I was having a very real conversation the other day with a dear friend about the word can’t.  I’m not talking about the can't where you can’t live your life to the fullest or you can’t be successful at your job if you work hard or you can’t have true happiness.  I am talking about the can’t that you can’t control. The can’t that exists because of the circumstances in your life, the lives of those around you, or your own body.  The can’t that comes from having two jobs just to survive and still not having enough money to go spend on those cute pair of shoes you’ve been eyeing. The can’t that comes from not being able to get pregnant after years and years of trying. The can’t that comes from having to take care of someone close to you who can’t take care of themselves. The can’t that comes from physically being incapable to do certain things that you want/need to do. Those kinds of cants.

For me, my can’t is pain. 

It’s hard to explain three and a half years of pain to someone who hasn’t ever experienced chronic pain. Three and a half years of nonstop, every. single. day.  in some form or another, ranging in degree, want to put a gun to your head, nerve pain, bone pain, muscle pain, spine pain, whole body pain. Pain that goes unexplained at every doctor visit, every MRI, every blood test, and nerve test. Pain that gets worse with every protocol that is supposed to help.  Pain that makes it hard to bend over, do laundry, grocery shop, not only sit on a bench to watch my kid play basketball but walk to the gym where my kid plays to be able to watch him play basketball.  

My physical can’t is that I can’t bend over to pick something up, be the mom I so desperately want to be, go dancing with my friends, take trips with my boys, go hiking; hell, go to the mall to buy a new pair of jeans. It is physically impossible for me to accomplish those tasks when I am hurting so badly or when my back decides that today would be a good day to lock up and stop working. 

MOTHER FUCKING PAIN. (Pretty much how I feel about it by now….if I am being honest).

I have accepted it….for now.  I don’t wake up every morning anymore expecting it to be better or different. I know it will be there and I know I will have to work my day around it. I accept, that in this moment, I am dealing with chronic pain, but at the same time I maintain hope and a belief that it will get better. 

ACCEPTANCE. 

Somehow having this mentality makes it easier on the days when it is hard to do much of anything.  Some days I can accomplish things like laundry and grocery shopping and taking my kids to the trampoline park, the rec center, or going to dinner with my friends. Those days I go to bed feeling rather accomplished and good about all I was able to do.  And other days, all I can manage is picking up my boys from school and the bare minimum. THE BARE FUCKING MINIMUM. That’s no way to be a mom. Or live your life. 

The bare minimum has a way of messing with your head. You start to feel like you are incapable, insignificant, and worthless when all you can do in a day is a couple loads of laundry or empty the dishwasher. You fight thoughts that say that your boys would be better off without you, that your family would be better off not worrying about you, that your friends would be better off not getting the ‘I can’t do this/how am I supposed to do this???’ texts. It’s pretty defeating and leads to feelings of inadequacy. Most of the time I feel utterly useless….if I am being honest. 

I am a believer in mind over matter. That if your mind can think it and your heart can want it, you can have it.  I also know that in order to make your dreams happen you must take action. You can’t just sit around waiting for them to come to you. Which is what I’ve done for a good part of the last three years, due to the fact that I have felt immobilized, paralyzed at times even.  That has to be one of the most frustrating things for me. Knowing that my life can be everything I want it to be, but not being able to physically do the things I so desperately want to do to make it so.  

For now, I can’t change my circumstances. I can’t magically make my back heal and my pain go away. Although, Dear God I pray for that everyday. For relief. For an answer. For a solution.  All I can do is accept that this is where I’m at right now. I don’t have to like it and I can’t control it. It is what it is. 

What I can do is get up every day, get ready, and live my life to the best of my ability. I can take responsibility for my own happiness and even though I can’t experience life to the degree that I wish I could, I can make the most of every situation I am given, with my kids, with my friends, with my health, with my circumstances.  I can be grateful for the things I can do even on the days when getting out of bed feels like the biggest feat on earth, physically and emotionally. I can let go of the way I think my life SHOULD be and learn to love it for what it is and I can continue to take steps towards finding solutions to my pain AND towards building a career that I can do from my couch. I can show my boys that instead of giving up I show up and I make it through yet another day, even if it means asking for help. 

I deserve help. And I’m learning how to use my voice to ask for it. But that’s a whole 'nother post.

