The Open Road

Tomorrow marks the start to a new chapter, an exciting season that has me bubbling over with joy and so much hope for what is ahead. When I wrote my blog post about loss the beginning of June, I was sitting in a coffee shop in Tacoma, Washingon the day before heading into Downtown Seattle for a job interview.

Let me be more specific, I was flown up by Seattle Pacific University as 1 of 2 finalists for a Residence Life Coordinator position (more commonly known as Resident Director, same job, fancier name). The whole process was a struggle for me for some reason, with each stage convincingly directing my emotions to be prepared to not be hired. Every time I got an email requesting more information, a phone interview, and then to be a finalist I was blown away. I figured being able to have a free flight to Seattle to see friends and family over a weekend, was an achievement in itself, not believing that I would actually receive a job offer with the way everything else has gone over the past almost 10 months.

The day went really well, and although SPU felt different than other schools I was familiar with, there was something refreshing about the environment and the staff and students I met that day. There was an authenticity that I appreciated and a willingness to acknowledge that the journey of shaping student life at the school is continuously in process and will be done together with humility and wisdom. It felt as if who I am and what I can offer would fit in with the movement of the university, and is really appreciated in this job role. Finishing the day eating an incredible dinner with part of the Residence Life staff at Stoneburner a hip restaurant in Ballard was the cherry on top.

Being in Seattle always feels comfortable and inviting. Having been born there and spending summers visiting family and my childhood friend Rachel, it has remained a place that also feels like home. On this trip to interview, it felt even more normal to be there. TJ was able to join me for part of the time, and with every close friend and family member we saw, there was overwhelming support, prayer, encouragement, and belief in us, and specifically in me.

Yet still, getting my hopes up wasn't an option, even after all of that.

10 long days later, I got a phone call that changed everything. They wanted to offer me the position. I refrained from asking if it was a prank call, and decided to wait for the email with all of the of paperwork to prove the validity of what I was hearing on the phone from the Director of Residence Life.

Reading some paperwork here, a signature there, and just like that our lives were headed a new direction (or in my mind, headed a direction).

It's been about a month and a half since that call, and tomorrow we pull away from beautiful Southern California gently closing the door behind us on this painful, transformative, and yet gracious season. Despite everything TJ and I have experienced, we have been met with so much love and support from those around us here. Being near my immediate family and our closest friends once again, having them speak and minister truth, hope, and kindness has been our lifeline in the midst of it all. I can't say thank you enough. We can't say thank you enough.

This time we leave Long Beach it feels like a different transition than before. Some of our friends have also made or are making transitions of their own to different parts of the country, or even out of the country. Some of our friends are staying in Southern California. With all of them, we do not know when we will see them again. There is not a time we will be back here next, and most likely our holidays will be spent in the Northwest. Luckily, my family comes through Seattle fairly often, meaning we will see them more regularly.

Thnking of starting over in a new physical location with a job that I am passionate about has been surreal. TJ and I meet this opportunity and adventure with joy and gratitude for God's care and grace in every step. We are thrilled.

However, I also am feeling a sense of sadness in once again leaving our community. Some of us have shared in meals, grieving, celebrations, breakups, marriages, multiple life changes, birthdays, trips, and living out fullness of life and brokenness in the most beautiful of ways. It hasn't been without its struggles, but to have traveled for so many years with people is difficult to leave behind. Others of us have shared life less frequently, but still so obviously marked with authenticity, love, and joy.

To each and every one of you who so generously loves TJ and I, who have prayed for us, cared for, and supported us in every way, thank you. All of you have been a tangible expression of the love of Christ in our lives, no matter how our paths crossed.

Looking back, especially reflecting on all of the treasured moments we have had since being here, saying goodbye isn't easy.

Looking ahead, excited for change and the unknown, feeling like this past season of loss truly is the seed of new life for us, we greet tomorrow with anticipation and expectation.

Looking inward, grateful for the gentleness with which I have been held by God and each of you, and the ways that I have been changed by these life experiences, I reach my heart out once more, both vulnerable and strong.

24 hours. See you soon Seattle. I believe you will be good to us.

