed, my heart racing, eyes wild and bewildered as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I frantically felt the space in the bed next to me as I tried to locate the presence of my husband, all the while attempting to figure out if I was still dreaming or this was really happening. A siren was blaring in repetition, its volume and urgency filling every crevice of the apartment and making rational thoughts almost an impossibility. My mind registered the lights on in the kitchen and bathroom, signaling the presence of Phillip before he emerged from the latter looking as shocked as I was feeling.

“What do we do?” I was stood up now, moving about the space but with no direction, like a pin ball getting thrown from wall to wall in a machine. 

“We need to get out!” Philip was scrambling to gather clothes and a couple of essentials. I began to kick myself into gear and opened the door to the walk-in closet which our one-year-old had commandeered as his bedroom. Freedom was somehow still managing to peacefully sleep, even as the alarms continued to thunder through the apartment building. I gathered our boy into my arms, throwing coats onto us both, grabbed my handbag and headed for the door. The noise was deafening as we made our way outside where other bewildered and rather grumpy looking tenants were gathered in social distanced array across the street. I held Freedom’s head close to mine, an attempt to protect him from a potentially frightening experience, as well as trying to calm my own shattered nerves. Amazingly the child did not cry once but seemed to embrace the whole experience as a midnight adventure which he could later tell his toys about. 

As it turned out, the whole thing ended up being a false alarm - the result of a restaurant’s fire alarm being accidentally set off - and we were soon allowed to return back indoors and resettle  for the rest of the night. Normally events like this don’t seem to phase me too much, in fact my response is often similar to that of Freedom’s - reveling in the excitement and looking forward to having an ‘out-of-the-ordinary’ story to tell later. This time, however, I found myself on edge and unable to calm down. The very hairs on my skin felt like they were stood on end, my whole body tingling and set to alert. I forced myself to go back to sleep once again, an inner monologue working to assure me that I would feel normal in the morning. 

This reaction to an emergency situation was not a usual one for me. I was taken aback when, for the next day or so, I found myself stricken with a continual anxiety. My body felt on high alert, constantly tingling with the expectation that something bad was about to happen. As I tried to make sense of this very visceral reaction I was having, my mind was drawn to the many stories of trauma I have been reading about recently. 

When someone experiences an event that is deeply distressing or disturbing, it has the effect of creating a wound in the mind. An injury is caused as the person’s system goes into shock in an attempt to cope with the high stress of what is occurring. Some traumas can be almost momentary, our resilience doing wonders to quickly heal the cuts to our mind, or the intensity of the situation quickly flagged as a false alarm. When an experience goes beyond the boundaries of what would normally be classed as a ‘bump in the road’ or an ‘unfortunate incident’ though and moves into the category of ‘truly horrendous’, our mind and body experience a deep wounding. If untreated, this laceration can remain with us for a lifetime, even having the ability to be passed on to the generations that follow. 

Now, my physical reaction to being woken up in the middle of the night by a fire alarm remained with me for about 24 hours before my system fully recalibrated and returned to a state of normalcy. It was not a serious trauma; there was no real threat. However the experience drew my attention to how many people live in a constant state of high alert. Fear abiding just below the epidermis as the threat of danger is a daily reality in their world, whilst living in their skin. 

In writing this, I am all too aware of the privilege involved in acknowledging this feeling, essentially from the sidelines, gained from a one-off experience that really only stemmed from having my sense of security rudely shaken. I happen to have been born into skin which affords me the luxury of never having to think about how I need to act around law enforcement, or that one wrong word or look could cost me my life if perceived as a threat. I live in a system where I am of the dominant caste and have therefore never questioned that I would have a life full of opportunity and endless open doors. Experiences of trauma that I have endured were as a result of my gender and not the hue of my skin, they were received in my lifetime rather than being handed to me through my bloodline. 

Racial trauma exists in the very bloodlines of America, passed from one generation to the next as we continue to attempt to move forward without fully acknowledging the gaping wounds of the past. Whole communities live out their days on high alert, their skin working as sensors, taut and tingling, ready to hit flight at the first hint of danger. This is no way to really live. This is no way to love one another. This is no future to hand our children of tomorrow. 

