Tag Archives: blogging

f*ck you carrie bradshaw

 

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I hate you, Carrie Bradshaw. I hate that we have the same problems, date the same shitty men, that you have a closet full of Manolo Blahniks and I have to budget in my Jimmy Choos.

This is not a rant but could easily turn into one.

He broke up with me on a post-it.” ~ Carrie Bradshaw.

My dating life is a series of Carrie Bradshaw quotes, if a very short email is the electronic equivalent of a post-it. Let’s just say, for the sake of my non-rant that it is considered to be the truth in all varying forms of reality. I’m also the writer which means that I get to pick whatever direction this goes. So…

Most men would raise a brow, or roll their eyes, or make some sort of facial gesture (with or without hand involvement) to the Sex And The City reference, in which case, I would like to make two quick points.

1. I’m not writing this for you.

2. It is our femininity, the yin/yang that attracted you to us in the first place.

I think we can just leave this first quote as is, ladies. I received a short and sweet email. No phone call, no face to face, no balls. Make no mistake, there was a part of me that wanted to respond, and a part of me that wanted to light a cigarette. Part of me had a dent in my heart that only his smile, and the way it felt when he held me, could fix. And yet there was another part of me that started to question my actions, my looks, even myself.

When the questioning starts, all kinds of terrible things can happen. Don’t go there.

“When it comes to life and love, why do we believe our worst reviews?”

If you’re anything like me, you’ve either completely ignored my “don’t go there”, or worse, you think… I’m different. I can handle this. It’s a growth spurt of self-analysis. Sure it is, sugar puff. If we continue to question ourselves, a certain phenomenon can occur.

This phenomenon begins with a very tiny speck of a thought. When I say tiny, I’m talking as close as you can become to non-existent without actually being invisible. You’ll suddenly remember your “him” saying something that was completely harmless at the time, and not intended to be anything malicious. You’ll remember him asking, “Hey, what happened to that black dress you wore when we went to (insert name of place)?” Here’s where it gets tricky. Your next thought is… did he only like me in black?… maybe I didn’t wear enough black… he hated the way I dress… black is slimming… he thinks I’m fat… he dumped me because I’m fat… oh god… this is ridiculous, I can’t believe I’m even thinking something so stupid… fuck, he thinks I’m stupid… I need to buy more black…

See what I mean? The thoughts are certainly ugly ladies, but you aren’t.

“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate.”

Ever meet Mr. Could Be Right while pining over Mr. Wrong? Don’t worry… you will.

There is one thing through all of the trials and tribulations of the heart and the penis that remains intact. And that thing is my dignity. That doesn’t mean that my pillow won’t be stained with mascara when I try to sleep tonight, but it will be a dignified cry. Such a thing must exist… right? (holds head up in gesture)

Maybe you’re only allotted a certain amount of tears per man, and I’ve used mine up.”

Sometimes tears are messy. Sometimes they are soulful. Sometimes they start to roll down your cheek before you even know what hit you.

As I’ve expressed, my pillow will more than likely see some tears, as they have been intermittent post email. There’s some venting in front of me. My tear quota has not been reached… yet. Which brings me to my Mr. Big.

My Big story did not end the same way that it did in the movie. I know! I was just as surprised as you are. Everything up to the actual public acknowledgement of a real relationship was spot on though. The break ups, the tears, the love, the passion, the tears, the laughter, the tears, the pain, the lies, the tears, the cheating; I married someone else, divorced someone else, dated Big again, more tears… that was all the same. It was cut you to the bone awful.

My Big and I definitely needed a new word for “over.”

The last time I found myself hurt by him there were no tears. I literally couldn’t cry. Not one more drop. That was one year ago and that was the day I knew over was really over.

“After a break-up, certain streets, locations, even times of day are off limits. The city becomes a deserted battlefield, loaded with emotional landmines. You have to be very careful where you step or you could get blown to pieces.”

Anyone else narrow their “spectrum of living” grid to a minimum? (Because what you really are gunning for is seeing your ex with someone else… something that’s only a touch more fun than peeling your own skin off.)

Even driving holds the potential for a disaster on two to four tires. Have you ever noticed when you are going through a break-up that suddenly everyone drives the same car as your ex? It could be the most random car ever, but suddenly everyone is driving a 1982 fucking Fiat. What is that, exactly?

“I don’t understand this. I get mugged and you get him? Maybe that’s just my karma.”

