Tag Archives: Truth

A Blank Page Full of Possibility

18 Wednesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Me, Mom, Wife

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It had been two years since I stepped foot in my home, and now here I was, breaking and entering. According to our divorce settlement, I wasn’t supposed to be there until August 1st (two days later), but he was gone now, and I had a key. With the confidence of a criminal, and the excitement of a little girl, I walked up to the threshold, turned the knob, and opened that door to the rest of my life.

Bare walls were stained with dirt and varnish from where old photos used to hang. Empty holes decorated the walls and dust bunnies hugged edges of the floor. I pretended to not notice the items strategically left behind to trigger me, but I was comforted by the sounds I made as I walked across the old floor. All its little cracks and flaws were exactly as I remembered them.

California sun beamed through the skylights, hitting the chandelier that hung in the great room. Rainbows danced across the walls and onto my hand, reflecting its crystals. The room felt spacious and generous, yet barren, like a white sheet of paper, begging for me to reclaim her once again.

I walked through the kitchen and out into the garage. An ordinary space for most homes, but not mine. I waded through trash bags, old toys, and family memories, to get to a small space under the stairs that doubled as my sacred meditation space years prior. Unrecognizable now, as it was filled with paint and construction materials, but thankfully, that space was mine. A symbol of solitude. For many years it was my quiet corner of the house, where I found peace and reprieve from the things I could not change.

I made my way upstairs and walked straight past the master bedroom into my closet to find another space that I held dear. Just a small table where I suited up each morning to get ready and face the world. The lights had been torn down, but my mirror remained. Corporate America “me.” Engaged mother “me.” Happy wife “me.” I strive to show up for all three every day. Some days I get it right, but at least now, the mirror won’t lie back at me.

It’s funny, ten years ago I wrote about a mirror and said, “I’m determined to remain in the space where masks are no longer necessary because I have enough courage to be myself — because an imperfect truth is greater than any false perfection I could portray.” It was the last thing I wrote before I went silent. Maybe because I’d told a truth I wasn’t brave enough to live — or because I subconsciously knew what was coming. Maybe both.

My 18-year old daughter’s walk through the house was different from mine. Tilley reclaimed her space, but her connection to it carried a lot more pain. The not-so-hidden messages brought tears to her eyes.

It’s been six months since we moved in. We have celebrated a lot as I began a beautiful, new life with my husband, Clinton. A rehearsal dinner to host our family and friends, the memorable wedding that followed. Birthday parties, Thanksgiving, and Christmas went by faster than I have ever remembered.

But the sands of time are quickly slipping away and taking my sweet Tilley with them. Six months ago, we moved in, but only six more until she leaves for college. It feels like yesterday when she was just a little girl running around the house. I do my best to surrender to the smallest moments with her. Whether it’s curating a short video of us eating our favorite treats from the grocery store or sushi dinner with her, Clinton, and me, I collect memories like postcards from a trip I’m not ready to end.

Last week after school, she walked in the door and collapsed on me while I laid on the couch. Head on my chest. Asleep in minutes. I didn’t move for two hours; afraid that if I did, the moment would break — and she’d be eighteen again instead of four.

So much has changed since I wrote down my thoughts ten years ago. I have since put away the masks and let go of the people who couldn’t stand by me. More importantly, my kids found their wings. I gave them freedom and wheels — literally cars and bikes — and the opportunity to find their own voice. Even though their childhood home was gone, we rebuilt that foundation from something new. Tilley found faith in God and a church to call her own.

And although it’s my original, childhood faith, Tilley was not raised with Christianity. For most of her life, she experienced a mom who meditated on the living room floor, attended silent retreats, and sang words she didn’t understand in Tibetan temples. She burned incense, held her hands in mudras, and recited mantras while saving bugs from the busy sidewalk. But now in her teenage years, she attends Catholic school, participates in a life group, goes to church on Saturday & Sunday, and holds my hand before dinner to pray.

