On a Mama’s Intuition (and Acne)

May 6 2014

I took a 1st grader to the doctor this morning. This is his 4th follow-up post surgery.

IMG_5565Although Greg and I argued about whether our son really needed to hear out of both ears (Greg: “He really does, Beth.” Me: “But GENERAL ANESTHETIC and he’ll probably DIE and you are SUCH A JERK and GAH!”), Greg prevailed, and so Cai got a brand new ear drum at the end of March, and, to go along with it, better hearing. Whatever, Greg.

But Cai’s been having a problem ever since surgery with a little spot on the skin above his ear canal. It’s small but red, swollen and painful to the touch, and, since they had to essentially remove his ear for the procedure, cutting it from behind, flopping it forward and then reattaching it (I know; gag), I knew we had to get it checked by the doctor because INFECTION and GANGRENE and he’ll probably DIE.

IMG_5562The doctor asked Cai lots of questions like, “Where does it hurt?” and “Only when you touch it or all the time?” and “How long have you had it?” before examining it with his bright light and magnifying lens. 

And thank God for Dr. Burningham’s diligence (and, not to pat myself on the back too much, but also for a Mama’s Intuition), because when he finished, the doctor looked at me and diagnosed Cai with…

…wait for it…

…a clogged pore.

“A what, Mom?” asked Cai.

“A clogged pore,” said I.

“What’s that?” asked Cai.

“A pimple,” said I.

“What’s that?” asked Cai.

And I looked at the doctor and the doctor looked at me and I sighed, because clearly it was my job as the mommy to break the news in a way my kid could understand.

“You know those red dots on Mommy’s face? The ones you point out every single time they appear?” asked I.

“Oh yeah,” said Cai.

“That’s a pimple,” said I.

“Gross,” said Cai.

“Yep,” said I.

And that’s the exciting news from our morning.

How was yours?


ALSO… come have lunch with me in Portland!

OregonianOmamasEventOregon and Southwest Washington moms and dads, I’d LOVE to see you next Tuesday, May 13th at the Portland Art Museum

The Omamas from The Oregonian are hosting a Making the Most of Summer discussion, and I get to join them as the guest panelist. Don’t worry; although my tips for summer include How to Justify Extra Screen Time and How to Panic While Taking Too Many Kids Camping, the Omamas have GOOD advice. Plus, there will be lunch. Yay for food!

If you’re an Oregonian Plus member, this event is FREE. If not, it’s just $5. GREAT deal and FUN. (Seriously. Come. Buy your tickets here.)

ALSO, I’m giving away 5 pairs of 2 tickets each (so you can come and bring a friend). TO ENTER: between now and Thursday (11:59pm Pacific Daylight Saving Time), leave a comment below. For an extra entry, you can also leave a comment on this Facebook post.

On Friday morning, I’ll announce our 5 winners!


Announcing our winners for this Tuesday’s lunch with the Oregonian Omamas and me at the Portland Art Museum: 
Jen Blew 
Ruby Ringo
Dominique Dobson
Hilary Newlin O’Halloren

If you didn’t win, please come anyway! Tickets (click here) are only $5/person, including lunch, and I would LOVE to see you there.

(Winners please email me at FiveKidsIsALotOfKids@gmail.comfor your confirmation # for 2 tickets each.)

I’m Depressed. Or a Genius. Or Just Human. It’s Hard to Tell.

Apr 28 2014

My thoughts have been twisty and turny for days now. Sometimes content. More often angsty. Sometimes not very present at all, like my brain is on hiatus even more than usual, which is really saying something since I’m usually working with one cobbled together from dried toothpaste, discarded snack wrappers, and the petrified crusts of toast that breed inside my couch cushions. MacGyver ain’t got nothin’ on a mom brain, man. 

It’s just, lately, I’m stuck somewhere between inertia – just sort of face down on the floor and done in and rather ppffftttt – and thinking I need to be more Nike; all gumption and grit and mind over matter and push-through-every-hurdle-life-throws-at-me – Just Do It personified, you know? Whatever It is.

And I’m extra hidey right now, too, like I’m not ready to be done with the hibernation of winter, and I want to stay huddled in a dimly lit, subterranean den lined with fluffy pillows and soft blankets and equipped with two of those fancy, plexiglass tubes from the drive-thru bank — one that connects me to the library so I can request cannisters stuffed with fantasy novels, and one that connects me to the bakery for fresh cinnamon rolls and the occasional cannister-shaped pie. So tell me, please, is that another wonky resurgence of depression, hard to recognize like the last one, or is it just genius and we should install a massive, worldwide network of plexiglass tubes, STAT?