My friends that know me well have all heard me say at one time or another, “in a past life I must have killed an ex by running him over with my car. My guy luck and my car luck are the same. They both suck.” I think that statement may just wrap that quote up in a nice little package. Yes?
This brings me to the last quote, and this quote may be the most important of all. It wasn’t Carrie, but Samantha Jones.

So not sexy honey. Dump him immediately, here use my cell phone.”

You see, no matter what you’ve experienced in matters of the heart, no matter how many times it has been broken or how long you were seeing him, no matter how deeply you loved or if it was a new flicker of hope that got extinguished before it’s time, we need our friends to get us through. I hope you all have a Samantha.

We need to laugh, and laugh at ourselves. Find the humor, and most of all find what you need inside yourself.

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my journey with aids lifecycle

 

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For the past 14 years, during the first week in June, nearly 3,000 men and women meet to begin one heroic challenge and one common goal: riding a bike from San Francisco to Los Angeles to help end AIDS and HIV.

Orientation, day one, a whirlwind of what was I thinking, followed by…where did these people come from….followed by….does his jersey really say that… followed by an astounding sense of trust and love.

I started the day two climb. We were 30 miles into the day. I was used to riding flat and not prepared for the challenge I had in front of me. Directly in front of me.

I wasn’t thinking about quad-busters, or what they call the evil twins, I was taking it mile by mile on a bad knee. The climb was probably nothing to a seasoned cyclist, but for me it looked as if I was hitting a stage of the Tour de France. It’s okay. I got over it—literally.

So there I was, four miles into this obscene grind (obscene by my standards) and I saw another rider pulled over on the road. I stopped to check on him, and if I may be completely honest, take a break. I didn’t like to stop on climbs for fear that my bike wouldn’t move forward again.

Oddly enough he asked me if I was okay. I told him that my knee was not thrilled with me. I tried to hide the pain.

“What are you in for?” I asked. He said “I need a breather. Cancer.” He tried to hide his exhaustion.

I extended my hand and unknowingly part of my heart to him. “I’m Ronna. “ “Nick.” We were both out of breath and nearly spent. He looked tired. I knew I was. I asked him if he had a full bottle of water to drink. “Drink,” I said. “We get to the top together. I’m not finishing without you.” It was at that moment I started to understand the community that is Aids/Lifecycle.

image-250x187 Aids/Lifecycle isn’t just a fundraising event. Yes, they have training    rides to teach you how become better in group rides. It showed be  how to become better in groups of people. Period. You see, Aids/lifecycle is indeed a community. It is an awareness. It is the most challenging and rewarding thing I’ve ever been honored to be a part of.

When I was trudging up that climb, thinking that my body was going to collapse, I thought of the cyclists who were HIV positive. I thought of the men and women who couldn’t ride because they had become too sick or who had just lost their partner. I thought of my own close call.

I thought of the riders who rode so that when my heterosexual, non-drug-using boyfriend lied to me about his HIV status, I had help. My apologies for putting a dent in the stigma, but he was not gay. He is the reason I ride.

Most of the ride was truly surreal. I wouldn’t think that there were words for the feeling I had when Nick and I clipped back in to get to the top of that climb, but I would liken it to being in the front row of Wembley Stadium and Liam Gallagher (insert name of favorite rock star here) looks you in the eye while he’s belting out…oh…anything.

The following days allowed me time with the sports medicine tent. Adhesive spray, KT Tape and mass quantities of ice and Advil were involved. My knee wasn’t sexy, but I kept my spirit up.

Day six I rode almost every mile. I did not know it would be the night my life would forever change. That night at the dinner tent a story was told about a woman. I had come in a bit late and didn’t hear the start of it, or even her name, but I heard what I needed to hear. They told my story that night; my reason for riding, only her ending was not the same. She died. Her life was cut short. She is my reason for riding. She is the reason I tell my story now. She is why I need to be part of the solution and end the stigma. She is my hero.

Fifty miles in I was on the last day of the ride. It was as beautiful as it was painful. My leg was now taped from mid-calf to thigh, and blistered from my knee up.

I was fighting my way down the Pacific Coast Highway as I saw our team captain for UTAC, Until There’s A Cure. We pulled over because I needed to smoke, and I did. Full cycling kit. PCH. Two thousand cyclists, and a cigarette.

