A Subtle Sunrise

Posted by BecomingBetty

Easters were special growing up. We colored dozens of eggs. Mom made homemade candies and molded bunnies. I wore a new dress every year. Some years Mom made the dress for me. The white shoes came out of storage (forget Memorial Day!) and we posed for pictures in the back yard in our finest.

My Aunt would buy bags and bags of the left-over Easter candy and a week or so after Easter, we would have a big candy hunt with all of the cousins. Life was simple.

We didn’t always attend sunrise service, but I remember being excited to go. Some years, it would be very cold, and I would insist on wearing my thin Spring dress (often sleeveless) no matter how loudly my teeth chattered. Although I can vividly remember some of those dresses (and the hand-crocheted shawls Mom made to go with them), I cannot remember the sunrises. In my imagination, they were vivid – as we sang hymns, the bright ball of the sun peeked over the horizon and the angels sang. In my imagination, it was quite a spectacle – worthy of motion picture awards.

This morning, My dear sister-in-law and I decided to go to sunrise service. It was cold (low 40s), and the service was being held on the shores of Lake Erie, where ice covered the water mere days ago. I had no Easter dress, and as an adult, common sense ruled and I wore my heaviest wool pants, two sweaters, a winter jacket and woolen socks under my winter boots. I carried a travel mug of steaming coffee. I was prepared.

The rest of the early morning worshipers dressed like me. Nary a light spring dress with bare arms was to be found. In the pitch black darkness, we sat on rough wooden benches, our backs to the frigid lake. As the service began at 6:45 a.m., the sky began to lighten just enough to read the prayer on the bulletins we were handed.

Our Pastor shared the scripture from Mark 16 – “…trembling and bewildered, the women found the empty tomb and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”

This account lacks the drama from the Passion Play. Mark doesn’t tell us about Jesus’ appearance to his followers. There are no vivid beams of light streaming from the empty tomb. No heavenly chorus – no trumpets – only frightened women fleeing.

As we said the closing prayer and sang the remaining hymns, the sky continued to brighten. There was no startling contrast, no brilliant colors. The lake didn’t sparkle. It was quite dreary (and still very cold). Pastor told us how some evenings when vespers is held at the same location, the sunset is stunning. Other times, like this morning’s sunrise, it is just a subtle transition from one day to another.

I wish that I had more time this morning to sit and contemplate that subtle sunrise. Instead, I came home, downed a cup of coffee and cooked breakfast for seven. After breakfast, I boiled eggs to color with one of the grandchildren who had spent the night. As my daughter helped him dye the eggs, I began preparation for the family celebration as we came together to enjoy fellowship (and food!)

After lunch, the children scampered through the yard looking for brightly-colored plastic eggs filled with candy. While I was inside the house being busy, the day had transformed completely. The cold had disappeared and the sun shone brightly. It was too nice to go back into the house, so we visited on the front porch. It was a wonderful time.

With the last of the family guests gone, I took my opportunity for that quite contemplation that I missed earlier. I donned my running tights and shoes and headed for the high school track. I reflected on the cross, and the excruciating pain that would be involved in crucifixion. I remembered Christ’s pleas for forgiveness for the people who were torturing and killing him. I imagined the empty tomb, and this time my mental movie included this morning’s subtle sunrise, as the black night gave way to the soft gray of a cloudy morning.

My own life has changed a lot in the past year or so. It’s been a slow process. Some days I am disappointed that the changes aren’t mind-blowingly vibrant. Other times, like today, I am grateful for the calm that fills me when I’m alone with the only sounds being those of nature around me and my feet striking the pavement. As I took my final lap around the track, the sun began it’s gentle descent toward evening. The bright ball in the sky was too bright for me to capture with my iPhone camera. It was the kind of light that chases away any kind of sadness left in the corners of your mind.

I sat in the car and watched the light. It was the kind of brightness that would be perfectly accompanied by angels’ voices and trumpets. It filled me with awe, and calm.

Last week was difficult. My mind was occupied with current events and political thoughts. I spent energy uselessly pondering issues that are beyond my control and problems that aren’t even mine to solve. While I was alone, in that moment, none of it mattered.

My subtle sunrise brought me calm. The light that ensued brought me joy – and peace.

The emotions today brought with it may be lost in translation, but the message for me came loud and clear – even a dreary, subtle sunrise can become a breathtaking day.

As the Easter hymns of my childhood echo in my mind, I am filled with joy.

He is risen [He is risen indeed!]