It’s not that things are bleak. The opposite, really. My family is lovely in all the usual ways, by which I mean my 7 year old crawled into my lap last night to snuggle and to lick me, like an enormous, gangly puppy who can’t possibly show the depth of his love without saliva, and then I repaid his devotion this morning by betraying him when I woke him at 7:30 instead of 7:00 even though, “You knew, Mom! You KNEW I wanted to get up at 7. I always want to get up at 7, and you RUINED EVERTHING,” and tears, and wailing, and not enough time for Minecraft before school, and, “How could you do this to me, Mom? HOW?!” 

Which is the question, really. How can I do this? To any of the people I love and to myself? This constant being human, and making mistakes, and so truly, utterly, completely lacking perfection; how can any of us do this to each other and survive? 

And how do we tell the difference between Something’s Wrong and Needs to Be Fixed (like, helloDEPRESSIONvs. We’re Just Human and This Is Part of It and Welcome to Life, you know?

How do we know when it’s time for a medication check and when we need, simply, to submerge ourselves in Love and Grace and practice relentless forgiveness, especially of ourselves?

I don’t know. 

I wish I did, but I just don’t.

Greg took the kids to the beach on Friday. It was a perfect Spring evening; sunny and warm, and the kids played in sand by the sea. By the time I joined them on Saturday, the storm was raging with sideways rain and driving hail, and our big family felt small – teeny, tiny – inside the little redwood house Greg’s grandpa built while we watched the wind and the waves at war. The kids were afraid we’d blow away, and me, too, a little bit. But Greg reminded them that the house has weathered this before, and will again and again.

Which is maybe all I need to know.

photo 4 (26)

15 REAL Dos and Don’ts of Juice Cleansing

Jan 30 2014

I’ve started a juice cleanse to jump start myself back into better eating habits following this past season of life which I shall call the Unlimited Chocolate and Cheese season. And also the Don’t Hold Back the Butter season. And the Of Course I’ll Have Fries With That season. A good season, to be honest. A great season. And one I fully intend to revisit. But one from which my clothes and I need a brief break if we’re going to have any hope of making our relationship long-term. 

I’m also — obviously doing the juice cleanse because I’m an Oregonian so this kind of thing is periodically required. Frankly, a juice cleanse is an easier way to keep my Oregonian card than buying therapy llamas, although not nearly as awesome.

Of course, before I started, I researched juice cleansing and juice fasting online. Ostensibly so I could do it right, but really to plan exactly which rules to break. Like the No Solids Rule. Yeah – totally breaking that one with small amounts of lean protein because I’ve met me without protein and I’m not very nice. 

Now that I’m a day and a half into my juice cleanse, though, and, therefore, an expert, I’ve realized my research didn’t fully prepare me. 

Just in case you, like me, are curious about juicing, I thought I might put together a list of what to expect at the beginning. What to know ahead of time. And what behaviours to avoid. Not, you know, the kinds of Dos and Don’ts that come from a registered dietitian with master’s degrees in nutrition science and public health. No. This list is more of a nuts and bolts list; a practical list; or, as I like to call it,

15 REAL Dos and Don’ts of Juice Cleansing

juiceReady? Here we go.

1. DO understand you will be drinking things that look like Jabba the Hutt… like if you took Jabba the Hutt, crammed him into a blender, flipped liquify, and poured him into a cup. This is, I am now convinced, why people say blended fruit and vegetable juice tastes surprisingly good. Because you look at it, expecting a sort of chunky, foamy Jabba the Hutt flavor, and are so pleasantly surprised to be choking back something that tastes more like apple and spinach that you can hardly believe your good luck.

2. DO understand what a juice cleanse means: no refined sugar, no salt, no fat, no solids, no alcohol, and no caffeine.

3. DO understand a mother of five will insist coffee is a plant derivative and, as such, can be reasonably included in a diet of fruits and vegetables.