And as I clipped out off my bike, and put my right foot down, barely grazing the ground a pain unlike anything I can recall started in my toes and shot up my leg. I doubled over. There was no putting pressure of any kind on my foot—but I could pedal. The guys looked at me. ”Do you want to sweep in?” No. No fucking way. I’m nine miles out. I didn’t know how, but I was going to finish. Because she couldn’t.

I put out my Camel Light with my good foot, loosened the buckles on my shoes and clipped in.

Motor safety carried both me and my bike through the PCH tunnel.The last grind was less than a mile away. I should take this moment to point out that nothing feels worse to an injured knee than any type of climb, except maybe a sledgehammer. I looked up at Chattaqua Street. It wasn’t going to happen.

I got a quarter of the way up and just as I was about to lay my bike down, I felt a hand on my back and a voice said, “C’mon girl you’ve got this”! And that hand pushed me to the top of Chattaqua Street. Do you know that I never even saw his face?

The last three miles were grueling. The moment I crossed that finish line was bittersweet. My eyes welled up with tears of relief, pain, and pure joy. My heart filled with accomplishment. There is nothing to describe what ALC gave me that week, and there may be no way I can ever give back to the people who have changed my life forever.

All I can do is keep fighting for those who can’t. And I will not stop until we, together, have won the fight.

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when it comes to love: truth or dare

When I was younger, the game Truth or Dare terrified me.

It scared the ever loving crap out of me. Truth? You mean actual honesty at the age of 17? Thank you, no. The last thing I would have been cool with was telling a room full of my peers the person who I secretly wished to take me to prom or my most embarrassing moment.

Dare? Kiss every guy in the room? What? Streak? Now?

Now.

Now would be my most embarrassing moment.

I prided myself on being a bit of a bad ass when I was younger. I always tried to be tough, and I’m certain I did a half decent job of hiding my fear. Despite the layers of armor I wore, I was incredibly shy. Truth or Dare cracked my armor and I was not a fan of letting anyone in.

I can remember only a couple of times that stupid game reared its ugly head, usually at an infamous teenage house party. You recall those…guys, girls, a keg, possibly some weed and a flask floating around. (“Floating around” for me meant in my pocket, by the way.)

I didn’t think anything could make me more uncomfortable than Truth or Dare, until Five Minutes in the Closet happened. I know, I know. Some of you called it Seven Minutes in Heaven. Seven minutes was pushing it, and it was slightly was closer to hell.

I dreaded that closet. I wasn’t claustrophobic. Leatherface wasn’t hiding there. (I checked. Twice.) I had no skeletons at 15—possibly a pair of rad skeleton leggings, but I hadn’t created anything incriminating yet. My closet was filled with shoes, boxes of photographs and posters of last Tuesday’s rock star.

When you sit in that circle, watching a bottle spin is like the longest three seconds of ever. How many thoughts can race through your mind in three seconds? Apparently more than four. Who is it going to land on? God please not him…maybe him…no. What if it’s the lame guy and he says I have to take my shirt off? What if it’s the hot guy and he says I suck at kissing? Do I do anything? Do I lie and say I did? Do I lie and say I didn’t ? You get my point.

Shaping my teenage romantic life in a closet didn’t seem very Hollywood. It did, however, feel a bit like a John Hughes film. Potentially Stephen King. Definitely not Disney.

There wasn’t really anything to be scared of. As I said, I had no skeletons; I left those closets with my dignity intact and my bra facing the right way. Truth or Dare wasn’t ever that bad either. It was just a bunch of experiments in our parent’s coat closets.

Looking back I almost miss how simply playful it was.

Being an adult puts a completely different spin on it. Truth can be hard to get the gist of for some people, but it sure is worth walking through the fear. I find nothing scary about speaking my truth. To me, speaking my truth it what grants me dignity. It allows me to have self respect. It is essential for human growth. It is what keeps me sure of myself. It is invaluable.

Others run from the truth like their ass is on fire. Fear of being vulnerable? Letting someone see that you aren’t perfect? Honey, your faults are what make you perfect. The vulnerability of truth makes us human. It makes us real. Truth give us depth, and hopefully character.

Truth is the very thing that allows people to know who you actually are, and that takes more than five minutes in a closet.

Dares? Now they’re just challenges; challenging myself, or perhaps it’s challenging someone to a game of air hockey, or making a bet about whether or not they can sleep on a plane. Dares can also be incredibly sexy. Dare me to kiss you in an alley up against a cold brick wall? Don’t think I won’t. Dare me to hold still? Um…. OK.