All Stuffed Up [Learning to Let Go]

Posted by BecomingBetty

I have a huge job ahead of me. I’m loving and hating every minute of it. I have too much stuff. Some of the “stuff” I have hasn’t seen the light of day in years.

My husband lived in this house when he met me. He had stuff already when I moved here, and when I added my stuff to his “stuff,” the house was stuffed and we both had to give things up. The years passed, and we each tossed some stuff and bought some more stuff to take its place. Before long, he lamented to me, “we have too much stuff.”

I did my best to pare down the stuff. I went through the boxes and tossed some stuff, but there were things that held too many memories. I couldn’t bear to give up some stuff, so I stuffed it back into (fewer) boxes.

Some years later, my mom and dad moved from their four bedroom home into a two bedroom apartment. They had to get rid of stuff, but they let me go through their stuff before they sold their stuff at auction. I loaded up a car or four with more stuff. I was opening my professional office, so some of the stuff went there, which made room for more stuff at the house.

More years passed, and the ‘rents moved into an even smaller place with less room for stuff. Once again, I carted boxes of stuff to my house. I couldn’t bear to let them get rid of the stuff that I had grown up with. The stuff has sat, stuffed into boxes and untouched since I stuffed it into the garage, basement and attic.

Mom got sick, then Dad got sick and died, and Mom got sick again. I was so stuffed full of feelings that I couldn’t bear to go through the boxes that stuffed the corners of my life.

I [re]discovered thrift shopping (thank you, Macklemore!) and brought home even more stuff. Recently I needed to get something from the basement, but the floor was so stuffed full of boxes stuffed full of stuff that I couldn’t find the stuff I wanted. I realized I had a stuff problem.

My darling, patient husband understands. The stuff is stuffed full of memories.

When I hold my grandma’s old root beer mug, it ceases to be just stuff. It takes me back to Grandma’s kitchen. I can see the Hires root beer bottle (the glass kind that you have to open with a bottle opener). I can taste the vanilla ice cream that has crystallized root beer on the edges. I feel the long-handled spoon she gave me with my root beer float.

The caddy of red-striped glasses stuffed with newspaper take me to the dinner parties my parents would host. Mom’s fancy glasses would come out only on special occasions. I felt like a grown up when I could drink my iced tea or lemonade from those glasses instead of the jelly jar glasses or the plastic cups we used for every day.

There is the birch bark tee pee and the Indian chief doll that my Dad bought on a trip out west before I was born. I hold them and hear Dad tell about the steak dinner he bought in Texas for 10 cents with a steak that was bigger than the plate that held it.

It’s all stuff. The real value is in the memories that are stuffed in this head of mine. The older I get, the more my house looks like my parents’ home circa 1975. I have my parents’ coffee table, my Dad’s desk lamp, and the piano that Dad taught dozens of kids to play on. I almost brought home the church organ that he had… but there was no room. The place was stuffed.

My head is stuffed full of memories. They are sweet and bitter. Each doo dad and knick knack triggers a mental movie. Dear husband brings the boxes for me one at a time. It’s like Christmas when I unwrap the stuff that was carefully stuffed in newspaper years ago.

I have to let go. There is so much old stuff – mine, my parents’ and my children’s that there is no room for new stuff to make new memories. I have to part with my stuff. I’ll keep the treasures that hold extra-special meaning. The other stuff stays only if I would buy it if I saw it in a store. As I send the other stuff on to other people who will appreciate it, I will savor the memories that I unwrap. Perhaps I will photograph the items that have the best stories. As I stuff boxes full of stuff that has no place to be displayed, I should save those memories somehow.

Perhaps one day my children will receive an album stuffed full of photographs and words from their mother recalling moments from the years she spent collecting the stuff.

So far, all but one item has been unpacked intact. The lone casualty is a painted cookie jar. I’ll admit I nearly cried when I saw it lying in piece. I asked my husband to glue it. He said he would… but I’m not sure it’s necessary. As “stuff,” it’s not worth much. There’s nothing special about it. I have the cream pitcher, tea pot and sugar bowl that match. Any one of those things would evoke the same memories. I’ll never use it as a cookie jar. Now that it’s broken, nobody else would want it. Instead of repairing it, I think it’s time to (reverently) stuff it in the trash.

When it comes right down to it, it is, after all, just stuff. The memories are inside me, waiting to be shared.

Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys

Posted by BecomingBetty

I once read a popular book on relationships by John Gray, PhD. It was titled Men are From Mars, Woman are From Venus. The general concept that I gleaned from the pages was that men and women think differently. When someone presents a problem, a man’s tendency is to try to solve the problem rather than responding with empathy or sympathy. Women share their problems hoping for emotional support, rather than a problem-solving session. The failure of the woman to appreciate the solutions offers is unsatisfying to the man, and the woman feels slighted because the man hasn’t given her the emotional response she had hoped for. Chaos ensues.

By birth, I am a woman. By vocation, I am a lawyer. While I am still a woman (and happy that I am), my law school education changed how I respond to other people’s problems. I have developed a tendency to listen, identify the problem, and offer a solution. Sometimes I put hours of (unpaid) time into figuring out a legal solution to a problem that has been shared with me. Imagine my shock and horror when, instead of thanking me for doing free legal research and offering a tangible solution, the person with the problem got ANGRY with me.

While it is not uncommon for lawyers to be maligned, most of us are pretty nice people. We charge money for our time because it’s all we have to sell, but many of us provide pro bono services to indigent clients, help family members and volunteer our time for other good causes. Forget everything you learned about lawyers from reading lawyer jokes (please).

This week I had a conversation with a friend who was frustrated. Her frustration stemmed from problems in an area that I have training and experience with. As she shared her pain and frustration, my mental wheels started spinning. I had solutions to those problems! Just as I took a breath to deliver my well-thought-out plan, I heard a little voice in my head say, “Not your circus, not your monkeys.” I swallowed my words and said nothing. I listened. I realized that not only did my friend probably already know the legal solutions to the problems, but she was also not the person who needed to act. The situation was largely beyond her control. She was telling her problem to her friend – not her lawyer. Instead of giving in to the urge to fix the problem, I needed to offer emotional support to my friend. She just needed to vent.

I’ve been a worrier since I was young. If I’m not worrying about my troubles, I’ll worry about yours. I finally understand what Mom meant when she warned me, “don’t borrow trouble.”

I posted earlier about wearing many hats. Sometimes those many hats lead to confusion. I am learning that when I am wearing the “friend” hat, I need to put the “lawyer” hat in the closet. The lawyer hat tends to make me look like I’m from Mars, anyway.

It’s Not All About the Numbers

Posted by BecomingBetty

Today I rediscovered the joy of running.

One year ago today I bought my first “real” running shoes. I was painfully slow, and filled with pain – both emotional and physical. With each mile I ran, I found freedom. For the first several months,all of my running was inside on the treadmill. there I could run in the safety of home, with my television for entertainment, the air conditioning and ceiling fan for comfort, the bathroom mere steps away, and an unlimited supply of ice water whenever I wanted it. I could run in shorts or pajamas. I couldn’t imagine running outside. That soon changed.

As the weather became nicer, I decided to venture out to the local high school track. I couldn’t believe how different it felt. I hated every step that first trip. The wind made it harder to run. There were people there who might secretly (or not so secretly) make fun of me. They were all faster than me. They had nicer running clothes, too.

I posted on Facebook that I didn’t think I would ever really like running outside. A friend commented that she wouldn’t be surprised if I changed my mind. She was right. I loved watching the scenery pass, and I loved the feeling of actually moving forward. I enjoyed the sights and the sounds and the sensations. Sometimes I ran with music, and sometimes I listened to the wind and the birds.

Soon I was running at the track on a regular basis. I “branched” out and began running around town and on local trails. As winter fell, I found I hated the treadmill. I had fallen in love with running.

Although I tracked my pace and was delighted to watch it improve, I didn’t focus much on my pace. That all changed when I signed up for my first half marathon. I knew it was an ambitious undertaking. I had started as a person who needed to lose fully one half of her body weight. I couldn’t walk a mile without stopping. The race I signed up for had a time limit. I was slow (I still am). Not only was I asking my body to move much farther than it ever had before, I was demanding that it do so at a particular rate of speed.

I began tracking my pace on every run. I tend to get a little obsessive about certain things. Soon I was running with three different apps open, each with a particular feature the others didn’t have. The joy of running turned into anxiety about a slower than average day, or the fact that I hadn’t improved over the previous week. I pushed my body harder and faster, and when the race came, I still couldn’t keep up with the pace. I got swept. It was terribly disappointing.

Upon my return to the gym, I downloaded more apps that did more things. I put a sensor on my shoe and obsessed about whether or not the apps were properly calibrated for the indoor track. I lost sight of the joy I had found and focused on the numbers as a measure of success.

It’s been a long, cold winter. When the sun came out today, I went back to the high school track where I took that first outdoor run. I turned on an app to track my pace, but I turned off the feedback about pace and distance. I listened to music. I ran “faster” for one minute, then “slower” for the next minute. I didn’t stress about my pace.