4. DO understand she will also make an exception for half-and-half which is really just juice of cow.

5. DO NOT try to tell the mother of five she’s breaking the rules, doing it all wrong, and shouldn’t even bother if she’s not going to do it right. She’s been breaking the rules and doing it all wrong for years; if she previously abandoned all rules of socially appropriate behavior by, oh, say, wearing her pajamas to the store in the middle of the day, sans makeup, bra, panties, socks and dignity to procure medicine, a nasal aspirator and off-brand Popsicles with extra dye and sugar for a sick child, then juice cleanse rules really don’t stand a chance. Nice try, though.

6. DO understand when you get caught eating Pop Chips in the bathtub that it will be hard to convince your 7-year-old that you are eating juice of potato. This is not meant to discourage you from making the argument; it’s simply fair warning to be prepared to really sell it.

7. DO realize that if you have ever said to your child, “If you were really hungry enough, you would eat it,” the Jabba juice is karmic justice, and it’s time to put up or shut up. It’s time to decide… are you really hungry enough? If not, it’ll be waiting for you at breakfast. Maybe by then you will be.

8. DO understand, after you have put up, that Jabba the Hutt will wreak havoc on your digestive system. 

9. DO understand this is what cleansing means.

10. DO understand you must remain within darting distance of a toilet for at least 24 hours.

11. DO NOT think you can run out for a quick errand.

12. DO NOT think it will only be a few minutes and you really, really need just one thing from the store.

13. DO NOT, I repeat do NOT, get stuck waiting for a train.

14. DO thank your lucky stars for indoor plumbing.

15. And DO thank God you made it in time.


There you have it. 15 REAL Dos and Don’ts for Juice Cleansing. 

Do you juice? If so, what would you add? AND what’s your favorite recipe? I’m looking for more ideas. FYI, I do not recommend the spinach, celery, carrot, cucumber, lemon combo… blerg.

5 Things I Learned During My First Mammogram

Jan 27 2014

I turned 40, so I had my first mammogram. It was WAY better than turning 10 and having a cute boy in my class pull my chair out from under me, sending me crashing to the ground and rushing for a hall pass to scurry to the bathroom to hide in a stall to cover my tears and serendipitously — SURPRISE! — discover my first period.

It turns out some rites of passage are more fun than others. 

To commemorate this special time in my life, here are…

5 Things I Learned During My First Mammogram 

1. They give you a cape! Like a superhero! Which you fling back to expose your breasts, like your super power is Boob Woman. I LOVE THIS. I only breastfed my kids for 5 months total, but STILL. Boobs are powerful juju, man. They’re the pillows of the chest (unlike the pillows of the butt or the pillows of the thighs), and they’re a symbol of LIFE and of NURTURING and of THE ONGOING CHALLENGE TO FIND JUST ONE SHIRT THAT FITS RIGHT, so they deserve to be celebrated! On the downside, the mammogram people don’t let you take the cape with you, no matter how much you beg. 


2. Mammogram techs LOVE to take selfies with their patients in the mammogram room. They don’t think it’s weird at all.


3. Mammogram machines also love a good portrait, but, fair warning, they don’t buy you dinner and they do expect you to put out afterward.


4. If you have a gazillion children, or just one who’s truly gifted at headbutting or elbowing you in the chest, you have nothing to fear from a mammogram. Nothing. Because your boobies are already made out of callouses and granite, and a gentle squeeze from a contoured plastic device built to cradle you and not contuse you won’t even register. I promise.


^^^callouses and granite^^^

5. A mammogram is not a mastectomy, and if you get those confused, your friends will totally overreact until you make the correction.

In conclusion, mammograms <-- highly recommend.

The End


On Not Doing All the Things

Jul 10 2013

I celebrated telling you that my son thinks I’m as big as a 450-pound mountain gorilla by having cowboy pizza and beer for dinner last night. I did not have any of the chocolate chip cookies, though (because I’d had 2 for breakfast and then my kids finished them off while I wasn’t looking), so I’m counting that as success and moving on. Onward and upward! And a little bit outward, thanks to the pizza and beer.

I got on the scale this morning. The same scale I’ve been avoiding for a couple months. I half-expected the display to read GORILLA, but it didn’t. My scale has no sense of humor. He’s a Strictly The Facts, Ma’am kind of guy. I’m like, “Can we please, for once, make light of this?” And he doesn’t even smile a little when he’s all, “Nope.”