So much of my life was spent looking backward — the marriage, the masks, the woman who used to perform. But standing in this house with new paint on the walls and old cracks in the floors, I’ve learned that the past and the future live under the same roof. They’re neighbors sharing walls, making noise, learning to coexist. The old house didn’t disappear when we redecorated. And the little girl who used to fall asleep on my chest is still inside the woman who’s about to drive away.

I spent two years fighting to get my house back. I’ve painted the walls and reclaimed my rooms. I built a life with Clinton inside these halls. And now I watch time pull my daughter toward the door and realize the foundation was never the house. It was the courage to be real inside it. To remove the masks. To stop pretending. I see that same courage in Tilley now — finding her own voice, building her life exactly the way she wants it. And I think — I hope — she learned some of that from watching her mother be brave enough to start over.

I went silent for ten years. Not because I had nothing to say — but because I let other people’s versions of me be louder than my own. But this bare, imperfect, reclaimed house gave me back my blank page. And for the first time in a decade, I’m not afraid to write on it. Because an imperfect truth is still greater than any false perfection I could portray.

Tilley has seen both sides. The masks and what lives underneath them. The performance and the freedom that comes when it ends. She has held incense in one hand and a Bible in the other. She has lived inside the lie and watched her mother fight her way back to the truth. She is ready. She has been prepared — not by perfection, but by all of it. And like this house — barren, imperfect, and honest — she is a blank page full of possibility. When she walks out that door in August, she won’t be leaving home. She’ll be carrying it with her.

3 Things I’d Teach My Younger Self

28 Saturday Mar 2015

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I walk past it every day and pretend to ignore it, deny that it’s there. But it waves at me from the corner of my eye and reminds me of my neglect. My poor, overgrown, unloved garden is just a small plot in my backyard, but it represents so much more. While I’d like to think that I’m good at many things, gardening is just not one of them. It requires too much time and attention on a regular basis and I’m really not that consistent.

Last weekend I mustered up enough courage to get back out there and make room for the flowers my kids picked out a few days before. Although I struggle to keep up with it, I really enjoy gardening. The small acts of planting and digging my hands in the earth bring me joy and I love looking out the windows to see it bloom with color again.

This is WhoA few weeks ago, while rummaging through papers in my kid’s backpacks, I came across a homework assignment of Tilley’s that read – “This is who I am and that’s all I want to be.” At 7 years old, if she has even a glimmer of this idea in her mind, she is on the right track. That is leaps and bounds ahead of me at that age. In fact, who am I kidding, I resist this idea now!

As a child, I struggled with my self-image. My inflated sense of self frequently collapsed in the face of criticism. I had many friendships, but they varied over time, and their intensity would ebb and flow. As I got older, and my relationships matured, I felt more stability and longevity within them. But a subtlety remained – an underlying insecurity that I could not shake. Nothing I did was ever quite good enough and no matter how much praise I received from family and friends, I was never satisfied. There was a yearning inside of me that drove me to achieve more and more.

As a mother, it’s so easy to fill our children up with praise. When I watch Tilley play the piano or witness Mason’s athleticism, my mind fills up with ideas of their future success. I can see their achievements, as if I’m thinking with the end in mind. I’m at the Olympics watching Mason compete or I’m listening to Tilley’s exceptional performance. I pump them up with these ideas of greatness because I want them to see the world of possibility that exists if they want to work hard and achieve it.

PicMothers tend to their children just like a garden, watering seeds for their growth, thinking of new ways to help them sprout in the future. We pull old weeds to beautify their minds, allowing their colorful flowers to grow. We fertilize them with confidence so they thrive and grow stronger. We cultivate seeds of determination, harvest the goals for the future and make them become a reality. Like every mother who came before me, we praise our children’s progress so they will begin to have strong beliefs in themselves.