When my run was finished, I looked at the stats. My pace wasn’t half bad, but that wasn’t what was important. I got out there. I ran. I burned calories. I sang. I had fun. I remembered why I started this running business in the first place.

Celebrating Life – The Anniversary of My Decision to LIVE

Posted by BecomingBetty

Tomorrow is an important anniversary for me. I will celebrate one year of learning to love life again.

Sometimes depression creeps in unnoticed. We keep on doing the things we need to do, but we stop caring about the things that used to matter to us. We may continue to care about others, but we stop caring about ourselves. For me, it was like that. I can’t point to an event that triggered it. I don’t know why things changed. I just know that in the days and weeks leading up to March 9, 2014, I was in a dangerous place. I didn’t think anybody really cared.

You see, at over 300 pounds I was having a lot of health issues. Daily life was difficult. Losing half of my body weight seemed like an impossible task to contemplate. I was having “heart palpitations” and began to feel as if I was about to lose consciousness on more than one occasion. I came to believe that I was dying. Rather than seek medical help, I decided to let nature take its course. I wasn’t about to take steps to actively end my life, but I didn’t want to make the effort to save it. I guess you’d call it passive suicide. My overeating and inactivity were robbing me of life in a very real way, and I didn’t care enough to stop it.

I wish I could tell you what, exactly, flipped the switch in my head. On March 9, 2014, I made up my mind to call my doctor and ask him to prescribe an antidepressant medication. It was a Sunday. The office was closed, but I made up my mind.

I called first thing on Monday morning. My doctor was out of the office for the week, but I had a prescription bottle and an appointment for the next week before noon that day. Opening the bottle and putting the first pill in my mouth, I felt both a sense of failure for not being strong enough and a sense of relief that maybe, just maybe I could feel better.

I have a group of online friends who I have “talked” with in various places for 7-8 years. They are my invisible (not imaginary) friends. I have plants they sent to my dad’s funeral to prove they exist. I confessed to them my feelings of failure over needing medicine.

I confided in them about the tremendous loneliness and the feelings of isolation I was experiencing. One of them suggested I try running. I chuckled at the thought. I tried going to the gym the next day. I had a panic attack. I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of judgment. I made my husband turn around and take me home.

A fellow attorney practicing in another part of the state (not one of the previously mentioned group of invisible friends) who I have never met in real life sent me a message suggesting we virtually work out / run together and sign up for a race.

The “Arthur” video began showing up in my facebook feed over and over. I’d watched it dozens of times before. I’d even purchased the DDP Yoga videos in 2012, shed quite a few pounds, and did a great job of learning to get off the floor (a skill I’d retained) before eventually giving up and going back to my old ways and regaining nearly every pound I had lost.

I watched the video again. This time, when Arthur began running, the tears streamed down my face.

I’ve learned in my life that when I start getting the same message over and over from different sources, God is trying to tell me something. I listened. I decided that if I wanted to live badly enough to put medicine in my body, then I wanted to live badly enough to take back my life. If Arthur could learn to walk again, and learn to run, then so could I.

Those of you who have followed me the past year know how the rest of the story goes. I started walking, and then I began running slowly on the treadmill. I got over the fear of the gym and added weights to my workout. I hit the yoga mat and did some DDPYoga. I swam laps. I posted on Facebook (a lot).

Soon the weather warmed and the outdoors called. I ran on the high school track. I ran through town. I ran on trails. I ran on the beach. Although I sometimes took Jimi the Wonder Dood with me, usually this was time to myself. I started seeing the wonder in nature- in leaves and waves and birds. I talked to God. He talked back in rustling leaves and wind on my face. He talked to me through “cheers” when friends “liked” my runs on Facebook.

It wasn’t quick or easy. I still had days when sadness pressed on my heart and made it difficult to do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Slowly, though, I returned to the land of the living. I stopped just going through the motions. I devoted more time to getting my soul back in order through prayer, meditation and lots and lots of sweat.

The popular adage says that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I’m making lemonade and trying to give it away. One year ago I really didn’t care if I lived or died. One year ago, I thought that nobody cared. One year ago I couldn’t have dreamed how wonderful life is today.

I still take those pills. I take another for my thyroid and one for my blood pressure. It’s part of my daily routine. The pills didn’t fix me. I had to do that myself with a lot of help from God and my friends and family. I still run. I still get sad once in a while. It’s no longer overwhelming.

