Closer to fine.

Four and a half months ago, I moved out. In the hardest decision of my life, I moved out. I got a new place and decided things needed to change. A staunch believer in marriage, I looked back as mine was ending.

I never, ever in a million years imagined it would happen. But...it did.

I've learned a hell of a lot, and I still have so much more to learn. One huge thing I've seen is that people who haven't been divorced really have no business acting like they know how it feels, how a marriage gets to that point, or saying divorce is the easy way out. It's not. Anyone who's been divorced knows exactly what I mean.

Facebook is riddled with stories about 25 ways to divorce-proof your marriage, advice from some page written by a divorced guy on what he did wrong that you can do right to save your marriage, how putting in the effort will make it all okay. I call bullshit. Seriously.

On a daily basis I see the quotes about how people back in the day didn't get divorced because they lived in a time when something was broken, they took the time to fix it. People flippantly drop words like throwing in the towel, calling it quits, giving up, etc. and they don't realize the sting it leaves for those of us whose marriages ended.

To be honest, unless you've been there, shut your trapper. Better yet...even if you have been through it, you will never, ever know what one particular couple is going through or the depths they went to in order to try and save what they once had - no matter how their lives look on the outside. You can try and try and try, and some things just can't be fixed.

I've learned to listen to my heart - unabashedly. To trust my gut and follow it full speed ahead.

Watching my kids struggle to adjust and make sense of their new lives was probably harder than the daunting task of dealing with my own emotions. The kids adjusted - and continue to do so. We all do. And in the process, we learn more about who we are and what we're made of.

I've learned to appreciate solitude and quiet...I've learned to slow down, to be kinder to myself, and to allow myself to fully experience whatever it is I am going through, unapologetically.

I lost at least 10 pounds in the course of the divorce. I either had no appetite or couldn't keep any food down. I wished and wished that something would sound good. I just wanted to eat again. And one day...I did. And I gained all the weight back, plus a little extra for good measure. Because carbs are my friend. And food is good. I haven't beaten myself up over it. I'd rather have pants that are a bit snug than be unable to keep any food down. And, at some point, I'll figure out a way to make working out a regular part of my routine. Right now I'm okay with sleeping in the morning and giving my body and mind the rest it needs, coming home to relax at night, and heading out for a run when I can.

If I feel the need to cry, I do. I let it out. I love the way tears cleanse the soul. Then, when I've cried enough, I wipe my eyes and move on. I allow myself to be angry, sad, joyful, adventurous, thankful, brave, scared - whatever...I've learned the importance of honoring my emotions whatever they may be.

And I've done the same for my kids. Jack had some horribly nasty fits these past few months...as any 2-year-old experiencing such transition would. He screamed, he threw things, he kicked, he bit, he yelled. He emptied entire bookshelves, threw countless piles of folded clothes off the table. The majority of the fits were easily identified as happening in transition times, so I knew what was going on. As long as he wasn't hurting himself or anyone else, I just let him feel what he needed to feel...to express with his actions what his little toddler mind couldn't yet put into words. And Kaylee was always supported in whatever she was feeling or whatever questions she needed answers to.

There are so many lessons for all of us in this. Life isn't perfect. Dreams don't always last. Our futures are often nothing like we picture they will be.

We don't grow in the easy times. We grow in the times when we wonder how we will ever make it through. We GROW when make the choice to be healthy human beings and do what we know in our hearts we need to do.

I had to take a leap of faith. I believed that things would be okay. Did I need reminders that it would be alright and that I would survive? That I was not ruining the lives of my children? You bet I did. I learned to ask for help. To readily accept it. To let others take care of me some days instead of insisting on being the one to always care for others. To be alone when I wanted to. To shut out the world when it was necessary, and not force myself to give an explanation to people as to why.

I strongly believe in being honest with myself, my kids and those around me. And I passionately believe that one of my most important jobs in life is to being an example to my children that we can survive anything. That family is life, and that family doesn't always mean those we are related to.

They need to see that when we face struggles, we will suffer, we will grow, we will succeed and rise above and we will keep. moving. forward.

We will hold our heads high. We will not pretend it's easy. We will hold the hands of those around us who accept us and love us and hold us up - unconditionally.