Choosing to look at the wounds, stopping to clean them out, bending to stitch the skin together again is not easy work. It requires uncomfortability and sacrifice. It requires the cost of our time, our privilege, and a relinquishing of power. But it is NECESSARY in order to allow rest to come to those who built this country, in order for shalom to truly find its home. 

For more helpful information regarding racial trauma and how to receive help, please check out these resources:

Mental Health America (resource site)

Healing Racial Trauma: the Road to Resilience (book)

Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents (book)

Identifying and Addressing Racial Trauma in Counseling (article)

Dr. Barbara Shabazz (psychologist and life coach)

Honest Questions

I don’t have something obvious to sit down and write about this week, but my commitment to this rhythm of writing is keeping me accountable. As I opened my laptop and clicked to a fresh page, I decided to tell the truth. 

Today has ended in questions for me…

What is my purpose in this season? 

There is so much injustice taking place in our world, with fresh stories and systems being exposed on a daily basis, how do I know where to focus my attention and energy? How do I not become paralyzed and overwhelmed? How do I maintain integrity in not just my desires for justice, but in seeing them walked out? 

What am I so passionate about that my zeal will outlive the news cycles, and popular posting trends? What am I not ashamed to be known for being for?

What does staying connected in faith look like in the midst of so many questions? Where is God when you can’t hear his voice? 

I don’t have the answers yet, so tonight you find me sat with the wrestle. Welcome to my ‘Penuel’, my place of facing God. 

Like any tug of war with something larger than yourself, there comes uncomfortability, even pain. At times recognizing that you might lose, before determining to keep pushing on regardless of how much it hurts. Losing is not an option. And so you continue, unrelenting in your wrestle, and as the dawn creeps into the horizon of your night, you walk towards it with a new limp. Victorious but changed. Your gait forever marked, your footprints no longer the same. 

I find myself in the thick of this space right now. I was going to call it ‘dark’, but I also recognize a softness here. There is vulnerability in the midst of contending, and it is in that spot that beauty grows. Dreams, clarity, revelation, repentance, reconciliation, connection, hope - their form can be found as seeds in the heart of a wrestling being. They are seeds that I see in me. 

The questions continue to swirl in my mind as I wind down from the end of a full day. 

What do I need to do? Am I in the right place? What is the best thing for our family? What does the future look like for us as we try to rebuild from pandemic life? What? How? Who? Where? When? …..

Today is not the day for all the answers, it is the moment to contend. It is the time to ask, and seek, to dig deep and weigh it all, to lean in, to listen and learn, to be ok with the mystery of how it will all unfold. 

Welcome to my ‘Penuel’, my place of struggle and grappling, my season of seeking out the honest answers to my honest questions. I hope you find the softness in whichever season you might find yourself in, whether it’s with me in the tussle, or striding along with the richness of clarity as your vision. There are seeds of vulnerability in both, and it is here that I think we bear the richest of fruit. 

One Year of Freedom

I guess this is a blog for my baby. An unashamed post of motherly pride and joy.

The moment he was placed on my chest for the first time, naked and wet, small and vulnerable, all limbs and pink skin, dark hair, dark eyes, was as surreal as it was wonderful. My exhausted mind wrapping itself around the solid testament of the living, breathing soul that was now encircled by my arms. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bones. The long-awaited arrival of our first-born son. 

Freedom Alexander. Wednesday, February 12th, 2020, 10:08am, 8lb 14oz. 

This week he turned one years old. A milestone marking the end of a year full of many others as he’s grown, changed, learned and adapted; as we have grown, changed, learned and adapted. It was both one of the hardest and most challenging years as a global pandemic raged right on the heels of his birth, and simultaneously one of the most wonderful as we poured out our hearts into this little being whose life has been entrusted into our hands. 

Freedom has taught me the gift of wonder again, of the thrill and excitement of birthdays and Christmases, the irresistibleness of a good beat, the joy of discovery, the glee and delight found in new things and faces, in sounds and experiences. He has reminded me of the power of innocence in the face of anger and injustice, helping to calm the inner turmoil that at times has threatened to overtake me, as I’ve gazed into his beautiful, pure, trusting brown eyes. Oh, how God knew we would need this child now!

This past Friday, as we woke up our son with the happy birthday song, and hosted a morning Zoom party with our family all over the world, I marveled at how time had flown in this first year, all that still stretches before us, and what it may hold. Later that day, our little family of three headed out into D.C (where we are currently staying short-term while my husband works on a show here) to visit the Lincoln and MLK memorials. It just so happens that 160 years ago on this same date, Abraham Lincoln was born - not a bad guy to share a birthday with. 