I have two options in this scenario called Life. I can give in to the negative, depressing, ‘woe is me’ thoughts and be miserable on top of being in pain (and I do that…don’t think that I don’t). OR I can choose to do my best e'ryday.  Despite the pain, despite my circumstances, despite the can’ts (I do that too).  I can choose to be okay with the fact that my best today may be hugely different and maybe not as productive as my best was yesterday. Choosing the latter is not only standing up for myself but it's taking responsibility for my own happiness and not allowing my CANT'S to dictate my CAN'S.  It's also the only way to get out of this crazy thing we call Life...........alive. 

I’m dubbing 2015 the worst year of my ever loving life. It’s been dubbed, knighted, crowned, awarded, acknowledged and left the motherfrick behind. It’s also the year that I experienced the most personal growth.....ever. Funny how that happens. 

After a year of separation, my divorce was made final in March of 2015. Like any levelheaded, newly divorced single lady, I jumped into the dating scene with both feet. Partly because I felt "ready" to get out there and see what I’d been missing for the past 11 years and mostly because I needed a distraction so I didn’t have to actually feel the heartache that comes from losing everything you are and everything you ever believed you were or would be, in what feels like an instant. Even though the breakdown of my marriage happened over the course of many years, it felt like it was gone in an instant. And before I even knew it (or better yet, was willing to acknowledge it) it was too late. Too late to try. Too late to change. Too late to make it better. It took a long time for it to be gone....in an instant.  Almost a year later I still ask myself if I will ever recover fully from the loss; from the failure to acknowledge the demise along the way, the failure to make it work.  But I digress. 

I can thank Tinder for the amazing, hysterical, somewhat traumatic, eye opening introduction to Dating101 in 2015. And let me tell you, these ain’t your Grandma’s dating stories. In fact, I’m not sure my grandma’s sweet little heart could handle the Tinder happenings in the world today.  And while my dating experience deserves a whole post dedicated to just that, for the sake of time and discretion, let's just say I learned A LOT. Yeah, Tinder was a circus.   

After a couple of short lived relationships, I decided that maybe I had jumped into dating a little prematurely. I wasn’t ready. At all. I still hadn't dealt with anything from my actual divorce. I could have won awards for how neatly I packed away the emotions that I didn’t want to feel regarding the end of my life as a wife to the guy I was supposed to be married to for time and all eternity. I hadn’t allowed myself to face and feel the despair that comes from the unraveling of the little family I had dedicated my adult life to growing and loving.  I conveniently skipped over that part of The Big D.  

It didn’t take long for everything to come crashing down in my little pretend, ‘I’m really okay so I’m going to date’ world.  You can only run away from trauma and emotions for so long before it all starts to catch up to you. And even the most amicable of divorces equals trauma. Eventually the trauma starts to gnaw, pull, poke, prod, until  it’s almost impossible to ignore it anymore.  At that point, one has two choices.  One can continue on their crooked little path of “I’m okay” and waste energy finding distractions to resist the gnawings, OR one can bear down and face them. 

Welp….I decided to face them. Head on, in all my ‘fear of emotions/how the hell am I going to get through this’ glory. I finally allowed myself to give in and just feel. I gave myself permission to sit, in the darkness, with the heartache and let it flow through my being and penetrate my soul without trying to stop it or distract myself from it. I gave myself the time that I deserved to come to terms with everything that I had lost when I signed my name to that insipid piece of paper that canceled out the last 11 years of my life and broke apart my little family. To say it was painful is an understatement.   

At the time I was also dealing with physical pain. Up to that point, my physical pain had far outweighed my emotional hurt. But once I opened those flood gates and my emotions started flowing, it was the most painful thing I had ever endured. It’s difficult to express in words the feelings of loss, failure, shame, unworthiness, despair, heartbreak, regret, and so on and so forth that come with divorce. It was dark, it was ugly, and it sucked. It felt as if my entire world had fallen apart. And I had no idea how to put it back together again. 

Fast forward ten months and I still find myself healing and navigating the unchartered waters of putting my life back together again. Where does one even start? There were some days where I felt like I was going insane by trying to make sense of what it means to be single at this stage of my life; and how to be alone. Ugh, alone. 