For 15 years, my sister and I performed in the local theater in various capacities. My mom supported us from backstage waiting for our next costume change, while my dad prepped the mics in the sound booth. Hundreds of people, including many extended family and friends came to watch our performances, and when it was over and we took our final bows, there were spotlights, applause and standing ovations. I remember the smiles, hugs and words of affirmation.

IMG_7009Everyone that performed on that stage poured their blood, sweat and tears into those shows and our reflection of a job well done made it all worth it in the end. I loved performing in front of an audience as it made me come alive with energy. When the curtain came down, it didn’t matter if we had made mistakes that night; the audience’s praise was our final judgment. Their comments and reviews summarized and validated our experience. I cared deeply about what everyone had to say. It made me feel more confident in my performance.

As I got older I began to filter the feedback. There was something deep within me that felt the praise wasn’t real, so I turned to the critics instead. The constructive criticism seemed to be more balanced and insightful. I would continue to search for the truth in everyone around me, as if the version I experienced wasn’t the real one. Like a sickness, I was dependent on their feedback, addicted to their praise, but I didn’t trust what they said.

IMG_7006This desire for applause would become the theme of my twenties. There was a yearning inside of me that drove me towards accomplishment, as if I needed validation and proof of my worthiness. I turned to therapy, self-help books, even hypnosis to work through what I felt were obvious fundamental inadequacies. But this inadequacy was a mystery to me. Something was missing, but I couldn’t even put my finger on it. I was on a mission to cure something that I couldn’t even describe.

This yearning inside of me to become someone different, something more, was the root of my problem. What did I need to prove? Who was I trying to prove it to? In my search for the source of truth, the solution to all of my problems, the missing piece was… ME.

IMG_7016I empowered everyone else and disregarded myself. I let others plant thoughts, but never became the gardener of my own mind. Looking back now, I wish I could talk to my younger self and comfort her. First, I would tell her that the garden is her responsibility. A self-sufficient gardener need not look outside oneself for validation and praise. Secondly, I would show her how to grow her own flowers and teach her how to take care of them.  She would satisfy her needs and know that external sources are not sustainable. Finally, I would help her find love and acceptance within herself and to trust her own source of truth.  Her guiding light, and the only praise that can gratify her, is the one that she believes within.

Being content with who you are doesn’t mean that the garden stops growing or that we stop tending to it. It will change and grow and learn new things every day. But “a flower doesn’t compete with the flower next to it, it just blooms.” It’s not attached to becoming anything or anyone, as it has always been itself… a flower. It will never become more or less a flower. No matter what my children achieve, they are special to me and they don’t need to prove anything to receive my love and appreciation. I just want them to be happy and express their individuality. I hope they find their calling, their passion, and something that makes them feel alive.

My thriving and colorful “garden” within, the one that I neglected for so long, is the greatest source of my happiness. A spiritual awakening, a rewarding pursuit and I’m satisfied with the fruits of my labor. A delicate balance that requires daily care and attention, it needs enough water, so it doesn’t dry out and get depressed, but not too much, or it gets puffed up and full of itself. I work hard to keep it alive but it’s not a chore when it’s done with love. I am not yearning to make my garden something else, something more. I just allow it become the fullest expression of itself.  An imperfect gardener, that’s who I am, and that’s all that I want to be.

One Commitment to Make this New Year

01 Thursday Jan 2015

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Just like that, the year is over and a new one begins. In the last three months we celebrated five birthdays, three major holidays, many celebrations, performances and parties. A hectic, but memorable time of year when my mind flips between calendars and “to do” lists on a regular basis. With so many things on my mind, is it any wonder that I haven’t been able to write a blog?

In actuality, I wake up early almost every morning to write, but hundreds of pages later, I’m unable to share a single thing. Often times the story doesn’t meet my expectations. It’s too preachy and depressing, not engaging or thoughtful.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a story teller. As a child, I would write stories and poetry on my mom’s typewriter, sharing my best work with family and friends. I credit my father, the attorney, with his story telling skills and poignant choice of words. I try to convey my thoughts in a way that is meaningful and inspiring; threading together real life stories that illustrate a deeper meaning in a light-hearted way. You’ll find that I frequently use analogies or life experiences to get my point across.