After the first couple of minutes riding in our Lyft and sharing the initial pleasantries with our friendly driver, we mentioned that today was Freedom’s first birthday. Our driver immediately began looking around the space in the front of his car, saying, “What can I give him? I don’t really have anything!” Then, even as these words were still coming from his mouth, his eyes rested on a small American flag which hung from his rear-view mirror. “This is for him! Happy Birthday!” He grabbed the flag and extended his arm behind him to pass it to Freedom. “Wow, thank you! Look Freedom, this is for you!” I said as I placed the little bronze plastic pole into his chubby hand. Immediately attached to his new play thing, Freedom began happily waving his American flag as the city limits of D.C sped by our car windows. 

“I actually got that flag when I became a citizen a year ago,” our driver continued engaging us in conversation, apparently taken with our little trio. “Oh my goodness, are you sure you want to give this to him?!” I exclaimed, immediately humbled that this stranger should choose to give away something that I knew represented a greater story, struggle and victory. “Yes, please! He should have it!” came the quick response. 

As our short journey continued, Shahid shared with us how he had emigrated from Pakistan and had finally received his citizenship when Covid hit. His wife and daughter however were still in Pakistan and he was waiting till he would be able to bring them over.  My heart constricted with compassion as his story unfolded, yet again struck by the huge gift he had bestowed upon Freedom. That flag represented so much - hope and freedom, dreams for the future, the eventual reunion of his family and the long journey to reach it all. 

The kindness, beauty and generosity of complete strangers never ceases to amaze me. As we parted ways at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, I was struck by the significance of our short interaction, the gift of stories shared which we now carried, the wonder of humanity and its resilience, and the inheritance my son had received from it all. 

Over the last couple of days I have been reminded of a verse in the Bible which describes the mother of Jesus mulling over events surrounding her son’s birth, words spoken over his life, gifts given to him. She ‘treasured all these things in her heart.’ Don’t worry, I haven’t deceived myself into thinking Freedom is the second coming - although I do think he’s the best thing since sliced bread - but I do store up these moments as treasure in my heart, pondering on the significance of them, wondering what they might reveal for who he will become. There is no great conclusion to this, but rather hope that one day he will be someone who passes on his greatest breakthrough and victory to another coming behind him, that their stories may find one another in their interlocking. 

So, as in the lyrics of the song, The Story of Tonight, today I ‘raise a glass to Freedom’!

What MLK Taught Me This Week

My mental health turned a corner this week. 

I’m not sure that I can attribute that pivot to any one particular moment, person, place or holy encounter, but rather the change crept in like the early morning rays of light which gently caress the bedspread at the dawn of a new day. I felt my heart softening, stretching, bending to make room for words, thoughts and conversations which only a couple of weeks ago would have caused a snap to take place. 

Phillip and I recently joined a book club made up of people from different churches in New York City who all have a common yearning for justice to be outworked through their faith. We’re halfway through the book, ‘The Cross and the Lynching Tree’ by James H. Cone and it was as I read this following description of Dr Martin Luther King Jr that I recognized a shift had taken place within me.

“What sustained him was the sense of God’s love, which gave him the interior resources to bear the burdens and tribulations of life, come what may.”

- James H. Cone, The Cross and the Lynching Tree

I drank those words in and, as I did so, realised that I had been thirsty for a long time.

James H. Cone unpacks the correlation between the cross which Jesus died on - a symbol of hope, salvation and victory for Christians all over the world - and the lynching tree - the very image of which injects fear, trauma, hatred and oppression to people of colour who look upon it and see a weapon of death, torture and dehumanisation. It is a powerful and confronting read.

He refers to the life of MLK at one point and it was here that I was, this week, reminded of the power that grounding yourself in love has. King was given countless opportunities to not just be angry, but to abide in anger. He experienced suffering in a way that I have not known, and nor will I ever have to, that ultimately ended in his martyrdom. He wasn’t perfect, but his life is a testament to the redemptive power of love which enables us to embrace the one across from us who hates our very presence, and can rise above the anger of injustice and seek to forgive as well as to reconcile. 