As a sidenote: The following two songs off of the "YES!" album by Jason Mraz have been the soundtrack to my feelings in this transition. Also, interesting to me (in a really-not-that-important-but-still-kind-of-cool-sort-of-way) is that the title of the album is the title of my very first blog post this past March, exclamation point and all. Here is to saying, "YES!"

It's So Hard To Say Goodbye to Yesterday

3 Things

Living in Crazytown

Sometimes I feel like I am living in Crazytown.

Where is Crazytown you ask? Aw yes, Crazytown is a too often frequented place in my mind.

I find myself entering into Crazytown at the least expected moments. Everything in a day is normal, uneventful, nothing to write home about. And then I remember the text I sent to a friend and that they haven't responded yet.

My mind starts going a million miles an hour.

It's already been 23 minutes. They must be mad at me. I must have said something that rubbed them the wrong way. My friend has a lot going on and I need to be sensitive to that. Did I sound too pushy? I know I do that sometimes. I mean, I really want to hang out, but I don't want to expect it. But I do want to make it clear that it's what I want. Is that manipulative? Am I a manipulative person? Should I have added emoji to make it seem more friendly and less controlling?

Oh no. I should reread the text.

I was trying to be controlling. I am controlling, and it's so engrained in me that I do it without thinking! I'm the worst. This friendship is over, unless I do something quick. I've got it! I'll send a 6 paragraph text explaining why I didn't put an exclamation point at the end with the smiling poop emoji to lighten it up so it didn't seem manipulative. It also proves that I am self-aware, recognizing my issues and being willing to directly communicate about them. Next time we see each other in person, I can explain the 6 paragraphs more thoroughly. With my active listening skills, I also can be sensitive and listen carefully to how my non-manipulative, manipulative text affected my friend.

Wait a minute. Is that too much? Maybe. I don't know? Ugh, I am so indecisive.

23 minutes and 42 seconds.

VIBRATE.

"I'd love to hang out! Can't wait :) So glad you text. See you this weekend!"

Sigh of relief.

I knew everything was fine, I was just....checking. I mean, I know this person really well and have shared life with them for a long time. We both know each other's imperfections, struggles, deepest hurts, and real-life issues. Because of that I am hyperaware. Because I care. Because I love them.

But I am a perfectionist. Recovering. Well, kind of.

Out my perfectionism, with the knowledge of my relationships, in my care for those people in my life, I want more than anything to say things that demonstrate I have listened, I know them, and I am sensitive to that...perfectly. That even in our broken and messy conversations about life, I can perfectly handle it.

I want to be perfectly messy. Most of the time, I try to be perfectly messy. Thus, I live in Crazytown.

Crazytown is the place where my need for perfectionism meets my desire to be real and authentic. More than anything, I want to be able to relate to people, being present with them in every season of life, knowing them and still truly loving them. Subconciously more than that, I want people to like me because I have proved my authenticity and that it is obvious I am better at it than others. Perfect, per se.

That puts me in the fast lane to Crazytown, and slowly, (semi) patiently, I am able to identify that quick pedal-to-the-metal mind game and hit the brakes, pulling the car over into reality.

Yesterday I had the privilege of spending the day with the sister of one of my dearest friends, showing her some of the most enjoyable parts of Los Angeles. Since we each had some background on one another, immediately we were engaged in deep conversations about life, and this season of pain in particular, for each of us. It was beautiful and so very refreshing to quickly experience that with a new aquaintance. Moments like that remind me of why I love being authentic and sharing full life, the peaks and the valleys, with the people around me.

At the end of the day, we said our good-byes with at least 3 wonderful hugs to express what our words were lacking. As I drove home, I headed to Crazytown, worrying if the few words I expressed at the end conveyed enough of the enjoyment and fulfillment that I had experienced with her. All I wanted was for her to know that I loved it. ALL of it.

But I hadn't expressed it perfectly. Or so I thought.

This morning her sister, my dear friend, text me telling me everything that her sister had said about me. It was all that I had hoped to communicate the night before, and assumed I hadn't.

Crazytown wasn't real life. Crazytown stripped me of basking in all that I find pleasure and meaning in: authentic relationships that demonstrate a selfless and life-giving love.