Through this blog, I’ve tried to share the ups and downs of my daily life. Although difficult at times, I’ve worked hard to expose my vulnerabilities and shed the layers I wear in the world. But let’s be honest, no one would read a single thing if I were to just say what I think. Instead I share stories of the kids and pictures of my life because it’s softer, while barely scratching at the surface. I flip back and forth between fiction (the nice version) and reality (my truth) to say what I need to say. I struggle between these two worlds to find a middle way and summarize it with a heartfelt story.

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“They ran down the stairs and squealed with joy, while their starry eyes twinkled in the light. Bright, cheerful presents greeted them under the tree and sparkled in sheer Christmas magic. Bursting with pleasure and wonderment, they carefully shook each gift before ripping away the paper to uncover their treasure.

But riding a roller coaster of emotion, how quickly they crash into a puddle of tears. My three-year old, Evelyn, stepped onto her new scooter, devastated to find that it wouldn’t move on its own. The very gift that had given her so much joy, only moments before, was now the source of her rage.”

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This small, but perfect example illustrates the fact that material things can never bring us the happiness we seek. No matter how magical the experience, each gift will eventually bring disappointment, as it cannot satisfy our ultimate desire. One day, every gift we opened on Christmas morning will sit in a dusty pile in my garage, waiting to be donated or thrown away.  There is nothing magical about them, as they will wear out or we will grow tired of them, just like every other gift that came before them.

But year after year, I get into the “holiday spirit” and spend ridiculous amounts of money to buy my kids the perfect gift. I perpetuate a lie and portray to my children a false meaning of Christmas; teaching them unrealistic and painful lessons of materialism that will eventually need to be unlearned. Evelyn was so upset that her expectation of the scooter didn’t live up to the reality. She thought this thing would make her happy, but material things don’t do that and they never will.

Ying_yang_signNo, unfortunately, this is not a story about how magical our Christmas was, nor will it be wrapped in ribbons and bows. But behind my words you will always find the truth and reality of the struggles I’m facing. Writing provides me with an outlet to communicate life lessons in a way that balance the yin and yang of life; even in the best of times, a touch of sadness, and in the worst of times, a silver lining.

Because you probably don’t want to read about the death of my 17-year old cat and how painful it was for me to watch her die. Or the tears I shed at work, when a co-worker shared her pain in going home for the holidays with fresh memories of her late mother. If I try to approach the subject of death and the dozens of lives we lost in our network of friends this year and during the holiday season, it would be far too depressing. But this is the unfortunate reality of life, no fiction or silver linings, and sometimes it’s just too hard to take.

Behind the holiday cards, pictures and stories are the challenges and tragedies of everyday life. It’s unrealistic to think that I can go on writing and not touch the surface of suffering. No matter what time of year, I would be doing myself a disservice if I continued to avoid the tough stuff. Our hurdles are the same, but we experience them in our own way and in our own time. We are all connected and can support each other as we go through it; sometimes as the teacher, other times as the student.

Sure, we can continue to figure it out as we go and get punched in the gut along the way. Or mistakenly look to things outside of ourselves to bring us momentary happiness. But if we’re lucky, we’ll have someone to talk to, a pastor, spiritual friend or mentor. Someone who can look us in the eye and say, “I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through.”  We can learn through the unfortunate mistakes of others.

Life’s hard lessons aren’t packaged with a soft message, and you can’t just break down and throw a temper tantrum when you don’t get what you want. But, unlike Evelyn, we shouldn’t mistake the fancy package under the tree, for what’s inside, because the gift is your reality. If you’re fortunate enough to find something you cherish and people you love, then hold on to them dearly, and appreciate them while you can, because nothing will last forever.