I’m a little frightened to post this, but I feel it is necessary. It’s scary to admit that you struggle with depression. I worry that it could hurt me professionally. I fear that people will think less of me if they know that I have problems just like anyone else. I believe that we need to move beyond the stigma that mental health issues hold. I believe that if people in pain knew how many people suffer with them, people would be more inclined to seek help before it becomes easier to think about dying than to think about living.

Writing this blog post is me making lemonade. It’s not the “koolaid,” if it’s not your thing – move on.

I don’t believe that God tests us like Job in the Old Testament, but I do think that he gives us opportunities to understand and help others when we face trials. I think that he gives us the grace to move through our challenges if we ask. I think that when we are taught lessons paid for with blood, sweat and tears, it is only right to share the lessons that we have learned.

Please don’t give up. Don’t passively wait for your vices and problems to kill you. If you are depressed, there is hope. Medicine is not shameful. Therapy is not shameful.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Don’t be afraid of failure. Don’t be afraid of judgment. Never, ever give up.

Today, I celebrate the life I have been given. I am excited to see what the next 365 days holds. I am a work in progress. Next year you will see another brand new me. I can’t wait.

To those of you who have “liked,” “commented,” or “shared” my writing in the past, thank you for encouraging me. To those of you who are new to this page, welcome. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share with you.

Today, I am celebrating life. Welcome to the party.

~Be~

Ditch the Witch!

Posted by BecomingBetty

I wrote this several years ago (2012) at the beginning of one of my “practice starts” to my healthier lifestyle.

*****************************

There is this woman in my life – she makes things so hard

she never leaves me alone
she goes everywhere with me
she sleeps with my husband (that’s awkward!)
she makes me carry her up the stairs
she makes me carry her down the stairs
she shares my clothes
she eats my meals

She’s mean, too:

she won’t let me ice skate with my kids
she won’t let me ride a roller coaster at Cedar Point
she won’t let me do fun things with my husband

Every step I take, I carry her with me.

Letting the other woman into my life made sense at the time. She helped me hide from the people who might want to get too close. She protected me from attention I couldn’t handle. She helped me come up with excuses for why I couldn’t go for a walk or dance at a wedding. She was my partner and co-conspirator (and made a wicked hot-fudge sundae, too!)

I weigh as much as two of the *real* me.

Every step I take is twice the work.

I’m going to ditch the witch!

She won’t go away all at once. I’ll have to push her away ounce by ounce. She knows she’s on her way out. I’ve started packing her suitcase. Most of the size 26 clothes are already in it. She can have them. I don’t need them.

I won’t send her away hungry. The cupboard is full of processed foods with gluten and refined sugars. She loves that stuff, so I’ll pack her a care package.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I’m going to run on the beach, ride roller coasters and chase kids and grandchildren.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I’m going to buy skinny clothes made for one person – not two.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I don’t need her anymore.

*********************************

Update: her suitcase is getting pretty full. She’s been given the eviction notice and she knows her time is limited.

I’ve added to the things I’m going to do when I ditch the witch

I’m going to run (and FINISH!) a half marathon.

I’m going to run up and down the stairs at the high school stadium

I’m going to zumba and kickbox and yoga and RUN her right out of my life.

I’m going to ditch the witch (3/4/2015)

I Wear Many Hats

Posted by BecomingBetty

On a recent trip to Walt Disney World, I had fun trying on many of the fun hats. My teenaged daughter rolled her eyes, but I had fun anyway. The truth is, though, that I really DO wear many hats.

In my personal life I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, friend, niece, stepmom, grandma, and reluctant dog groomer.

Professionally, I am a lawyer. I am an optician.

As a self-employed lawyer married to a self-employed eye doctor, sometimes I am a medical biller. I am an adviser, an advocate, sometimes a photocopying maniac, file clerk, janitor, courier, and receptionist.

I wear many hats.

Some of them are more elegant than others.

Some of them fit more comfortably than others.

Some of them make people a little uncomfortable.

When we wear many hats, it’s important to recognize that sometimes we put on the police hat when someone really wants the chef hat, or the nurse hat. Having been taught to think like a lawyer, I approach problems differently than many people. When I hear someone else talking about their problem, my first inclination is to try to help them solve it, or at least to give them some idea of what they may be facing. Sometimes that’s not the hat they need to see.

I have a friend who is a psychologist. She told a story, once, about going to see her sister, who was having a bad day. My friend listened to her sister rant about the bad day. Before deciding what to say next, she paused. “What do you need from me today?” she asked. “Do you want to know what I think about what happened? Do you want me to tell you what I think that you should do? Do you want me to hug you and tell you that everything is all right? Do you want me to tell you that you’re right and they are wrong?”