Luckily for me, Crazytown only lasted while I slept, and I was jerked awake, back to reality, to hang a U-turn just in time to see what is truth and that perfectionism, proved once again, is terribly overrated. As is Crazytown.

The Locker Room

TJ and I have started working out during his lunch break. We've gone twice already! Two days in a row you ask? Absolutely not. Twice in two weeks.

Nothing makes you feel more in shape than still being sore from the last workout that was literally, two weeks prior. We're proud of ourselves, though! Okay, I wouldn't say proud, but I would say we're not not proud of ourselves. We went to the gym and did stuff! We could have easily stood around pretending to look for a machine we wanted to use and then leave not having really done anything. (If you ever go to the gym and feel too overwhelmed to work out, but feel weird walking in to walk out 5 minutes later, take a few laps, pretend to be looking for something you want to do, then splash a little water on your face and clothes in key sweat areas before leaving. It fools them everytime.)

Still having a buildup of lactic acid in our muscles from two weeks before is the worst reminder of how unfit we are. We can barely get our butts to the gym, and when we finally do, we're too sore to do all that we want. We workout sore to be even more sore and to have even a less promising workout next time we find ourselves at the gym, which at this rate will be in another month. Or ten.

Something that I have grown to love from the five times I have gone to the gym in my "adult" life is the women's locker room. Weird, I know.

As a teenager, the locker room has got to be one of the absolute worst and most intimidating places ever. You don't have a choice whether or not you want to change into your PE clothes, you have to change. Or fail for the day. Unless of course you have an ingrown toenail...all year long...that just won't heal and the excuse note from your mom doctor conveniently has no expiration date. That never happened to me, sadly? Luckily?

The locker room means everyone seeing each other in just their bras and underoos, or less. In middle school this translates as seeing who has gone through puberty, and who hasn't. In other words, the girls that felt very confident and womanly in their padded bras and lacy underwear, and those that still wore the little under tanktops with scallopped straps and white flower patterned panties from a Hanes 6-pack. Every possible physical insecurity that you have as a tween turning teen is exposed, and everyone is looking at only you. Probably not really, but it feels like it.

The social ranking is more solidified in that dreadful, drab, dirty place. Who wears Walmart and who wears PINK (Victoria's Secret that appeals to tweens. Unnecessary). Who is skinny and who might be considered roly poly. Who knows to shave their legs and armpits, and who is completely clueless that shaving is a "thing" until a boy in 8th grade tells you your legs are hairy when you wear shorts one day. (No that didn't happen to me. No, I'm not scarred. No, I didn't go home and shave that weekend.)

All of that to say, things have changed in my fauxdult life. I now, truly, have an affinity for the locker room. The trauma experienced in days of old has disappeared.

Something must shift as people get older and become (hopefully) more comfortable in their skin. The locker room is no longer a place of our most exposed vulnerabilities, but an in-between space. Its only purpose is to get us from one place to another. From the gym to the shower. From the pool to our towels. From work Lindsey***** to workout Lindsey.

As an in-between space, it feels less intimidating. Women feel the freedom to stand around naked, especially the older women. Some older women even choose to bathe in the middle aisle of the shower stalls with their doors open shooting the breeze and sharing shampoo, leaving as little as 3 inches for anyone else to squeeze past them and their wrinkly confidence to access the other showers. (Yes, this happened to me, two weeks ago, during the first lunchtime gym session with TJ).

Honestly, I love it. I love it all. The different ages, the diversity, the shapes and sizes, and especially the lack of inhibition. It seems like one of the few places in the world where a group of strangers can be in the same room and be fully themselves. Literally. It doesn't get more real than standing naked in a room of strangers.

In a culture that places such high value on physical appearance from fashion, fitness, and appeal, it is refreshing to be in the locker room with women much older, more wrinkly, and less fit than myself that demonstrate how fleeting those things are. In the comfort of their skin, they just be.

It is a reminder that there is nothing to prove and beauty can be found in each one of us, our vulnerabilities, quirks, and folds. It is a reminder of what actually matters: the people behind the façade of a physical appearance.

It is a reminder to simply be, especially in relationship with others; maybe even bathing in the middle aisle of the shower stalls shooting the breeze and sharing shampoo.

*I still am currently not working. This is figurative.