Dare to be yourself.

Dares are taking chances. Some people grow up and long to take chances, but they never do. I take them over and over. Perhaps you’d call me stupid, because they don’t always work out. When a “chance” doesn’t go as planned, good or bad, I get to call it an experience. Does this mean I’m not terrified? No. Not even close. I’ve been knocked down, kicked sideways and hung up to dry. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.

Does this mean there may be tears involved? Absofuckinglutely. I’ve cried enough tears for my best friend, my next door neighbor and anyone who has ever bought a self help book. I always dust off and see what the universe has next. It’s usually better than I could plan anyway.

Being a grown-up gets us scared for grown-up reasons, but I’m no longer scared of being kissed by my 8th grade crush, or anyone’s closet.

Speak your truth. Fall hard. Take a chance in love. Go on. I dare you. It’s worth everything.


to my fellow writers

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Last night I was inspired to speak, in the ways that I know how. I was reminded what it means to be a writer. I was reminded of who we actually are. I was reminded that we have no fear where a blank page is concerned. Give me scraps, canvas, bar napkins…I will write on your wall if I’m left with enough chalk.

We are driven by our passion…an innate need to tell a story. To touch someone, move them, help them….drive them. I see in words, in punctuation, in quotes.I see in script and type. I see stories everywhere I look. My eyes widen like a child’s…and it was during my childhood that I first wanted a muse. I don’t want to kill the mood, but I was watching Xanudu.

I even dream in stories; bright beautiful full stories. Last night I was reminded of this one…It woke me out of a deep sleep one night. I immediately grabbed the nearest tool, which happened to be eyeliner. It is a description of a lifetime with a man……My dream was set in a small town in Italy in the 1700’s. He was a painter, she was his muse.

It seemed easier then, you know, hidden away in the hills of our place.
“You are my muse”, he said.
“You are my heart”, she whispered.
Hours and hours, days upon days buried under pain and the promise of betrayal, I watched him work. Longing for our worlds to intertwine beyond the canvas and the sunset.

I do not remember the past clearly but as I woke this morning my eyes opened for the first time. Antiqued shards of pain wiped away as I thought of you. ….again.
“You empower me”, he said.
“You heal me”, she whispered.
To no longer battle time….It is infinate freedom. It is infinate spirit. Mirrors form a true reflection and I catch a glimpse of hope. Your hand brushes against mine and I remember. Your gaze locks mine and I feel. Your lips touch my mouth and I realize…you have always been my beloved.

I had challenges artistically when I was younger. My mother and father were not a fan of my artistic (endeavors? desires?  need? ). It wasn’t becuase they did not support me. They are old school. They believe in tangible skills. Degrees. Paper proof. They could not understand my need to create.

I went down every avenue. Acting, fashion, painting, every medium was a new adventure. I used to wrap myself in bath sheets when I was seven and parade my latest design for my mom. I couldn’t stop it, even then. It was a drive I was unable to control.

They encouraged me, but I knew they wanted  more….perhaps an interest in math? That remained their hope for me, until I wrote. I can still remember my mom telling me that she cried every time I gave her a birthday card or anniversary card. She would always say You write so beautifully. You should write for Hallmark. It still makes me smile.

We, as artists, know the power of words, and that power is, ironically, the only thing that ever slows me down. It scares me ever so slightly. That and perhaps my muse takes too many smoke breaks. My muse is not that robey Grecian chick on roller skates. They are my fellow writers, my soul mates, the man who cracks my armor. The ones who will listen to me vent and laugh, cry. They watch me fear and love unconditionally.

I’m sure you’re wondering why this power frightens me? It should be cherished. Shouldn’t it? It is because words can be misconstrued, twisted into ugly horrible things. They can cause the kind of pain that will cut your heart open. I cannot think and write at the same time. I must relinquish my thoughts and just keep going. If I say this will I hurt you? If I say this will you mistake it for opening my soul? Will my true self frighten you? Every word I type is vulnerable. Everything I write is a piece of me.

Perhaps I’ve offended some, certainly not intended in a hurtful or cruel manner, but every writer likes a good bout of controversy every now and again.

I am a writer. I am a creator. Some days I create pure shit. This is all a process. I don’t know if you are an artist, if you have all of our muses hidden in your closet or in a roller rink somewhere…. if you do please let them out (if only for coffee and some light conversation).