Tell me what you need.

Tell me what hat you need me to wear.

That’s the problem when you have too many hats! It’s difficult to decide which one to wear. One goes with your outfit, but it’s too dressy. One will keep the sun out of your eyes, but it clashes with your shoes.

My lawyer hat is not warm and fuzzy. I’ve spoiled a couple of budding friendships by bluntly delivering my legal synopsis of a situation when really all that person wanted was for me to listen to them.

When a potential client comes to see me, they get “the talk,” in which I explain that my role as their lawyer means that thy may not like what I have to say. It’s my job to be realistic and tell them their options and the consequences. If they want someone to make them feel good about themselves and their situation, they need to go see my friend the psychologist.

I’m getting better at keeping track of my hats and wearing the right one. It’s not always easy wearing many hats.

They Call it the Present Because it’s a Gift

Posted by BecomingBetty

There is no time like the present. I really mean that. Right now is the time to start doing whatever it is that you know that you need to do but have been avoiding. You may think it’s too big. You may think you’re not ready. Whatever idea it is that you have in your head that’s holding you back, get RID of it.

I’ve spent pretty much my entire adult life being overweight, obese, or morbidly obese. I’ve used every excuse out there. I can justify anything. I’m the master procrastinator. I’d go see my doctor and he’d bug me about my weight. My line was always, “One thing at a time. I’ll deal with (fill in the blank), and then I’ll work on the weight.”

I dealt with the broken leg, the thyroid, the illness and death of several people close to me, undergrad, law school, setting up a law practice, and countless crises that come with the territory of being a wife, mother and human being. When I had bloodwork, my numbers were good. Although I was borderline hypertensive, my A1C and lipids were good. I prided myself on being “healthy fat.” I had a love affair with Ballreich’s potato chips and anything sweet or salty.

Just about a year ago I was sitting at my office conference table with three friends who were in my Rotary Club. We were discussing what needed to happen and how to get things rolling. As one of my colleagues was talking, I realized that the room was fading. I broke into a cold sweat. My heart was doing weird jumpy things, and I couldn’t concentrate. I considered asking one of my friends to call my husband to take me to the hospital. I was feeling that strange. However, I said nothing. I concluded the meeting, went upstairs to my office and collapsed into my chair. I was chilled and clammy. I wondered if I was sick or dying, and at the moment, I wasn’t sure if I cared. Life wasn’t much fun. I had a hard time moving on the best of days. I was tired of watching the people who I cared about get sick and die.

Whatever happened was happening to me passed. I went about my business and finished up the day. I didn’t pass out, die, or get sicker. I also didn’t say anything to anyone about what had happened. In retrospect, it was probably an anxiety attack, but in that moment it felt like death was knocking at the door.

I got up the next morning and realized that something had to change. I had put off going to the doctor because I didn’t want to have the conversation about my weight. I hadn’t been on a scale in months. I don’t know exactly how heavy I was, but it was a big scary number, and it was only one of my problems.

I posted in a Facebook group full of ladies I met on another internet site that I was having some troubles in my life that had me feeling very discouraged. One of those ladies suggested I look for a group called Moms Run This Town. She said that not only would I feel better getting some running in, but the other ladies would be great listeners as I worked through my issues. I thanked her, and laughed silently at the thought of me running anywhere.

Over the course of the next week or two, more people suggested I try running. One offered to train with me for a 5K race. Although we lived miles apart, and the training together would be virtual, I agreed to give it a try. That night I put on my walking shoes and dusted off the treadmill. I walked a mile. It took a good, long time, but it felt good.

I remembered a line from The Shawshank Redemption. Red said, “get busy living, or get busy dying.” I decided to get busy living. I’d been just simply going through the motions for far too long.

When I first started exercising, it felt like I would never be able to “run” a mile without stopping. In those first weeks, I spent lots of time holding on to the side rails of the treadmill and supporting a good part of my weight with my arms. Still, I faithfully got on that treadmill night after night.

Time passed, and I got up the courage to go to a running store for a pair of real running shoes. They didn’t laugh at me. I didn’t get sarcastic comments or rude remarks. I left the store with a box with a pair of shoes that cost a good chunk of change and I vowed not to let them gather dust in the closet. I vowed that if God would just let me live long enough to undo some of the damage I had done to my body, I would enjoy life again.