The 25 Minute Drive on Repeat

I have had the most ridiculous day.

I got a little over 7 hours of sleep, but stayed in bed longer hoping for a few more winks. That didn't happen. I'm also pretty sure I woke up at a terrible point in my sleep cycle.

My brain is foggy as a result.

Today I am wearing a pirate outfit. I convinced myself that this certain pair of gypsy pants looked good on me, and since they were ridiculously on sale, how could I resist? Well, pair black gypsy pants and a orangish-red striped tank, complete with an anchor on the button for all to see, "AAARRR matey!" A pirate's life for me. I thought I could pull it off. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. Either way, I'm definitely faking confidence in it.

Late morning I finally got around to deciding what to do with my day: go to a creative coffee shop, work on some job applications, catch up on some emails, and be inspired and invigorated by having other similar creatives around me too. Plus, my pirate outfit almost makes me look cool enough to fit the vibe. Noticeable, but not obnoxious.

I hop in the car, drive 25 minutes to Portola Coffee Lab and find parking in the nosebleed section. If you recall from a previous post, this is a hipster mecca and it is always packed.

Unusual things happen in the nosebleed section. People think they can get away with more since there is less foot and car traffic. They do things like, leaving their car parked overnight hoping no one will notice and that the towing sign is just a suggestive fear tactic. Or they do things like screeching their way too expensive car into a spot, throwing it in park, and in a "the house is on fire" type of panic start making out in the front seat while the car idles. For 30 minutes. Barely stopping to breathe.

So, that happened.

Why was I around long enough to know what was going on and how long it lasted, you may be wondering? Oh right, that's because as soon as I could peel my eyes away from "get a room", I realized I forgot my wallet and was scrounging every corner of the car for money to buy coffee and stay awhile.

$2.38 doesn't cut it at a craft coffee shop, leaving me with one option if I wanted to get caffeine in my system to wake up my foggy brain enough to work: drive 25 minutes back home.

I learned from my travels around the world, pee when you have a chance. Since I faced another long journey before there would be a toilet available, I ran in and used the bathroom (without buying anything...shhhhh).

At this point, I'm pretty frustrated with all that happened, but try to make the best of the wasted day. I decide to go to a coffee shop closer to home within walking distance. I've had enough of parking by the abandoned cars and crazy makeout sessions.

Heading out the door, I go to grab my stuff from the car and realize that my sunglasses have vanished.

Or, I left them by the bathroom. The bathroom that is 25 minutes away.

Oh yes. Indeed this is true. Another u-turn and I find myself sitting at Portola by 2:15pm, at least having found my sunglasses by the bathroom like I suspected. It is two hours later than when I wanted to be here, with no time left to apply for jobs, but just the right amount of time for a blog. A complaining blog, because today has been ridiculous.

Don't worry, at least I remembered my wallet this time. I also got a fantastic iced latte. And just as assumed, it is busy in here, but to my surprise the hipsters have come and gone. Now the clientele are suited adults with their end of the day business meetings and the grandmas that finally got here for their one big outing of the day.

I wish someone would have told me. Now my pirate outfit really looks strange. I should have worn jeans and a t-shirt.

Ugh. Life is so unpredictable.

But, enough about me. How are you doing today?

Celebrate Today

I believe that life is worth celebrating.

Part of this could be attributed to growing up as an only child, the only grandchild on my mom's side, and the youngest and only girl of 3 grandchildren on my dad's side. It is safe to say that most holidays revolved around me. With a small family, I was the child that got most of the attention during any sort of celebrations. So I suppose, why wouldn't I believe celebrations are important?

I remember when I was in elementary school and my grandparents would watch me while my parents worked. One time I walked into their home after school on an average day and waiting for me on the counter was a shiny silver Nordstrom box. Inside was an adorable shorts and tank onesie with jungle animals on it and buttons up the front. Yes, I did just call it adorable.

For Halloween in 2nd grade I dressed up as a girl from the 50's complete with a poodle skirt handmade by my mom, my grandma's scarf tied in my hair, and my grandpa picking me up from school in his baby blue, 1957, immaculately restored Thunderbird convertible to wow my friends and to make me feel like a real deal sock-hop gal. (This same car was featured in a photo shoot with Drew Barrymore in Vogue magazine and had its very own agent. You can get autographs at Carsland.)