Because being brave doesn't mean we don't hurt. It doesn't mean we aren't scared. It means we look at life square in the eyes and refuse to back down, cower, or give in to those things that challenge us, or terrify us.

I chose to believe that good things could come from this. That I would feel happy again, that I would continue to love life, that I would be open to new possibilities, to new experiences, and to believe that life would go on. And it has.

In reality, even on the days when it felt like the world was caving in, with each day, the kids and I were becoming closer to fine...even on the hardest days, and even when we couldn't see it.

Change.

I've had the writing bug. So much on my mind. So many things needing to get out. But, the last month, it's been time on the therapists's couch hashing out my struggles that way rather than through writing. Some things are just too raw and too tender to put out there.

But, it's time again. I've gotta have another outlet. Life is changing in big ways. Change is scary. Uncharted territory is scary. Sometimes having to face your own emotions and imagining just getting through the day is scary.

I'm struggling to keep my head above water some days as I chart the path for a different life, not knowing what lies ahead. 

All I know is, I didn't make it this far alone, and I didn't make it this far without having guts. Whatever it is that awaits me and my sweet babies in this life is nothing we can't handle. 

Because we are brave, dammit. Even in change. We. Are. Brave.

Pioneer.

Last night I went to a benefit concert for the families of our 19 fallen firefighters. Some of the biggest names in country music were there, including The Band Perry and Dierks Bentley. It was interesting because they all made mention of how they changed up their set lists based on the energy in the crowd, as well as feedback they got from some of the wives of the firefighters. Dierks said he was all set to start off with a somber gospel song, but after he spoke with some of the wives backstage, they told him their husbands would have wanted a kick ass country concert, so that was what he was gonna give everybody, and that was precisely what he did.

That's what tonight was like for me. I had a whole different post in mind, and while I was working on it, I was listening to the latest album by The Band Perry. They sang a song called "Pioneer" last night and dedicated it to the firefighters. I fell in love with the song, and was excited to hear more of their new material, so I fired up the new album and was ready to write all about how brave Kaylee was today. I will still write about that, but not tonight. Tonight I need to write about something else.

Tonight I feel an overwhelming urge to write about how the future can be one scary son of a bitch.

There's no pretty way to put it. It's really quite as simple as that. Thoughts of the future can be just plain knock you on your ass mind blowingly scary as freaking HELL.

We never want it to feel like that. If you're anything like me, you want it to be mysterious, full of dreams coming true, fun, exciting, adventurous, surprising (in a good way, thankyouverymuch) - all of those things.

But - some days...those ideas are nowhere in sight, and all you are is scared. Scared out of your ever loving mind.

And that's when we need to remind ourselves how resilient and amazing the human spirit is. We (I) need to give ourselves more credit. We were made to endure trauma, heartache and pain. And if we weren't, how would we ever, ever be able to truly appreciate joy and beauty and love the way that we can when we've been through such hard things?

So, tonight, I'll share with you my new anthem. The song that speaks to me right now. In big, big, big ways. And I'll pick and choose some of the lyrics that speak to my soul right where they are needed most right now.

May it speak to you, too, and somehow get to a spot in your heart where you need it most.

Oh pioneer
So young and brave
Be careful of the careful souls who doubt you along the way...

Let your heart not be troubled

I won't run when bullets chase me

I won't hush, no you can't make me
Send the dark but it won't break me
You can try but you can't change me

I won't hush, no you can't make me
I won't hush, no we will sing

-The Band Perry

Below My Feet.

Sometimes life makes me feel like that scene they play in movies where the main character is standing still while everything around them is moving at warp speed.

It feels like my world just spins and spins and all I have within me is the power to stand there and watch. Simply moving forward takes the energy of the whole world and is nothing short of utterly exhausting.

There's a saying that goes something to the effect of...be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. And we all know that's true, no matter how willing we are to admit it. No matter what our lives appear to be. No matter how peaceful they appear to others, or more importantly, to ourselves, we're always fighting our own battles. There is always something we are struggling with, be it small or monstrous.

What matters is that we keep going. That we don't give up. That we keep putting one foot in front of the other.