As I progressed, I left the safety of the house for the high school track and then trails at local parks. I began participating in 5K and 10K races. I marvelled as a doe and fawn watched me run. I came alive listening to the sounds of nature. I began looking for new places to run. I visited parks and neighborhoods in my town that I had never been to in the 15 years that I have lived here.

I’ve listened to music of every genre, waved at hundreds of strangers, learned to enjoy a good sweaty run, and I’ve enjoyed (nearly) every moment of it. I’ve learned that chocolate tastes better if you have to run a mile to earn a piece, and that potato chips are still my kryptonite.

Since that day in March 2014, I have run over 450 miles. Today, I ran a half marathon on the indoor track at my gym. In two weeks, I will repeat that feat at Walt Disney World dressed as Ursula from The Little Mermaid. I can hardly wait. I’m still 100 pounds overweight, but I can run a half marathon.

I’ve done a lot of reviewing the past year. What does it have to do with the present? I’m still here. I’m healthier than I’ve been in years. I’m happier than I’ve been in years. My life is still not perfect, but life is sweeter because I received a wakeup call. Only when I thought that I might possibly be dying did I realize how sweet life really is. I don’t take my life for granted any longer. I want to live long enough to dance at the grandchildren’s weddings. I want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane on my 65th birthday. None of those experiences are promised. Life is sweet and it can be cut short in a moment. When you “get busy living,” every moment, even the sad ones, is a gift.

I don’t know what you’re struggling with. I don’t know what battle you are waging and which side is winning. I do know that whatever you want to happen, there is no better time than right now to start doing something about it. If you want to lose weight, get up and walk right now. Don’t wait until Monday to start your exercise program. If you want to write a book, grab your pen and write an outline. If you want to learn to play Rhapsody in Blue, get up and play the first page as slow as you have to play it to get all of the fingers in the right place.

If you want to run a half marathon, put one on the calendar. Pay the registration. Recruit a partner.

There is no time like the present. Tomorrow is not promised. You will never regret starting right now. A year from now you’ll wonder why you waited so long. I promise.

Don’t Be Ashamed of Your Story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I didn’t come up with this title on my own. It hit me smack between my eyes first thing this morning as I reviewed my Facebook feed. I thank Kara Louisell for sharing it. Check out her FB page for lots of inspiration. https://www.facebook.com/karalouisell?fref=photo

I shared this image on my own Facebook feed this morning. I’ve made a lot of changes in my life in the past 10 months or so. As a result, I’ve shed a bunch of weight. I’ve run over 350 miles. I’ve learned new ways to deal with sadness. I’ve begun reaching out to others, learning to delegate, and being kinder to myself. I’ve chronicled those changes and shared them here and on my Facebook page along the way.

I’m not normally an attention-seeker. I’m a little bit uncomfortable being in the public eye. I like to work behind he scenes. I’m the person who doesn’t generally strike up a conversation, but I enjoy it immensely once given the opportunity to engage. I’m naturally quick to discount a compliment and I still don’t like the way I look. I’m my own worst critic.

I’ve become one of those annoying people who “checks in” at the gym on Facebook. My nike+ app tells my friends when I start a run and how far I go. I’ve posted pictures *eek* spandex, covered in sweat, painted up, covered in colored powder, and generally having fun while being less than necessarily “proper.”

A long-time friend posted something recently about people who stay the course without need for praise from others as opposed to people who do things half-way and seek applause. I pray that I’m not the person that friend had in mind. I share these changes because many have shared privately that I am inspiring them to change, too.

I am very uncomfortable being anyone’s inspiration. I know how fallible I am. I know how often I stray from my health diet and eat potato chips. I am very aware when I skip a workout to go shopping or watch TV. I’m imperfect. I’m still overweight. I mess up. I don’t FEEL very inspirational.

Perhaps that imperfection – the humanity – is what inspires? I have lost 75 pounds through sheer determination despite going through down spells, having injuries, and just feeling grumpy some days. I’m not a fitness model. I haven’t reached my goal weight. I finish last at most races that I run. My flaws are myriad – but my sincerity is real.

When people started telling me that I INSPIRE them, I wanted to tell them not to be absurd. But, just as I learned to accept a compliment graciously, I’m learning to accept that I have no right to tell another person what (or who) is “good enough” to inspire her.

My story is complicated and colorful. I’ve been through a lot of challenges, and despite it all I’ve managed to carry on. I’ve made decisions that I’m not proud of, but I am proud of where those decisions have brought me. Perhaps that’s why I have been given the gift of being able to inspire others.