I have felt the heat emanating from within the dark furnace of anger and I have looked into its black heart, but no comfort did I receive from its warmth. Instead I have wrestled, twisting and turning, whilst all the while burning. It was only as the coals began to cool that I remembered the relief that water brings. Fire consumes, and when you’re burning you want everyone else to be eaten up by the same flames. But water has the ability to wash and cleanse, to refresh and renew. One element doesn’t cancel out the other, holding greater value than the first, but rather the two in tandem teach the soul a deeper lesson. 

As I ruminated on the life and words of MLK, I took some notes for my own. I think feeling the depths of anger towards injustice is vital, but what we choose to do next is even more so. Anger can only lead us so far, can only teach so many lessons and impart so much wisdom. But love is comprised of the richest of ingredients that can literally cause a blind man to see and form an enemy into a brother.

I have been eating more anger than I have been drinking love recently, and I desperately need to hydrate. I want to be able to look across the table at those I see as being in the wrong and still be willing to lay my life down for them. ‘For greater love hath no man than this…’

“If physical death is the price I must pay to free my white brothers and sisters from the permanent death of the spirit, then nothing could be more redemptive.”

- Dr Martin Luther King Jr.

History Is Now

When I was growing up, Mary Poppins, along with the likes of The Sound of Music and West Side Story, was a household favourite. But there were certain numbers in each show that really seemed to strike a chord with my young heart. In Mary Poppins, it was the ‘Sister Suffragette’ song. I would don a homemade sash and march around the house shouting with great gusto, ‘Votes for Women!’ much to the delight of the rest of my family I’m sure. At that time I didn’t fully comprehend the complexities of the fight, but I resonated with this understanding that there had been a great injustice and it was pertinent to my life that it had been rectified - at least in the ability to vote. Even now when I hear these lyrics, my heart leaps a little and I want to jump to my feet and sing along with Mrs Banks:

‘Our daughters’ daughters will adore us, 

And they’ll sing in grateful chorus

“Well done, Sister Suffragette!”’

This week, America, and the rest of the world, witnessed a moment in history as the first woman ever was sworn into the second highest office in the land, that of Vice President. Not only has Kamala Harris broken that glass ceiling, but she has also paved the way for women of color as the first African American and South Asian woman to take that role. Whichever way you lean politically, you can’t deny that history has been made! 

As a family we sat and watched the inauguration ceremony - as we try to do with each new term - and we were all struck by the beautiful display and honoring of people from a variety of backgrounds and cultures. What has stayed with me since though, is how many women were celebrated that day. Not least of these was a beautiful black woman, and the youngest inaugural poet in US history, Amanda Gorman, who delivered her piece, ‘The Hill We Climb’ with the clarity, authority and grace of a biblical prophet. I am still moved to tears as I listen to her words and the prayer for unity that is laced within them.

“And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us,

but what stands before us.

We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,

we must first put our differences aside.

We lay down our arms

so we can reach out our arms

to one another.

We seek harm to none and harmony for all.

Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true,

that even as we grieved, we grew,

that even as we hurt, we hoped,

that even as we tired, we tried,

that we'll forever be tied together, victorious.”

All week I have found myself thinking a lot about the journey women have made throughout history, and the space that we now find ourselves in, which is not without hindrances or barriers to overcome, but considerably freer than we have ever been before. I have been moved by the stories I have soaked in of fearless women who have gone before me, and in some cases literally given their lives, to the cause of freedom for others. Mary Ann Shadd Cary, Mary McLeod Bethune, Antoinette Blackwell, Shirley Chisholm, Susan B. Anthony to name but a few. 

Not one of us is where we are today simply by our own effort, intelligence, wit or design. We inhabit the spaces in our communities, with the privileges that we have, because of those that have gone before us. And we will continue to pass on those same, or increased legacies, to the generations which follow. So this week I celebrate my sisters and their victories, both those who have stepped in time before me, and those to whom the history books are writing about today. There is much for us to still journey on in and to grow from, but I will close with some more poignant and true words from this year’s National Youth Poet Laureate:

“We the successors of a country and a time

where a skinny Black girl

descended from slaves and raised by a single mother

can dream of becoming president

only to find herself reciting for one.”

P.S The graphic I used for this blog was created by Ana Hard and I absolutely love it! Check out her site for more of her amazing work.