Despite the gorilla / pizza / beer / cookies situation, though, my weight is unchanged. And by unchanged, I mean I’m heroically maintaining the depression gain. Plus the 20 years of incremental but steady weight gain before that. Next time someone asks me about my ability to commit and follow through, I’m going to mention how dedicated I’ve been to these extra pounds. Some people treat them like they’re unwanted. Me? I’m downright hospitable. Nurturing, in fact.

But wait! There’s more!

Butt weight! There’s more!

(My husband is from a punny family. I’m not. After 18 years of marriage, “butt weight, there’s more” is my very best pun. You’re welcome.)


Do you ever have moments you’re pretty sure you’re carrying stuff you don’t need – or even stuff that’s harmful – but you just don’t have the energy or time to identify it, focus on it, dig it out, and eliminate it?

Yes. Me, too.

It’s just that living life, doing our best, sometimes not doing our best in favor of doing our mediocre, and being this tired take time. All of the time. In the world.

I’ve found I can do 4 things in my life:

  1. I can be internally healthy. Write. Read. Nurture my heart and my spirit. Treat my depression. Be kind.
  2. I can be physically healthy. Work out. Plan meals with whole grains and green leafy vegetables. Log what I eat. Go to bed early.
  3. I can spend quality time with my family. Bike rides. Movie nights. Family meals. Conversations that include eye contact.
  4. I can keep my house clean.

Yes, I can do 4 things. Problem is, I can’t do more than 2½ of them in any given week. And lately the weeks look a lot like numbers 1 and 3, faking 4, and not so much 2.

photo (66)Once upon a time, it really stressed me out that I wasn’t able to do all the things. After all, other people seem to do all the things, and they seem to do them well. But, you know; I’m not other people. I’m just me. And I’m coming to terms with that. So now it just sort of stresses me out. But I’m also able to relax sometimes about the things I can’t do right now. To stop beating myself up for not doing all the things.

It appears as though life is a series of cycles. I’ve focused on my physical health in the past. I will focus on it again. Maybe even soon. But I find it difficult to regret spending the past few months on my mental health and on trying and failing and trying and succeeding and trying and trying to be kind.

I admire people who can simultaneously maintain a high level of physical fitness, mental health, investment in relationships and an orderly environment. I’m just not that person. So I’ve decided to lighten up. (Get it?) To just wait. Just weight. With pizza and beer in hand.


What about you? Are you able to do All the Things? If no, which Things are on the back burner right now? And how do you treat yourself about that?


Broken: Heather Bowie on Parenting and Imperfection

May 20 2013


Welcome to our Monday guest post series on Parenting and Imperfection.

I can’t remember precisely when I started reading Heather Bowie’s blog, Team Aidan, but I know her list of what we, the parents of kids with special needs, wish you, the others, knew about our lives made me cheer and cemented my love of her writing. As a mama of a kid with special needs myself, I particularly resonated with “I’m mostly over it, and sometimes I’m not,” and “I constantly teeter on the edge of gratitude and insanity.” <— OH MY WORD, YES; ME, TOO! 

Thank you, Heather, for being our guest blogger today.

Beth Woolsey

P.S. Heather can’t identify with this post about my linen closet because – get this – her closets are clean. I know, right? I’ve tried to be the bigger person, though, and not let this stand in the way of our friendship. 


by Heather Bowie

I had my perfect baby first. Liam popped out of me in under 2 1/2 hours, nursed like a champ, and slept through the night at six weeks. As a toddler, Liam rarely pitched a fit, he listened to my directions, and even gave himself time outs when needed. He’s grown into a teenager who helps around the house without complaining, stills enjoys my company, and uses kind words with others.


Don’t throw rotten tomatoes at me yet. I got lucky. I’m not saying my parenting had nothing to do with how great a kid Liam is, but it took every ounce of me to just be good enough.

Because I had a second child… Aidan.


I got lucky with him too, but he was born broken.

Did that make you flinch? That’s ok. I flinched a little writing it because I know my job as their mom is to be their biggest cheerleader. That’s not hard for me, but the truth of who Aidan is is pretty complex. We are constantly defining and valuing the best in life and there seems to be no room for broken there.

Unless we make room.

Celebrating imperfection requires stretching our comfort zones and acknowledging failure.

Aidan’s brain has failed him. He’s twelve years old now and was born with an undiagnosed developmental disability. His brain and his body don’t work together. He requires total care; there is nothing he can do by himself. Nothing. Well, he can breathe independently but even that took six months to figure out. Two years ago he was diagnosed with Epilepsy; his brain is the bully that causes his body to seize.