I’ve made a decision not to be ashamed of my story. It’s mine to tell – all mine. It’s different from your story. Perhaps it will inspire you to change. Perhaps it will inspire you to block me on Facebook. I just write what I know.

I Sure Wish God Didn’t Trust Me So Much

Posted by BecomingBetty

I don’t know whether she ever truly said it, but Mother Teresa is credited with saying,

“I know God won’t give me anything I can handle. I just wish he didn’t trust me so much.”

I’ve shared that quotation on my Facebook wall in times when life is handing me lemons so fast that I can’t make the lemonade quickly enough to use them all up.

Yesterday, one of my many beloved Invisible Friends (people I have met online and have never had the pleasure to meet in real life) posted words to the effect that she doesn’t believe the old adage that “God won’t give us more than we can handle” is appropriate to say to someone in their time of trouble. God doesn’t give us the pain, but he helps us through it. She later posted a link to a powerful blog by another writer who expanded on the thought. Having had a day to think about it, and facing my own obstacles this morning, I must say that I am in agreement.

Life is not fair.

Cancer and other terminal illness has been a constant in my close family since 2006 when my wonderful father-in-law succumbed to cancer after successfully fighting it off multiple times. No more than a month after we laid him to rest, my own father was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. It seemed that he had no more than gone into remission than he was struck with severe congestive heart failure as the result of damage to his heart muscle from the chemotherapy that had saved his life. We fell back into a rhythm for a short time, and Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had surgery to remove her right breast and 23 lymph nodes, which all tested positive for cancer. She consented to radiation, but refused the chemotherapy which might have killed off the cancer cells that remained. We lost Dad a short time later. Mom was struggling to recover herself and caring for him. They finally consented to come to my home so that I could help, and we lost Dad within 2 weeks. I struggled. I thought that surely now things must get easier.

Mom’s PET scans have been negative for cancer in her soft tissue since that time. However, a tumor marker protein in her blood work has been creeping up – slowly at first, and now rapidly. She went for a repeat PET scan last week and yesterday her oncologist said that there is no sign of tumor in her soft tissue, so we must look to the bone. The tumor marker is elevated to the point that there is no question – there is an active disease process raging in her body that will require aggressive treatment.

My dear mother looked defeated – not at the thought that the cancer was in her bones, but more at the thought that she must, again, endure another long test in a lonely room with no television, no music, and not even a picture on the wall to look at. My heart wanted to break.

We went from the doctor’s office to get lunch, visit family, and go shopping. Mom seems to be handling it all very well. I, on the other hand, am ready to pitch a hissy fit. My friend’s post was timely. God isn’t testing me. God isn’t giving this to me. Life happens. It isn’t all about me. God didn’t select me out of all of the people on this planet to shoulder the load I am toting right now because he has some belief that I am tough and I can handle a little bit more. I am not Job.

We are intricate creations, but our design allows flaws (cancer and other disease) to develop. Our environment and our choices influence the likelihood that disease process will start, stop, slow or speed up. We don’t have an infinite life here on earth. Our bodies eventually wear out, whether or not cancer strikes. Eighty-six years is a long life by any standard. Many women don’t get to keep their mothers for 47+ years. I’m not giving up hope, by any means, but I know that whether it is cancer or heart disease or simply old age, I am going to lose my mother – I just don’t know when. This latest crisis has removed my ability to pretend it won’t happen. It’s not an “if” – it is a “when”. Death happens to us all.

I will survive this challenge. I will not survive it because I am strong, though. I will survive it because I have no choice in the matter. I will pray for strength and for grace and peace. God didn’t give this particular challenge to me because I have some ability to be resilient. God didn’t plan for me to find my husband after his suicide in 1998. He didn’t plan for me to tell the doctors to remove life support for Dad in 2013. God didn’t plan this – he gave us free will. He’s not the superhero in the sky whose purpose is to go around putting out fires for those who are too weak to handle it. Instead, he promises us his grace.

I will be there for my Mom through whatever treatment she chooses to take. She will turn to God for comfort, as will I. God doesn’t give me challenges because I am strong. I am presented with challenges because I am human – I am alive. Mom is alive, too. I will treasure our remaining days together whether I have to say goodbye to her, or whether I am the first to leave this earthly plane.

I will experience more pain, suffering and grief than I can handle. God’s not dishing it out to test me. People around me aren’t developing cancer because I am strong. I don’t have to be strong. I can admit that I am powerless. I can allow myself to cry. It isn’t all about me – and I’m so glad it isn’t. It’s not about God trusting me – it’s about me trusting Him for strength to weather the storms.