I knew I had to jump before I lost my nerve. I held my nose, said a prayer, and leapt into the dark, unsettled depths of the North Atlantic. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of the frigid waters, nor the feeling that beneath me was an infinity of darkness. I thought, “Is this how I die?” I gasped for breath, the salty waves filling up my mouth and nose, and all the while, a humpback whale and her baby swam beneath my feet. I willed myself to take a breath and stick my face underwater to see them, but all I could fathom was: I am so small.

I’ve never quite got over that feeling of being so unimportant. That inky, cold ocean had swallowed up thousands of human lives before me and did not hold the memory of them. The mother whale only thought of her baby, how to feed and protect it from the orcas in the area. I was of no consequence. I was no more than a speck in their massive universe. It put a lot of things into perspective.

When was the last time you were reminded that you are small? Just a part of the machinations of earth, and not the sum of them?

I look around me, and it strikes me how we are obsessed with our own lives, our own need to be right, our comfort, our safety, our political views. When did we forget how small we are? When did we forget that our right is someone else’s wrong? And when did we forget to have grace for that?

Swimming (well trying not to drown) with those whales taught me that if I disappeared today, I might be mourned for a little while, but I would be forgotten… and that’s okay.

In fact, there’s a saying: memento mori – remember you will die so you may live. What seems important right now will someday fade away. My opinions will be as forgotten as the Viking sailors lying in the deep trenches of the North Atlantic.

I find this comforting, and it allows me to have more grace, more forgiveness, more compassion. I encourage you to seek smallness, insignificance, the perspective of being merely a drop in the ocean.

Photo by Michael Glass on Unsplash

In the last twelve months, I’ve had three biopsies: breast, cervical, and uterine (bye, fellas, catch ya on the next post!). The breast biopsy turned into a lumpectomy, but all was well, and all it cost me was about 25% of my breast tissue. Then came the cervical cancer biopsy—I’ll let you feel sorry for me for a minute cause YES it was as traumatic as you can imagine. Results: negative, woohoo! Then just last week, after having some menstrual problems for a few months, I had a uterine ultrasound and biopsy. It was a rotten afternoon but again: negative results, whew!

What was amazing to me is that I sensed a problem, called my doctor, got an appointment, had the biopsies and the results—in each case, all within a week. Health insurance is great, right? It turns out, not so great for a lot of people. As I was doing the typical “google the diagnosis before you have the diagnosis” (which I do NOT recommend by the way), I came upon some scary statistics.

The National Institutes of Health (NIH) reported that Black women are four times more likely to die from uterine cancer than white women. Their five-year survival rate is 62% compared to 84% for white women.₁

 I got curious, so I looked up my previous two scares: no surprise, similar outcomes.

For breast cancer, fewer Black women get breast cancer (incidence), but they die in higher numbers: 40% HIGHER. This is due in part to the fact that they are more likely to get triple-negative breast cancer, but also because they tend to be diagnosed in later stages.₂

 And for cervical cancer, something many of our daughters and sons are vaccinated against now (the hpv virus), the statistics are sobering.

The five-year survival rate of white women with cervical cancer is 71%, and for Black women it’s 58%. The NIH notes: “Race remains an independent predictor of cervical cancer survival after accounting for age, stage, treatment patterns, and other factors.”₃

 Race. Race puts you at greater risk to die from reproductive cancers. My Black sisters are more likely to die than me for the same cancers. And it’s not just more negative outcomes with cancer; it’s hypertension, maternal and fetal death, even COVID₁₉.

This. Is. Unexcusable.

Like all of you, I’ve been drawn into all of the latest discussions around racial inequality. I’ve been trying to figure out how I can do my part to help make the world a better, safer place for Black folks and this latest brush with cancer lit a fire under me. I’m not a doctor, health care provider, or cancer researcher. But, I can be a community activist. I started doing some poking around for opportunities, and there are a ton out there. Here’s a few things I’m doing this week:

Educate: I’m taking a webinar put on by the Black Women’s Health Imperative and signing up for newsletters and updates from those kinds of organizations. Follow https://www.instagram.com/blkwomenshealth/

 Donate: Organizations dedicated to researching and improving the health of Black women, poor women, and all women of color need money. It’s as simple as writing a check.