My parents have always found the smallest ways to make each moment special. Eating a homemade breakfast as a family each morning and spending time connecting before the busyness of the day. Fresh cut flowers from my mom's garden appearing on my dresser just because it was Monday. Themed birthday parties. Writing notes to say, "I love you." Making the most dreadful of chores into a game, tricking me into doing them, and actually having fun in the process. Well, kind of having fun. I still don't look forward to cleaning my room. Ever.

I know people that don't make a very big deal about things in life. A birthday is just another wrinkle on the forehead. Work is just a means of survival. People come and go, plus deep relationships are a lot of work. Having expectations leads to disappoinment, so better to not care.

How sad.

There is enough pain in the world. There is enough reason to remain in the shadows of life without creating even more excuses to hide away. Complacency is the death of life.

Believe me when I say I know that it is easier to not care. It is easier to sit back and let things happen as a bystander, watching numbly as minutes, hours, days, years pass. It feels safe.

But safety is never guaranteed.

So then, why not engage? Why not celebrate? What is there to lose?

I have a terrible memory, you can ask anyone close to me. It's not that I don't want to remember things, I just can't. I really hate it. But you know what is interesting? I do remember the moments growing up where we were celebrating someone, something, some special occasion. They have been imprinted on my mind and heart because I learned from a young age that the moments that were important enough to celebrate must be important enough to remember.

Life is happening all around us. I have to tell myself this daily. Blink and we will miss it. Celebrate and we will engage it.

It is in the small things. Wearing tutus at 5:30am while doing chores on the farm. Smiling at strangers just because. Little surpises to brigthen someone's day. Taking a walk. Calling an old friend. Stopping to smell the roses. Seriously, stop next time.

I believe that life is worth celebrating.

I believe that life is asking us to celebrate it.

So, go. Close your computer. Turn off your tv. Leave your phone at home. Celebrate. I don't know how many days you have, but you do have today. What're you going to do with it?

Stuffy + Trying

I'm sick.

I have a stuffy nose that is contemplating turning into a rushing river of liquid down my face, but the floodgates are still (barely) holding back. My brain is foggy and my eyes are tired. It hurts a little to swallow and I don't have much of an appetite.

It seemed like a good idea to sleep in, but then I couldn't really so laid in bed an hour blankly staring at my phone. It seemed like a good idea to finally try Naturewell to get some cold-pressed juice and a pitaya bowl to boost the immune system, so I did expecting an instant miracle. (If you consider going to the bathroom a dozen times a miracle, than it has done the job.) It seemed like a good idea to ride my bike to get out of the house to work on lingering job applications, but the foggy brain has taken over.

So I decided to write a blog instead. Not necessarily about anything profound or honestly that interesting, but just a day in the life of a sick Lindsey.

Here's the punchline: Today I have tried within the means that I am able.

Sure, I could have tried harder, but at least I tried. At the end of today I can look back and see that even though they were only the littlest of things, I did them, rather than giving up or giving in.

In this place of life where I am pursuing and then waiting, hurting and then healing, always unsure of what the next day will bring, not giving up or giving in is a huge victory for me. Trying is a big victory for me.

It means that I am not allowing my outside circumstances and the unfairness that (I feel like) has been handed to me rule my life. It means that I am going for it, some days slower and more difficult than others, but I am standing. I am fighting. I am trying.

Hopefully by tomorrow I can try a little bit harder with a clear nose, a clear brain, clear eyes, and a clear heart.

For today I need a box of tissue, lots of water, a hug, and rest.

The Doctor calls it FOMO

I called the doctor and the doctor said, "FOMO. That's the problem."

Then I want to cuss.

FOMO (n.): A condition in which a person is unable to make a decision due to the Fear Of Missing Out on other opportunities or experiences.

I've got a bad case of FOMO. It is debilitating. Sometimes it takes me over an hour to get out of bed in the morning because my mind is racing trying to figure out the best way to use my time for the day, as time ironically slips by while I do absolutely nothing.

Questions like, "What should we do tonight?" "Where should we eat?" "What are you going to order?" get my heart racing and anxiety sets in. Don't even get me started on questions that actually matter.