My commitment this New Year is to continue walking towards my truth. I hope that all of us continue to narrow the divide between our fiction and reality and lead the most authentic life possible. It’s simple really, no bells and whistles. I just don’t want to look back at my life many years from now and regret anything. I don’t want to wish my life away by dreaming that I was somewhere else. Instead, I want to be firmly planted in reality and witness the miracle of my life.

Anything else is just a fairy tale, the window dressing that someone is trying to sell you.

I should know. I’m a story teller. It’s what I do.

The Art of Friendship

05 Sunday Oct 2014

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On Monday, I took Evie out of bed, got her dressed, brushed her teeth and we went out for breakfast.  The week officially marked her transition to pre-school. For the past three years, she’s had the luxury of staying at home with Veronica, our very helpful live-in nanny. Last week, however, Veronica transitioned to a new family, and our baby set off into the real world. Aside from being busy and emotional, the week was a great success. She didn’t cry at Friday’s drop off and, at pick-up, she always came running with a smile. The teachers reassure me that she’s having a great time.

photo 2 (2)During the week, we spent time exploring the magical grounds of the school. You see, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill place. On the contrary, this private elementary school (up to 6th grade) is situated on a huge property in Laguna Beach. You step into a fairy-tale; the land is complete with multiple gardens, a huge teepee, a small tea house and European style one-room homes; each home accommodating a different classroom. A large portion of the property is dedicated to animals. There is an aviary with multiple peacocks, swans, chickens, doves, even rabbits, and a separate residence for horses, llamas and pigs. With language immersion options in German, Japanese, French and Spanish, we are happy Evie can continue learning Spanish, as she has the past three years.

Just like me, Evie loves peacocks. On Friday, we watched intently while one of them strutted around the aviary; acting like he owned the place. So many mornings I remember dropping off my big kids, who attended there years ago, and the peacock would stand there in full feathery display, shaking his vibrant, colorful body, and begging for attention. I would stand and watch, in awe of his majestic beauty, and enjoy his lively performance. I reflect on every beautiful creature, are how perfectly suited they are for this children’s community; teaching life lessons of individuality and diversity.

photo (7)The teachers tell me that Evie has made new friends, but at three years-old, she doesn’t share much about her day. I’m sure they all play together, side-by-side, and get along just fine. It’s hard to watch as your children navigate the open sea that is the art of making friends. This year, my heart broke a little when Tilley received her 2nd grade classroom assignment and found out that her two closest friends were in another class. Of course, after many tears, she found other girls to play with, and now, a month later, is enjoying those new friendships. As parents, I think the experiences are harder on us, as we share in their pain, and remember similar situations from our past. Forced to re-live our own painful memories all over again, in a real life scenario, like a gift, ready for us to dig up and rekindle. We carry it with us and it shadows over our reality like a dark grey haze.

photo 1This month, I traveled back to my hometown of Jamestown, New York and surprised my grandmother on her 90th birthday. I had the opportunity to see my family and many old friends from high school. I was amazed to find that, from a friendship perspective, time had stood still. Twenty years later and our relationships are the same. The connection we shared as children continues on and allows us to easily share our greatest joys and deepest fears. Like nothing changed, we laughed simply, effortlessly. There is something special about old friends, a deep bond and connection that takes away any aspect of “trying”, a shared history and common values, an understanding that transcends normal relationships.

I have been blessed in my life with great friends; deep meaningful relationships that will last lifetimes. As I approach my 36th birthday, I can’t help but think about how my closest friends, the most important in my life, were made before I turned 25. When I reflect on my adult life and the relationships I have (or haven’t) made, I find it ironic. It’s harder to find friends now, even though I am more in touch with myself than ever before. From that perspective, knowing what I want makes it harder to find genuine friendships.

photo (8)Connecting with my friends from home, no matter how many years it has been, is so simple. My husband doesn’t understand and it’s hard to explain, but there is an understanding between us; like they know the real me, no judgment, no fear of rejection. There is a comfort and security from our past, and because of that connection, I’m free to be myself. I can open up and wear my heart on my sleeve. I dig into the treasure chest of my past and extend a long rope of trust. I reconnect to that powerful place and it refreshes me and it gives me a renewed sense of purpose and community.