 Volunteer: I’m on the lookout for ways I can volunteer in my community. This is still in the beginning stages, but if I have to knock on doors and pass out flyers, that’s what I’ll do.

 Women’s reproductive health is essential. It can’t be delayed, underfunded, brushed aside. Reproductive cancers are often very treatable when caught early. If I can notice a problem, get in and get tested, and have results within a week, then so should EVERY woman. Race should not be an independent predictor of survival…ever. I don’t have the answers, but I have curiosity and anger—and I’m going to put them to good use.

^{1 https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/8942828/}

^{2 https://www.cdc.gov/cancer/dcpc/research/articles/breast_cancer_rates_women.htm}

^{3 https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/10511350/}

What if they think I was a drunk? What if they imagine I was day drinking or passing out at home or stumbling around inebriated every day? What if every positive thing I’ve ever done in my life will have an asterisk next to it now— *but she couldn’t control the alcohol.

These are all the things that went through my mind when I was trying to decide whether or not to share with you that I had given up drinking for the year, and quite possibly, for life. More than anything, I want you to like and respect me. What you think of me matters. It’s mattered so much that I’ve not lived my most honest life.

It would have been really easy to call this a “health journey” or a “detox” or a “challenge,” because it IS all of those things. But as I’ve cruised into my 40s, I’ve developed an intolerance for bullshit, most especially my own.

With age, I’ve become truer to myself. But I realized there was an area where I was not being real. I was using alcohol in a way that filtered the truest version of me. A couple of glasses of wine softened the edges of a hard day. It eased the chronic anxiety I felt, just enough that I didn’t have to deal with it. It relaxed me so that I forgot when others hurt me— I could just let those things go and not speak up.

It served as my buffer from the world and allowed me to keep people and issues at arm’s length.

I never felt addicted. I gave it up numerous times for Whole 30s or just because I needed a break. I didn’t drink every day or to excess. I think that’s important to say because, in our society, the only people who should give up alcohol are “alcoholics.” The rest of us should be able to handle it and “drink responsibly.” (Of course, we never question that the “Drink Responsibly” message is coming from those who have the greatest amount of investment in our continued drinking, but that’s a whole other conversation.)

So for years…YEARS…I thought there was something broken in me because I couldn’t “drink responsibly” for ME. No one would call me an alcoholic based on the evidence, but something bothered me about my drinking. It nagged. I journaled about it and swore a thousand times to not use it in a harmful way. In the words of Laura McKowen, author of We are the Luckiest – the Surprising Magic of a Sober Life, “As they say, it doesn’t matter how much you drink, or how often, but what happens to you when you do. If something is keeping you from being fully present and showing up in your life in the way that you want, then deciding to change that thing is a matter of life and death, you know? It’s the difference between existing and actually living.”

And that’s what was happening. Alcohol was preventing me from fully showing up with my kids, my friends, my husband, and most importantly, myself. It doesn’t matter how much. It doesn’t matter that the amounts I was drinking, and the frequency with which I was drinking it, would make some AA attendees laugh.

It’s the Why. Why was I drinking? What was it softening that didn’t need to be softened in my life? What was it buffering for me when maybe I needed to consider setting a boundary instead? Why do I need a glass of wine to get through homework hour? Dinner with clients? An evening after work? Why do I like that feeling so much—you know the one: that sinking into a warm bath feeling where the world just sort of softens and disappears? Where else can I get it outside of a bottle?

And so I started this journey on January 1 to just be curious about those questions. I was not going to make any proclamations, no #soberlife, no embarrassing myself by saying I wasn’t going to drink again, and then having a cocktail with you at a party. I was determined to be curious about sobriety. Not Sobriety with a capital S, labeling myself as an addict which felt restrictive and not quite fitting, but sobriety as in solemn, thoughtful, self-controlled, dignified.

But the soberer (is that even a word?) I got, the more I realized that I had been reaching for alcohol way more often than I’d care to admit. I had to feel feelings and set boundaries and find something else to do with my time, unable to let the hours wash away in a haze.

It felt fantastic. But also hard and scary.