Sometimes I get tired of explaining all of this because I’m afraid you’ll see all of the things Aidan can’t do, and you’ll start calling me a hero for all of the things I do for him that are beyond the realm of regular child rearing and that’ll be awkward because now you’re all staring at me and all I ever wanted to do was fit it.

My son drools and uses a wheelchair and can’t speak. He doesn’t fit in.

This strive for perfection, this desire to be better than, always leaves a less than. That’s my son. I say he’s both broken and the most perfect Aidan Bowie there is. He’s exactly who he’s supposed to be. There’s room for all of us if we redefine who belongs. Broken and beautiful belong together. It’s why I continue to reach out to parents of neuro-typical kids, and encourage other Medical Moms, and make noise however I can.

While Aidan’s broken body has made it more difficult to care for him, it’s also made it easier to celebrate him.

Do you know what it takes to walk? You just put one foot in front of the other, right?


Image 23

First you need to be able to bear your own weight on your legs. Then you need to find your center so you can balance and stay upright. After finding center, you risk loosing it all by shifting your weight onto one foot without toppling over. Next you bend the other leg and foot in just the right way so it swings forward and strikes down in an orderly heel-toe fashion.

You’re at center again.

These bodies of ours, even when they’re broken, they’re amazing.

My heart was broken when Aidan was born. Broken, scared, and overwhelmed. The way Aidan gave me a voice and a passion; the way he draws people in with his forehead kisses; the way we’ve humbled ourselves to receive the generosity of others for Aidan’s care; the way I’ve found family among other Medical Moms – these gifts are beautiful.

My life broke into pieces when Aidan was born, but I’ve found center again.

You can find me there, making room.


HGLA • 00161

Heather met her husband in a castle in Ireland and they have 2 handsome princes. When Heather is not involved in the myriad of tasks required in raising a child with a disability, she can be found with her hands on her piano, her nose in a book, or her fingers at her keyboard blogging at Team Aidan.


You can see all of the Parenting and Imperfection posts here.


When Depression Comes in Disguise

May 7 2013

I just learned that May is Mental Health Awareness Month which is PERFECT because I just started taking anti-depressants again. Serendipity, friends; I could not have planned this better. Now this story, which I would’ve told you anyway, has a purpose. Awareness. Boom!

This is way better than when I told you about my wrap dress unwrapping in the parking lot which served no higher purpose at all. Of course, during the wrap-dress incident, I wrote without swearing. We’re not going to be that lucky this time. But, you know, we can’t have everything.

In my head, I’ve been handling life just fine. The key words there are “in my head.” Which is a real shocker because a couple of weeks ago I would’ve told you the key words were “just fine.” I began to suspect something was amiss, though, when I was getting ready for bed, pulling on my usual, sexy, threadbare, frayed t-shirt from 1991 — oo la la — and Greg, bless his heart, tried to talk to me. 

“I love you very much,” I replied, “but I can’t talk any more today. Like, Not. Another. Word. So. Tired.” Except minus the I love you very much part. It was implied.

And Greg gently said, “Mornings aren’t good for talking. When I get home from work isn’t good for talking. Nighttime isn’t good for talking. When’s good for talking?”

And I realized, um, no time. No time’s good for talking, Greg. How about we just email each other from now on? But what I said out loud was, “I don’t know.”

The conversation played on repeat in my brain, like a bad song I couldn’t get out of my head. I had a nagging suspicion, coupled with other red flags, that something wasn’t right.

Here’s the thing: I’m not depressed. I’m not sad. I haven’t been living in a deep, dark pit of despair like I was the last time I took anti-depressants. I’m happy with my family. I like writing. I have fantastic friends. I’m more fulfilled at this point in my life than at any other. More content. More purposeful. I love getting older; I finally know myself a little, I like myself most of the time, and I can generally figure out a) what I really need and b) how to get it.

But it was becoming hard to keep swatting those red flags out of my face. They were like mosquitoes on crack.

This past year I’ve become more and more reclusive. I’m an introvert by nature, which surprises people because I’m outgoing, I like people, and I’m often loud, at least when I’m comfortable. Being alone gives me energy, though, so while I enjoy parties, I’m something of a dried out husk by the end of them and Greg’s left picking up the pieces, by which I mean ignoring me at my request until I can be personable again.