I do know this: As artists the only wrong we can do is to judge ourselves. We all have our uniqueness, qualities unlike any other. We all share a passion. So pick up your tool, your paint brush, pen, camera, your guitar with the missing e string. Get your hands dirty. Resist nothing.

Love each other, support one another and find your muse in everyone.


not your mother’s disney

Once in a blue moon we can get caught up in a relationship that we perceive to be fulfilling. Ever realized after taking a step back that it was a shit storm?

It never hits you at first. Why? Because you think you’re in a relationship with Prince Charming. Turns out he is nothing more than a charmer. If you aren’t sure what I mean he’s the guy who talks a good game. He can talk up a storm. Words words words. Problem is, words can’t carry a relationship.

Charming: He’s well spoken.
He opens your door.
He wants to take you and your mother to dinner.

Charmer: He’s well spoken with multiple women.
When he’s opening your door he’s distracting you to check out her ass.
He wants to sleep with your sister.

Once upon a few years ago I was in a very lame yet cosmopolitan magazine situation. He called it a relationship, but only to me.

What can I say? He was a sweet talker. I had been through the ringer and he spotted that a mile away. I was vulnerable and naive. I have fortunately grown miles away from that darkness but growth did not come without lessons that hit me over the head with a 2 x 4.

He wasn’t entirely at fault. I was listening to his words and not looking at his actions.

I learned a lot from that so called relationship. I learned that words aren’t actions.

He tells you he loves you but he won’t acknowledge that you are in a relationship. He never follows through and he always has an excuse, which usually consists of more words. You’d think by now I would hate words more than anything else, yet here I am writing.

Buying me stilettos cannot make up for not being around. (They’d have to be really great stilettos…I’m talking Christian Louboutin great.) There is no price tag for being present- pun seriously not intended.

I’ll take an authentic man who makes an honest living and is there when I need him over cash and prizes any day. I don’t give a twirly fuck how much money you have. Showing off is not showing up. That was my second lesson.

I also learned where I draw the line in the name of “love”. One night, over dinner, the Charmer strikes up a conversation which very quickly cut to – “How would you feel about an open relationship?” I couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth- dude are you serious?? No warning, just bam! He may as well have said, “I’m done”.

No judgment. If you want to have an orgy, knock your socks off. Throw in bacon grease and firecrackers if that works for you. Go nuts. All I could say was, “Um….I’m gonna go with No.”

I knew I couldn’t wouldn’t compromise my beliefs to stay with him. He did me the biggest favor he could have done for me. At that moment, I saw things clearly and I saw him clearly. His response: “I guess we aren’t compatible.” Clearly. That was my third lesson.

In case you’re wondering, his desire for an open relationship, was that so he didn’t have to hide that he was already cheating, which I found out post mortem, illuminating my point that he was not charming at all. He was a charmer. Maybe not all charmers cheat, but this one did.

Lessons in love aren’t always easy to take. They can be gentle to be sure, but for me they usually come in the form of bone cutting-jump on the cross-shock to my system-holy shit snacks-fuck my life experiences.

I walked away from that relationship, walked back, walked away, walked back, walked away and slammed the door. I was stuck in a vicious cycle of struggle. I knew that we had a connection, I couldn’t have been more certain of that. You see, there were probably tons of things I could have or perhaps should have done differently in that relationship. I’m sure I could have second guessed myself all day long, but none of that needs to go on paper.

For the longest time I assumed that having a connection, especially one that I thought to be karmic, meant that it was supposed to work.

I didn’t understand that perhaps karma needs to be worked out by ourselves, for ourselves. That was my biggest lesson of all.

Having karma doesn’t mean that we are soul mates. Please don’t confuse the two. I do believe that every relationship, every connection, presents us with opportunities to either learn or teach. Maybe, just maybe our lessons aren’t in the way we behave in our relationship, maybe the lessons are in how we behave when it’s over.


you can tell everybody

estranged thoughts make up for the ones that made you hurt. we both know, i can never show what you’ve done…..what you’ve done for my pathetic lovely life. i’m not suggesting i don’t have the nerve to tell you but….

i would prefer elective surgery to the knowledge of your difference. if i write it down i can’t pull out the dent you made.

i dream of words to move you as my voice disturbs your rotting heart. i just dont want my pretty falling out.

you understand none of this is sane. and i don’t plan to ever listen well…but even the most delicate whore has flaws. you make the scars less visible. you make me feel less dirty than the day before.

and i’d prefer elective surgey to the knowledge of your difference. if i write it down i can’t pull out the dent you made…. .

i can’t pull out the dent you made……


gratitude

Thank you Facebook for finally catching on. I was over posts of food pictures the first time I saw one. I’d much prefer the use of media to be positive. Perhaps if we all focused on posting things that are of substance, we might actually be the change we want to see in the world. Instead of hitting on people you knew ten years ago or sharing the horrors, we can collectively share some joy.