Now I have to deal with things I’ve pushed back for a very long time. But it’s okay because I’m dealing with them as ME, warts and all. Alcohol doesn’t give you courage, it temporarily removes your self-doubt so you can access the courage you already have. So, I’m tackling the self-doubt head-on. I’m tapping into the deep reservoir of bravery, confidence, humor, sexuality, creativity, anger, and sadness that have been in there all along.

 I never needed the alcohol. It was holding me back. And I’m 46 and tired of being held back. I’m ready to be free.

Quit Like a Woman by Holly Whitaker

The work of Laura McKowen

Pro-tips for those of you who are in the “Who Can Be the Most Sacrificial Mom” competition that seems to be thriving out there:

1. I do NOT drive kids to school when there’s a bus available. I told my kids that it was bad for the environment to have hundreds of parents driving their kids to school when they could all go on one bus. Truth was, I hated rush hour and waiting in carline. Now, if you have a science project to take to school, I’ll drive you to the bus stop. I’m not a monster.
2. Speaking of which, if you miss the bus, you shall pay me in cold hard cash (or chores) for the chauffer service. And I will lecture you the entire way to school because it’s my right. You made me late to Crossfit, dammit.
3. I stopped going to back to school nights, parent-teacher conferences, etc. a decade ago. I know that everything in education is still stuck in the dark ages, but can we all just agree that we don’t need to meet in person like is 1865? Send me an email, call me (I probably won’t answer), or ask me to come in if there’s a problem.
4. I refuse to make fancy, homemade treats for parties. Oh, I was a 25 year old mom once and everything I brought to every event was Martha Stewart level awesome. But I got tired of working my butt off for 4^th grade ingrates. My kids know to sign up for chips or paper goods, or something that can be purchased at Costco.
5. The exception to rule 4 is the occasional education of their classmates as to what constitutes good food. I’ve been known to have an entire 6^th grade class come to my house to learn how to roll tortillas, taught a couple of kindergarten classes how to make individual homemade apple pies using local apples, and driven across town to buy $150 worth of REAL croissants for a French class party. It’s my contribution to humanity.
6. No I will not bring your forgotten homework/lunch/musical instrument/field trip form unless I’m already going to town and near your school on an errand. If you really need it, my rate is $5 per forgotten item. (Note: Once I took this too far and refused to bring Macie another shirt after she had a bloody nose. She promptly called my best friend, her “nice” mom, who not only brought her clothes, but a Lululemon jacket. I have not lived this down to this day.)
7. I don’t check homework, and only check grades often enough to let you know if you’re grounded or not. If you want to fail Algebra, fine, but you’ll have no social life until it’s fixed. These new apps that let you know the second your child misses an assignment are going to be the downfall of Western civilization.
8. I also don’t help with homework unless the child begs, pleads, or sobs. I already finished sophomore year. I hated it then and I don’t want to repeat it.
9. I will go to all of your concerts, games, and poetry competitions, but I won’t bring you a bouquet of flowers like you just played a concert at the Met.
10. My bedtime is 9pm. I don’t drive, help with homework, or take you to Walmart because you forgot tomorrow is field day after 8pm. If you’ve been an absolute doll this week, I might push it to 10 on the weekend (once per weekend). What I WILL do is stand in freezing drizzle at Red Rocks with you to watch The Fray, drive through a blizzard to get us to John Mayer, rent an airbnb to take you and your friends to ComicCon, or fly with you to Vegas to see Justin Beiber.

So, are my kids awesome? Well, they still like me, which is good, and they regularly show up on the Dean’s list and leadership councils. They’re super independent (one might argue TOO independent). They do their own school shopping. They don’t wait around for others to make decisions. They never ask me for money. So I’d say my selfish, lazy parenting allowed them to be the independent, amazing young women that they are. You’re welcome, children.

Bravery is a funny thing. It’s often associated with big things like cliff jumping, sky-diving, or public speaking. We think it requires some sort of leap into the unknown, overcoming fear to do accomplish something great.

But there’s another sort of bravery I’ve been working on – it’s quieter and it’s personal.