I found over the past year that I didn’t recover as quickly from group events and people-contact. I found I needed steadily increasing time alone to feel like I could breathe. I found I only had time to focus on my kids and that most other activities, including the “little” things like grocery shopping, helping in kids’ classrooms and going out for dinner with friends, induced dread. Utter dread. I still did them. Mostly. I even liked them, other than grocery shopping which can burn in the fiery depths of hell. But mustering the willpower to see events through was sometimes overwhelming.

And the weight gain. Oof. I tried to tackle this whole thing, in fact, from the diet and exercise angle, knowing I feel much better when I’m running regularly, eating healthier foods, and about 20 pounds lighter than I am right now. But I just haven’t been able to do it consistently. The momentum. The time. The not-medicating-my-feelings-with-food. Indicative of a larger issue? WHY, YES. DING DING DING.

It’s the anxiety that drove me to my doctor, though. Or the panic. Potato potahto. I’ve always loved traveling and Greg and I had an unusual opportunity to travel a lot last year. We did it and there were some awesome moments, but overall I was a terrible traveling companion, almost constantly consumed by the fear that something awful would happen to my kids while I was gone.

So I saw my doctor on Tuesday morning. The nurse came in first and asked why I was there. “I want to talk about anti-anxiety medication,” I said. “Or something. I was on anti-depressants successfully for several years. But I’m not depressed or sad now. I’m wondering if my current symptoms warrant a closer look at anxiety.”  

“Tell me more,” she said.

“Well, I’m anxious to the point of paranoia. I’m hiding in my house. I don’t want to travel even though that used to give me joy. I’m gaining weight. Apparently I’m not talking to my husband regularly, but I hadn’t noticed. And sometimes I’m a raging bitch. Do they make a pill for that?”

And when my doctor walked in a while later, she said, “So. It says here you’re feeling irritable lately and anxious?” 

And I said, “Yes. Consuming anxiety. And I think I technically said I’m a raging bitch.”

And she said, “Yeah, I’m not allowed to chart that. The profession frowns on putting ‘raging bitch’ in writing. Consider ‘irritable’ a code word.”

Irritable. Good to know.

And then we discussed depression versus anxiety. And my doctor told me that my symptoms are symptoms of clinical depression.


“BUT I’M NOT SAD,” I said again. “I’m not hoping for a car crash that will land me in the hospital where other people will take care of me. You know, this time. I’m not in despair.”

“Just because you were sad last time doesn’t mean you’ll feel that way this time,” she said.


“The symptoms are not the same for everyone,” she said.


“Some people experience increased migraines,” she said.


“Some people have difficulty concentrating.”


“Some people experience anxiety or panic.”


“Some people become reclusive or otherwise avoid engaging socially.”


“Some people are ‘irritable.'”


“And when people have several of the symptoms and a history of depression? Well, you see what I’m saying.”

And everything came into focus.

As someone who’s suffered from depression in the past, I was highly aware that it could resurface. I was on the lookout, even. But it came masked this time as a stranger, wearing clothes I didn’t recognize, and it snuck up and clocked me from behind because, no matter what it looks like, Depression is a dick.

Guess what? I’m gonna kick its ass.

I sat quietly at our giant farm table after dinner the other night while Greg did the dishes and talked. He stopped and stilled suddenly after saying something funny and said, “Did you just laugh?” I nodded, hoping he wasn’t offended and that I was laughing with him and not at him. “Yeah… ?” I said, wondering why he asked. He started on the dishes again and said, “I just haven’t heard you do that in a while.”


I’ve been back on meds for one week, which anyone can tell you is not enough time to tell whether this is the right medication. It takes time to climb back out of the holes Depression pushes us into. But there’s light up there, I just know it,


and I’ve started digging.


P.S. Medication is not the right solution for everyone. It is the right solution for me. If you’re experiencing symptoms of depression, get help. There are lots of options, and getting help is the right solution for everyone.

P.P.S. If you’re having a hard time forgiving yourself for being depressed, read this all the way through the comments. You’re not alone. And you’re worthy of deep love. Including from yourself. True story.

P.P.P.S. I didn’t mean for this post to morph into a Public Service Announcement about depression, but it did. These things happen. Thanks for tumbling down the rabbit hole with me.


Old Yellow Backhoe image credit to Keerati via freedigitalimages.net