I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised that social media would take a hot minute to catch on to the happy posts. It took me years to learn that expressing gratitude can make such a huge difference in me, my life and the world.

Did I always have things to be grateful for? Sure did.

Was I happy? Yes.

Did I always express them? No.

My prayers were always a laundry list of wants. Every day was like a wish list. (I didn’t actually pray every day.) Then there were the bargaining prayers: God if you give me ______ I will never ______. Or I’ll change this if you ________(fill in the blank).

What was I thinking?

I was thinking I was 17 and I wanted a BMW. That’s what. I wondered why I still felt empty inside. I’m grateful today for my awareness—I’m grateful for much than I can type in 900 words.

Trying to find something to be grateful for every day is something I’ve found indispensable to me. I wonder what would happen if everyone did this every day?

Here’s what a daily list does for me…and I’ve been doing it for over 20 years.

It allows a shift in my perception. It allows me to see the good in things—and when I focus on the good how can I manifest the bad?

I suppose it could happen but since I’m not dabbling in black magic or conjuring demons I’m going to with it won’t.

My life isn’t perfect. It has it’s ups and downs…financial struggles…financial gains…matters of the heart happen…then don’t happen…then happen again. I have been through health issues, loss, and traumas.

I’ve been fortunate to overcome them.

I was a female Johnny Cash—I had the dress in black thing down. My life was four seconds away from becoming a bad country song. I was so negative; now, I see it in others. I see it in friend’s faces. I see it on my Facebook feed. I see the doubt, worry, concern. Some fears are realistic and need to be addressed but those aren’t the ones I mean. I’m talking about the tiny speck of a fear that can snowball out of control until you feel paralyzed.

I don’t like the snow. I don’t want to build a snow fort. And although I don’t have a fireplace, I do have heat and I’m thankful for that.

I still have fear, I still have doubts—believe me. Earlier today, I was forced to say an out loud, on the spot gratitude list while driving. (Yes, I was indeed talking to myself in the car like Suzy Banana Cakes.) The list allowed me to take a deep breath and stay away from that fucking snowball.

Ironically, this weekend will be the coldest we have had thus far.

Finding things to be grateful for every day has given me the gift of leaning towards faith—well, not every moment—but a really good part of the time. Every so often I need a tiny kick in the shin over to get me to cross that invisible line I’ve drawn between fear and faith. As I said, negative Nancy. Totally present and waiting for misery. That was my M.O.

I am able now, when something is removed from my life, to see a bit of the bigger picture. Instead of mourning or grieving that thing that was removed, I see hope and potential. I see opportunity. Sometimes this process involves meditation. Other times it involves chocolate and dancing alone in my living room with a paper towel roll as a microphone. (Don’t judge.)

At the end of it all, I get to see the universe pushing me to take a chance instead of wondering why I am being punished.

I am no spiritual leader—I’m just a woman trying to make it through this weird, crazy and blessed life. I battle every day with my demons. When I stay in gratitude, this bizzare phenomenon that I choose to call faith, the fight can be won.

I challenge you to find five things to be grateful for.

They don’t have to be huge. As I said, it’s about perspective. Post them here in the comments if you want—I’d honestly love to see a thread of pure appreciation. How cool would that be?

I’ll throw you five of mine, vulnerability and all:

I’m grateful that my father is cancer-free and that I get to be his daughter.

I’m grateful that I no longer live by my intentions.

I’m grateful that even on days that terrify me, I can still muster up some sort of faith.

I’m grateful that I have a place to share my experience…that every so often, I’m left a comment that my words have helped someone.

I’m grateful for my best friend; for her support, her strength, and for being there for me for the past 18 years.

My hope for you is that you find that comfort in thankfulness and live in that state of being as often as you can.


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