"What do you want to do with your life?"

You better be ready to catch me because I'm going to faint, right about...now.

Here is the thing, I think life is really valuable. I think each minute and moment is incredibly precious and should be focused on things that matter. Even if I have to run an errand or spend time on something that seems lame, like cleaning the toilet, I try hard to find meaning in it. Even a smile at the grouchy DMV employee could make a difference in their day. Family coming home to a clean, shiny, non-smelly toilet definitely makes a difference in their day too. Definitely.

It is so important to me that my life has purpose and is not wasted, that I see a thousand things I could do, or causes to rally behind, or jobs that I would love, or creative outlets I want to learn, or places I would like to travel, or people that I desire to invest in or have invest in me, that I wind up not doing any of them.

If I give my time to this, than I can't do that, and then what would happen?! What if I like that more and end up hating this?

TJ can get so frustrated with me and my FOMO. He calls it out constantly, and understandably so. I have this bad habit of researching things for hours to ensure that I found what is the best of the best and really get the full experience and don't miss out on anything.

Before I had a smartphone, TJ had an iPhone (he would...he's just that cool). We would be driving to explore somewhere and there I was in the passenger seat with his tiny computer filled with possibilities frantically yelping, googling, and mapping the best things to do, see, and eat.

I wouldn't look out the window.

I wouldn't talk to TJ.

I wouldn't hear the music playing.

I wouldn't enjoy the journey.

If I would've just been along for the ride. If I would've settled in for the adventure. If then, maybe I wouldn't be afraid of missing out because I would be present and engaged with the now.

I don't really have any control even if I did make all of the best decisions and do all of the things I wanted. Anything can happen at any time and make the journey harder, easier, funner (yes, I just said funner), or crazier.

Life is unpredicatable. But isn't that exactly what makes it an adventure?

All that we have is right now. So maybe I should get off my computer and start making some decisions. I know they won't all be perfect (breathe, Lindsey...breathe) but they will keep me alive.

And I think that is what I want most of all.

Death by Comparison

I am better than ___________________________ but not as great as _____________________________.

One of the biggest problems TJ and I have is that I always (don't use absolutes, Lindsey), I mean often compare myself to him.

For any of you that know us both, you might think that is slightly ridiculous. When talking to us both, right away you would notice that we are different and have our own personal awkward quirks. Typically I'm louder and he is more quiet. I talk more and he is content hanging out and observing. Our individual characteristics are both valuable, just different.

How can two people that are so different be compared?

Great question. Thank you for asking.

TJ and I like to do a lot of the same things. We are both creative, pretty hilarious (in my opinion), active, have a love for life and people and adventure. Obviously, this is the short list of how great we are.

A lot of the things that I feel like define me as fun, unique, and even...cool...TJ does too. Some of these things we both happened to do separately before we met. If I have to be honest, there are some things that he introduced to me. But practically everything cool we do can be attributed to me, obviously.

They are very significant things too. Things that really matter in life like surfing, snowboarding, music, random adventures, coffee, cooking, design, throwing a great party, and how to be from Southern California.

As our relationship grows, I find that TJ does everything that I introduced to him better than me. EVERYTHING. (There I go on the absolutes again, but I mean, it's true; it is everything). He snowboards faster, trys bigger jumps, rides switch and beats me down the hill. He can really sing and actually (kind of) plays the guitar. He wants to go out surfing every morning instead of staying in bed for some extra winks. TJ is better than me in the things we do together. Not to mention, he has always been more fashionable and good-looking.

I have lost my identity. No joke. I feel like I can't be defined as the strong, fun, awesome, life-of-the-party woman that I am because next to me is a strong, fun, awesome, life-of-the-party guy that seems to do it better.

When TJ gets excited about something, I don't. I want to be different, and if he beats me to being excited, than I can't be because than people around us will think that I am just doing it to be like him. Only one-person excitement allowed.

When TJ compliments my surfing, I can't accept it because I ride a long board and it is so much easier to surf on a long board than him on his shortboard. He is just trying to be nice and make me feel okay about not actually surfing.

When TJ suggests that we go on a fun day adventure and plans it, I hesitantly go along. I didn't think of it. Clearly, I am not as fun as he is.