A nice monsoon rain began to fall just as I left my house today. I didn't run to my car to avoid it. It was perfect. I love the rain. As I looked down at my sidewalk, I was reminded of another simple truth that I often forget. All day long I forget this because I get consumed with the little details that don't really matter, but it's really one of the only things I need to remember right now.

All I need to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how big a storm surrounds me, no matter how much rain life pours down on me. I just have to keep on going. It's as simple as that.

Ever since the first time I heard the sounds of Mumford and Sons, their lyrics have spoken to me unlike any other music ever has. They speak to my soul. Sometimes, I'll be listening to them in the car and one song will just stand out, and it's all I can listen to for days. 

Below My Feet is one such song. It's literally all I've listened to in my car this week. I've needed that constant reminder to stay grounded. When everything around me just spins like mad and I feel the anxiety crippling me, the stress pulling me in, the uncertainties, the unanswered questions, the fears, and the unknown trying to drown me, all I need is the earth below my feet. I just need to be steadied. To be grounded. 

To know that even though I don't have all the answers, I will learn from it all. 

From where I've been.

From where I am.

From where I'm going.

Keep the earth below my feet

For all my sweat, my blood runs weak

Let me learn from where I have been

Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn

Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn

-Mumford and Sons

Buried.

Tonight we buried Butterfly. The beta fish. The first family pet.

I distinctly remember when we walked into the pet store and Kaylee picked her out. A bold beta. Bright. Bold. Fiesty. Gorgeous. Just like Kaylee. It was our first family pet. HER first pet. All hers. So she was given the all important task of naming her. Of course it was a "her."

Kaylee, being blunt and straight forward and always my tell-it-like-it-is child named her "Different Colors." But, not to stray from her true nature as a little woman, she changed her mind. More than once. Different Colors became - waaaait for it....wait for it! RAINBOW. Then Butterfly.

I'll admit. We aren't the best pet owners. I am not shy about the fact that I've killed every single house plant we've ever owned. Even the ones you really aren't supposed to be able to kill. Isn't it enough that I keep my children alive? So...there were times when it was Kaylee who had to remind us to feed the fish.

Last night I get home from work and Kaylee tells me to look in the fish tank. I knew. I just knew. I looked at Dennis. He gave me the look. Then I really knew. Butterflyrainbowdifferentcolors was a goner. Dead. Sunk. Not floating, but sunk. Resting in what I hoped was a lovely fishy peace at the bottom of her pretty little flower backgrounded (Shut up. I can create words. This is my blog, dammit.) tank.

So Kaylee tells me, "I cried a lot earlier. But Daddy says we can bury her. And he says we can get another one." So, today we buried the fish.

I watched as Kaylee helped dig the hole for Butterfly. I asked her if she wanted to write Butterfly's name on a Popsicle stick so we could stick it in the ground where we buried her so Kaylee could go talk to her if she wanted to. Kaylee was all over that idea.

She wrote Butterfly's name on the stick. She helped dig the hole. She watched as Butterfly went in. She watched as we covered her up, and she helped us put a rock on top. Of course Jack lovingly added his own rock and mumbled his own sweet eulogy...something to the tune of, "Da fishy dead."

I told Kaylee that when people or things die, sometimes we say things about them that we loved or special memories we had of them. I asked her if she would like to do that. She told Butterfly she loved her and missed her, and then she asked for more Popsicle sticks. And she had more messages to leave for dear Butterfly. "Butterfly." "I'm sure you will have fun." "I miss you." "I love you." "My best friend."

I watched her do it. Without a tear in her eye. With her head held high. With a sense of purpose. With the need for closure. For ritual. For a final goodbye.

It mattered not that it was a silly fish who was destined to live in the room of a 5-year-old girl surrounded by sparkly shoes, an overflowing bookshelf, shimmery pink curtains, a polka dotted bedspread, an overflowing dirty clothes hamper, superhero costumes and a nightstand covered in stickers. It was her Butterfly.

And Butterfly's sweet little burial was a tender reminder to me that my sweet girl's heart, my own, and so many people I love, have been through more than our fair share of loss in the past month.