One similarity all of my friends share is transparency and honesty. You always know where you stand and there is no bullshit between us. It might sting at times when they bluntly tell you what they think, but I’ll take that any day over them concealing their truth. We are honest with each other and that’s what true friends should do. We can pick up right where we left off, with no insecurity about not having seen or spoken to each other for weeks, months, or years!

I really suck at making new friends. Lacking substance and common experiences, I try to find connections through superficial things, like where they live, where they work, or where their kids go to school. My favorite thing to do is play “six degrees of separation” to find out if we share friends in common; as if that’s going to improve our odds of becoming good friends?! Furthermore, finding new friends, after marriage, or “couple friends”, is difficult, at best. But now, as a mother, making new friends is nearly impossible. Simply put, due to our schedules, we have very little time in our life to spend with our current friends, much less to cultivate new ones.

While I was home, I visited with my grandmother at her assisted living facility. I walked into the building and greeted the dozens of women in rocking chairs, chatting away with their similar hairstyles and smiling faces. I thought about how their husbands, probably long gone now, were nowhere to be found, and how I’ll be so fortunate if I reach that time of grey hair and wrinkled, sagging skin. All of us are just trying to find happiness amidst the suffering and change that comes with being human.

Maybe my expectations are high, but I want meaningful relationships, not superficial ones. I want to spend my precious time with friends who stand by in good times and bad, and who won’t go blabbing my darkest fears to everyone they know. I want to have fun going out at night, but I also want to wake up in the morning, so I can take care of myself and my family. I am comfortable in my own skin; those wrinkles are there because I’m expressive and I like to laugh. I don’t need fancy clothes, vacations or things. I lead a healthy lifestyle, eat well and exercise often, but I just walk out my front door. I don’t need fancy gym memberships or care for extreme sports. I want friends who accept me for who I am and I just want to be myself.

Unfortunately, the relationships I’m seeking are few and far between. So when you’re fortunate enough to find even one true friend, who shares your values and priorities, invest in them heavily. Some of Derek’s and my closest friends live 20+ miles away and, in the past, we just haven’t made the time to get together. Instead, we’ve prioritized geographical convenience and ease of scheduling over true friendships. I have wasted time trying to cultivate new (convenient) relationships that simply aren’t there. I’ve cared too much about what other people think of me, not being true to myself in the process.

photo (6)We come into the world as little children, playing side by side, and, hopefully, we go out like those little old ladies sitting in their rocking chairs. In between birth and death we get so caught up with defining and labeling ourselves and the image that we want to portray. We hide behind our labels, our titles, our branding. We are so afraid of what others will think of the “real” person, we put up a façade. I’m the first to admit fault here, as I parade my life in pictures on the internet. But we’re just your typical, every day family with ordinary problems, trying to make it through another day. Through my blog, I’ve tried to be as transparent and honest about my everyday struggles. I probably share too much, making myself vulnerable, as my husband often tells me. But that’s just my way of being “real” and taking off those layers and labels in the world.

On a bike for the first time in 10 years!

On a bike for the first time in 10 years!

It’s okay though. That’s just me. I’m at peace and I have no fear of putting myself on display. I’m not afraid to bare my insecurities and imperfections. Just like the peacock who stands in full bloom, I want to be uninhibited and show the world who I am with all my expressive colors. I want to be me, with all my strangeness, eccentricities and quirks. I wish everyone could feel that way and stop tip toeing through life, worrying about what others will think of them. Instead, I will live out loud, with my heart on my sleeve, and go boldly and courageously into the world. I don’t care if my words fall flat or my ideas are rejected. Not afraid of failure or making mistakes, I will be remembered as someone who lived fully, who tried really hard to be better for others, and who tried to stay in the present moment. Here I am. This is me, with all of my colorful feathers on display.