Rather than being confident in who I am and recognizing the joy of sharing in these experiences with TJ, I have allowed comparison to literally kill me. I want so badly to be special and unique that being married to someone who actually likes to do almost all of the same things as me becomes a threat instead of something to be celebrated.

My loss.

TJ isn't the only one I compare myself to. I compare myself to you too. You are better at a lot of things. You probably have more stability than me and are better looking. You are aware of your issues and are working through them so well. You have found a career you love or something to work toward that really "makes your heart sing" like my mom always says. You currently are somewhere I am not, doing things that I want to do but can't, with the world at your fingertips. It is all working out for you. I know it is. I can tell because you have the best instagram photos and actually know how to use twitter.

All I want is to be perfect and everyone else in the world is threatening that. By being who you are, I compare myself to you. You remind me of what I am not doing right and how I am missing the mark or that I can't be unique since we are both doing the exact same thing or that my creative party idea is not that creative at all. (Thank you pinterest for giving away every creative idea in the entire world. Ugh.)

I know. It is pathetic. But I also have a hunch that I am not the only one doing the comparing.

The reality is (if you so choose to believe, and it is a choice) that nobody is perfect and every person is unique. Stepping out of the comparison game is liberating. It is the exact step I need to take to actually believing the truth about me. Not defining myself by what I do, but, aw yes, who I am.

Choosing not to compare ourselves to each other takes the focus off of me and places it on you. It gives us permission to see that we are all on this broken journey together, all trying to figure it out. Together we are better versions of ourselves.

Besides,

“Perfection is shallow, unreal, and fatally uninteresting.” ―Anne Lamott

You're not perfect and neither am I, so what are we trying to compare? Instead let's be truth-tellers, adventurers and supporters on this journey. Let's together see what each of us has to offer and celebrate it. Let's together see how each of us need to grow and challenge ourselves, and lovingly, gently, graciously do so. Let's together live fully and stop robbing ourselves of missing out on today by comparing what we don't have.

The last thing I want to be is shallow, unreal, and fatally uninteresting.

And as a public apology to TJ: I'm sorry for not letting you be as awesome as you are. I guess I'll just start having to be awesomer...

Costumes + Criticism

I used to blaze my own trail decorated in costumes whistling the song of the week that got my feet a-dancin' and my heart a-singin'. My creative mind would take me everywhere. I would look for any chance to use my imagination to tell stories to others and to myself, inviting my friends and family on the journey.

I don't think I did it to deny reality, but to enhance it. Growing up a pastor's daughter, and only-child, there were quite a few things that I didn't really learn about or have to face or understand until I was older. My friends were almost all informed about dating and popular music and fashion. I'm not saying that my sunflower leggings and matching oversized sweatshirt weren't fashionable, but with that bob haircut, thick plastic glasses and glorious braces I can say I maybe wasn't the coolest kid on the block.

When people around me talked about "the butterfly" and "tootsie roll" I played along like I knew, because I did know. Insects and candy. Duh.

Here's the thing, it wasn't really because I was that sheltered. I wasn't. (Okay maybe I was a little bit, but hear me out). I went to public school my whole life in Long Beach. Snoop Dogg. I mean Snoop Lion. Enough said. Also, my parents did an amazing job teaching me about everything that kids around me talked about. I just didn't care very much so kind of let it go in one ear and out the other.

It was more fun playing and imagining and creating in the beautiful place where dreams come true and you really can do anything.

Then I started to grow up. I started having to pay attention to things I should know about because remaining naïve wasn't an option any longer. I started to have a desire to see the world for what it is: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I found myself hungry for more. So I learned and wrestled and grew and listened and observed. Life and people have a lot to listen to and learn from. I still keep trying to listen better and learn more.

But it has made me critical.

Feeling the brokenness of the world and seeing its injustices can do that.

The little imaginative costumed whistling girl has still always been with me and shown her face as I've grown up. Sadly, not as much as I want. The critical me looks longingly at the playful me desiring for her to show herself once more.