Gram died a year ago in June. On her birthday, I did a memorial walk in Flagstaff with Northland Hospice in her memory, and later that day, Dennis, Kaylee, Jack and I all got pink balloons (her favorite color), wrote messages to her, or in the case of the kids - drew pictures - and let them go in the "grassy bowl" by the College of Social and Behavioral Sciences on the NAU campus. That was healing for me. I want to believe in my heart that she got those balloons. That she read our words and saw our pictures, and that she looked down on us as we sent those up to her with all the love our hearts could hold.

Not long after that, our town lost 19 young firefighters in the Yarnell fire. We attended a community-wide vigil in their memory shortly after their deaths. We explained to Kaylee why we were going. We were delicate. We chose our words wisely. But we were truthful. Because kids need the truth. We told Kaylee that firefighters died, and that we were going to be with other people in our town to remember the firefighters. We told her that when we are sad, it helps to be around other people so we can help each other through it. We told her why people around us might be crying. I vividly remember Jack looking at her as we explained it to her and he said, "Da firefighters died, Sissy." Have mercy...

She was a part of that ritual.

And now tonight, she was a part of a ritual for her sweet little fishy.

And it was important. Because kids need to know. They need to know death is a part of life. It's not something we can hide from. It's a delicate discussion. It sucks. It really freaking sucks. No matter what. It's horrible to have to explain to your 5-year-old. To answer her questions. But, she needs delicate, well-thought-out honesty. She deserves it.

And she deserves to have the chance to grieve in her own little 5-year-old way, which is much different than mine, thank goodness.

I look at her and I wish my grief could be so simple. I wish I could be so naive and so untarnished and so fresh. So unaware of the hurt and the pain and suffering that exists in this world.

Sometimes it is too much for the human spirit to handle. That is what this past month has felt like.

I missed my Gram so damn much in June. I had this nagging feeling the anniversary of her death was coming up. And when the day finally came, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I. miss. her. so. much. I miss her voice. Her laugh. Her smell. Her squishy hugs. The way she called me Sera B. Her sweet cuddles. Her emails. The way she always signed them ILOVEYOU. I miss her every day. But that anniversary hit me to the core.

Shortly after that, a dear childhood friend lost her husband to cancer. She has 3 kids. It floored me. It was incomprehensible. How can one even deal with a loss like that? How can that happen? It's just not fair. I couldn't wrap my mind around it. Her loss. The loss her sweet babies would face.

Then we lost the Prescott 19 as they now call them. Again, my mind couldn't comprehend the magnitude of 19 of our guys lost at once. 19 families without dads, brothers, husbands, sons, uncles, fiances. They had kids, some of them had babies due to be born soon. It was too much tragedy to literally even comprehend.

We've had to bury too much lately. What we can't bury is the grief. Certain times, yes. We can't cry and lose it 24/7. We have to drive. We have to work. We have to read bedtime stories and yell at telemarketers. But we have to find time to let it OUT. We have to grieve. Whatever that means for us. In whatever time frame that means for us. There's no right way. There's no wrong way. But we have to allow ourselves to do it. We can't bury it.

And ironic as it is, when I say we can't bury it, sometimes it feels like we are the ones who are buried. Who are suffocating. Can't breathe. Who are panicked and can't get out. Who feel shrouded in darkness and can't see much light. But we have to remember there is air. There is light. We're not alone. We. are. NOT. alone. And there is no shame in admitting our struggles. Instead, there is strength in reaching out. In accepting help and in accepting the support of others. It takes courage to ask for help, and it takes courage to accept it.

But, we have to be brave. My Gram was brave. She fought like hell. And then she knew when enough was enough, and she was brave enough to let go. My friend's husband was brave as hell, too. He fought with everything he had. My friend - and my friend's babies - are brave. I will never, ever know the depth of their bravery. Those firefighters walked into the flames to save lives and lost their own. They were brave. My Kaylee was brave tonight.

We're all brave. Whether we think we are or not. To cry is brave. To admit we can't handle it all is brave. To allow ourselves to lose it is brave. To face our fears, our weaknesses, our faults, our insecurities - all of that is brave.

And that's why I'm writing again. Because for so long, I didn't think I was brave. I felt so small. So insignificant. So scared. Insecure.

But I made a choice.

I chose to be brave.

To me, there is simply no other choice.

In anything.

No matter WHAT.

And it is my job in life to make sure my children grow up knowing that simple, yet oh-so-powerful truth beyond a shadow of a doubt as well.