I’m working on having the courage to:

• Look into the mirror, and withhold judgment
• Take a compliment without disclaimer
• Say no when I have to in order to take care of myself,  even if it inconveniences someone
  
• Accept a gift graciously
• Listen to someone’s political views without judgment
• Quiet my mind for 10 minutes
• Not distract myself with technology
• Feel what I’m feeling without medicating
• Feel someone else’s feelings and share their burden
• Throw away clothes in my closet that make me beat myself up for not fitting in them
• Face the demons in my mind that constantly tell me I’m not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, accomplished enough
• To say: I deserve better
• To decide my opinion of myself doesn’t really matter
• To allow people to love me/do nice things for me
• Believe it when other people tell me I’m beautiful

How about you? Where do you need to be brave?

I sat beside her on the staircase, hour after hour, day after day, as she spoke on the phone with her friends and her sisters. I colored in a book, or just listened to the bubbling creek of her voice washing over me.

I didn’t understand every word my grandmother said, but I knew the important ones: amor, morió, mi hijo. With hjio, son, her voice would choke up and she would start crying. I would lean against her, trying to comfort her with my body. I would look up into her eyes and she would wipe the tears from under her glasses, and smile at me. Her son had died, at an age that would break a mother’s spirit.

Sometimes she would become so upset that she would start rapidly breathing and clutching at her chest. I knew where she kept her nitroglycerin pills and would encourage her to take one. In fact, I remember once when the pills didn’t do their job, and she had to be rushed to the hospital; I think maybe I was only 5 years old. I had already learned the lesson that grief would try to kill you.

Spanish was the language of my grandmother’s heart. It’s what tumbled out when she was excited or angry at my grandfather or sad. When she couldn’t think of a way to explain something to me, she would try it out in Spanish first, then translate. I could always get the gist of what she and my other family members were talking about, but not word for word, and I certainly couldn’t dialogue with them.

Each day at school, I could never understand why the other girls hated me so much. My surname was every bit as Spanish as theirs, and I had just danced mariachi at a prima’s quinceñera, or made tortillas and biscochitos next to my grandma with masa made from real manteca de cerdo. I went with her on Saturdays to the San Antonio Mission and she would pray over me in Spanish, bless me with holy water, and place a wafer on my tongue. She was my priestess.

And while I couldn’t speak their language, I understood the names they called me: gueda, coyote. They laughed and walked away as I stood there, not knowing what I did to deserve their disgust.

I looked white. I was half and half. I was other. Everything that was important to me lived in the house next door – my grandma – and everyone in the community loved her. But my skin was light, I was tall, my hair fair. Everyone told me I looked just like my Dad who is Hispanic, but apparently not in the way that mattered. Most importantly, I wasn’t Catholic. How I wished to wake up every day with brown skin and long, thick black hair – to fit in.

When I left New Mexico, I tried to give up that identity, that otherness. I tried to hide behind my light skin and assimilate into the mainstream. But no matter where I went, I never really fit in. I held on too strongly to the superstitions and magic of all she had taught me.

Recently, I took up learning Spanish again, and it has come back like a flood. I adore the flow and the movement of the language, how it holds so many words to express the things that are important to me: love and friendship and knowing. I’m learning it in a conversational way, and with each day that passes, I feel closer to my grandma, gone these 10 years.

And in many ways, learning Spanish makes me feel further away from her than ever.

I know now that I never really understood her, because she couldn’t tell me how she felt in the language of her heart. She tried to share it with me in English, but it was stilted and many of the words came out in the wrong order, especially when she got upset. I want her back, so she can explain to me how she felt when she lost her son, and how she managed to live on.

I want her to explain how much she loves me, because now I think I would understand.

By embracing Spanish, I am not only embracing the memory of my grandmother who I hold close to my heart like a precious jewel, but I am also embracing my ethnic identity as a Latina.

I never felt qualified to use that word: Latina. I didn’t think I was Latina enough. But now I’m beginning to understand that my otherness is what makes me unique. It’s the legacy she gave me by accepting me exactly as I was, by instilling in me the culture I loved and the framework of the language that took me decades to embrace.

I have nothing to prove, only something to learn. I am stepping into a skin that has been waiting for me.

Look up

Notice that leaf

on an uppermost branch.

The wind challenges

its heroic grasp.

 *

All of its treemates

have long since released

their tenuous hold on life

blowing as they do into

far pastures and lanes,

byways fill with their corpses.

 *

They reveal

as they die

the winter’s architecture

of the cottonwood tree-

A ghost in black relief-

the autumn moon watching

through its arms.