Walking in critical shoes can be very good, recognizing how multifaceted everything in the world is, using wisdom and discernment in each endeavor and relationship. Choosing (or at least attempting) to be a part of the solution rather than the problem. Walking in critical shoes can be very bad, recognizing how multifaceted everything in the world is, carrying a burden far too great for any one person that can end up being a joy-stealer and life-killer.

I have forgotten how to walk in the balance. I have forgotten how to walk.

Critical shoes have stopped my feet from moving. I can always find something wrong with something or someone. When I do, instead of giving something or someone a shot, I just don't.

Being older doesn't have to be an either/or. Although it seems like a lot of people (myself included) prefer to land more closely to either criticism or naïvety. Being older should be and. Criticism and naïvety.

Criticism to continue encouraging learning, listening, and doing with intention.

Naïvety to continue imagining, hoping, seeing, and believing something better.

I think it is time to dust off my costume box once more. It is time to walk and play.

"What good is livin' a life you've been given,

if all you do is stand in one place?" -Lord Huron, Ends of the Earth

Who Cares?

I think everyone cares too much. I know I do. I can pretend like I don't care, but I do. I want you to like me. I want you to think that I am exciting and worth every second of your time. I want to do something with my life that makes you go, "WHOA!"

But then I just don't do anything. Why? Because I care.

I care so much about what you think of me that it inhibits me from letting go and simply living free. It is kind of twisted, I know. The chains of expectations, whether real or assumed, started just on my wrists but have moved to my ankles, wrapped around my entire body, and I'm afraid to say they are starting to grip my heart as well. And all because I care too much.

This is exactly how bad it has gotten:

Finally I started this blog. For me. I think subconciously I hoped it would be a way for me to break away a little bit from caring what people think by going for it--even if negative comments come my way. (We can't escape criticism or rejection, so this is my first feeble attempt at doing something that will surely receive that and push me to face it).

Back to how bad my caring has become. Last night I had this crazy person conversation with TJ, telling him that I felt a little weird after the fact looking at my facebook status telling people about this blog. My status said:

TJ has told me for a long, long, long, long time to blog. Not a "Teej + Linz" blog, but one where I just write. And so I am. Not really for anyone, but for me.

TJ: Why do you feel weird?

Me: Because I'm worried about coming across as a person who is using facebook as a way to get affirmation or attention since I said, "I am blogging for me" but then publicizing it.

TJ: Are you trying to do that?

Me: No, I don't think so? Maybe? I don't know.

TJ: Well, who cares?

FREEDOM. Even if just for a moment.

Who cares?

So much inside of me wants to burst. I'm struggling within these chains and needing to break free. For too long have I let expectations rule over me and I can't do it anymore. This is my life, no one elses. If I don't do with it what I think God is calling me to, then I am living selfishly.

We are designed to be connected to each other. To be broken together and to be made whole together. If I spend my life caring too much about what you think, it could be the very thing that keeps me from something exciting, new, fun, beautiful, true, and meaningful. If we all spend our lives caring too much what everyone thinks we will find ourselves pretty lonely, and who wants to be lonely? Even the most introverted of people need people.

Today I'm going to try not to care. And of all days, today that is really difficult. I'm sitting at The Mix in Costa Mesa, the Mecca of hipsterdom and coffee (thus my draw here) surrounded by beautiful, cool people. Then I'm going to the offices of Sevenly where one of my dearest friends, Christina (Mia) just landed her dream job. Another place filled with creative minds, skinny jeans, beards on beards on beards, chalkboards, rainbows, unicorns and a fake deer mounted on the wall. I already know as much as I have angst in being in these spaces I am drawn there and want people to think that I belong there too.

I have a big zit above my lip and am wearing a drab colored high school outfit (nothing seemed to be cool enough so I'm trying for the "whatever" look). I have to wear sneakers because my foot is strained and needs support (How old am I?). I think it's getting hot out and I'm in a sweater. Bad idea. Just not my best of days.

But you know what? Confidence speaks louder than all of that. Shattering expectations and living freely is bigger and more impressionable than that.

I've realized that most of the time caring too much about me keeps me from caring about you. And that's not okay.

So, here I come world! Zit and all. At least I left my grandma shoes at home. I'm saving those if my foot gets worse...

(And if you see me today, maybe try not to stare at the zit. The caring thing is a journey and like I said before, I know that I still care a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit.)