 *

Look up

The leaf is holding on

to what is not meant for it -

Holding on

to this idea of immortality -

all the while losing

its grip

on the one life it has known.

*

This leaf

is one of millions of leaves

come and gone

in this ghost’s lifetime.

*

In autumn we say goodbye.

I want to be a light for you

*

shining the way

down the path,

to the doors,

around the obstacles.

*

I have no strength to give you,

No solutions to offer you.

*

I can’t pick you up,

can’t carry you,

can’t force you to see.

 *

All I can do

is say -

Hey look!

Did you notice that?

Do you see the choice?

Can you feel your power?

*

All I can do is

Light up the dark places -

show you another way to walk.

 *

All I can do is

Shine a light in your heart,

point out what was already there -

*

which is Strength Unimaginable

Goodness Unrealized

Resilience Untapped.

*

My light can speak truth

Into your dark places.

 *

Let me be your light.

Roo and his bitc…uh…girls.

I was in my bedroom when I heard a hullabaloo outside my window. I opened my curtain and saw my entire flock of chickens huddled under the low branches of a tree. At first glance, I thought one of them was standing outside of the group, but upon closer inspection, I saw it was a hawk. It was almost as if he was sizing up which hen he’d like to have for lunch.

I ran out the door and waved him off into a neighboring tree, and the flock took their opportunity to make a break for the chicken house, a good 200 yards away. Only one hen remained frozen under the tree; it was my oldest, and definitely my smallest girl. She’s the best mama of the whole bunch and has hatched numerous chicks for the group. She was under the tree, and the hawk was in the tree. She wouldn’t have a chance, especially since there was no way she was going to let me catch her and carry her to safety, but she had a secret weapon – Mr. Rooster (it’s pronounced “Roostah”).

I’ve been allowing my flock of chickens to free-range this summer, which means I always have an ear open to any unusual noise. We live on a couple dozen acres frequented by fox, hawks, raccoons, etc. I haven’t worried too much because the 14 sister-wives are always accompanied by their very devoted husband, Roo.

Now, Roo is about 8 years old, which is, oh, 126 in chicken years. He wobbles when he walks and often gets knocked onto his side in their morning rush to get out of the chicken house and look for the first worm. I encourage him and sometimes give him some help back onto his feet. He shakes it off, and heads out behind his ladies, stumbling, but upright. He attempts to reestablish his mojo by “chasing” a couple of them around, almost falling over in the process. I can almost see them rolling their eyes and tittering, but they tolerate him.

The old fella is very accommodating towards the hens, often finding a choice morsel or unseen blueberry and clucking them over before he ever takes a bite. They eat first while he hunts around for another treat. After witnessing his solicitousness towards them, I promised he’d never fear the cooking pot as long as I was around.

So old, rickety Roo was under the tree with equally old Mrs. Hen, and they were 200 yards from safety. I stood nearby and tried to encourage them out. Unfortunately, chicken brains are so small they can only be seen under a microscope (joke, kinda), so they didn’t see the big lady holding a manure rake as any sort of protection. They took their time and Roo began to talk her out from under the tree.

It took about ten minutes, but finally she emerged. Roo and I kept our eyes on the treetop, and Hen kept her eye on Roo. They made their way back, wobbly step by wobbly step, out in the open and exposed. The other hens were in the henhouse crying warning and encouragement. Every once in a while he’d give them a yodel of acknowledgement, but he never left the single hen’s side. I have no doubt he would have fought that hawk to the death, for two years ago he did just that – the hen died, and Roo was crippled for two weeks and almost died himself, but the hen died in the chicken house surrounded by her sisters. That hawk did not get to haul her off.

When she was about ten yards away from safety, she broke into a run, and Roo did his best to keep up with her. They all made it safely back, the hawk was foiled, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. (They appear in the video below – heart eyes emoji)

I guess there’s nothing more to this story than that, except that it got me thinking that I have a few folks as loyal as ol’ Roo in my life – folks who stick with me when things get hairy, who don’t run from danger or trouble. When all heck is overhead, they stay with me under the tree until I’m ready to brave it, then walk by my side while I get to safety. I’m grateful for you folks – I think you know who you are. And I’m super thankful for a broken down old rooster named Roo, who taught me a thing or two about loyalty.