As my emotional healing progressed, I found that once I was able to process one trauma, one emotion, one thought pattern that took me in circles, another one popped up in it's place and I had to begin again the process of letting go. Letting go is an art. It's an art that I have learned takes practice, perseverance, complete awareness, and endurance on one's part. When we fail to let go of the way we think things were supposed to go and keep allowing ourselves to meander down a path of negativity, shame, guilt, hurt, anger, etc... it puts us in victim mode, and nothing productive comes from being a victim.  I got damn good at being the victim.   

Eventually, I got sick of feeling so unhappy. I started to find things I could do that made me feel uplifted and content. I got out of my house, even when it felt like my spine was going to explode from pain.  I went to movies and restaurants by myself.  I embraced solitude in all it's splendid glory and learned to love having time to do what I wanted to do. By myself. Alone. I also surrounded myself with amazing, inspiring, women who had been down the same road I was traveling. I gained such an appreciation for learning from other's stories, from listening to people who have been where I've been and know what it's like. Many parts of me have healed through telling my own story, being vulnerable, and relying on others to help when I need help.   

The thing of it is, is that no matter how much healing happens, how much progress I make, there will always be something else to heal, to change, to make better. When I choose to recognize and acknowledge my faults/weaknesses/thoughts/ emotions/patterns, that aren't serving me, it's impossible NOT to MOVE FORWARD, even when it feels like I am being held back. There is something very powerful that happens when we accept those parts of us that aren't perfect and we show ourselves patience, love, and compassion and  give ourselves the time to work it all out. And it is through that healing process that we come to know who we are at our core and gain the strength needed to live as that Being. 

So while 2015 was awarded "Worst Year Ever" I don't regret a single thing that happened. I am who I am because of what I have been through. And as I travel along this healing journey I will continue to be who I am, until I become who I am meant to be.  

  

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

When I was in Jr. High my mom let me wear make-up.  I was so stinkin' excited to finally get to wear make-up.  My favorite shade of eyeliner was blue, like electric blue.  And I didn't just put it on, I painted my eyes with it.  We are talking colored the entire outer lids with bright blue eyeliner.  I added to that a lovely shade of pink and purple eyeshadow followed by gobs of jet black mascara. Oh, but I wasn't done.  My favorite lip color was bright pink Wet' n Wild lip liner followed up with even brighter pink lipstick. It was quite the sight, folks. We're talking "lady of the night" look here. 

And even though my mom told me over and over again that I looked like a streetwalker, I paid no attention because I thought it made me beautiful.  After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and my heavily painted eye said I was smokin'. 

Fast forward twenty something years and my definition of beauty has changed incredibly.  You can all breathe a collective sigh of relief knowing that I don't sport the electric blue and hot pink color fest on my face anymore. But even so, I am not referring to looks when I say beauty. 

In previous posts I have alluded to the fact that recently my life has gone down a path that I never would have imagined.  Because of different circumstances, one being my health issues, I have traveled down a road that has taken me to some interesting places.  Along this journey, I have been graced with meeting (and reconnecting with) the most inspiring people.  People who have come in to my life at the exact moment that I needed them.  People who have shared with me their stories, struggles, and triumphs while navigating through treacherous times. People who have taught me, motivated me, lifted me up, and encouraged me when I was feeling like I was drowning in a sea of physical pain.  

I find it intriguing how much I take away from other people's stories.  I have walked away from conversations about personal struggles feeling empowered to face my own challenges head on.  There is great power that comes from sharing one's story, and even more power learning from others.

 I have found that stories of perseverance, courage, and determination to overcome the demons that people face ON A DAILY BASIS are what make people beautiful, in my humble eyes.  Demons that may have to do with unrelenting pain that takes over one's body, alcoholism, drug addiction, the mind chatter that says you are fat and because of that you are unworthy of love.  Hell, the demons that say you are unworthy of love just because. Have you ever known someone who WASN'T fighting a battle every single day in their own head?

I believe these battles are part of what makes us who we are. Throughout them, we learn just what we are made of.  We learn who we are at our core.  We learn what we believe in, what triggers us, and what makes us tick.  We even learn from the battles that we lose. Probably most from the battles we lose.  Often times, we are beaten down to the point where all we feel is hopelessness and failure. These battles intensify when our minds tell us that no matter what we do, it's never right or good enough. The question is, in every moment, do we give in to those thoughts? Do we let them take away our power, or do we fight back?  Those are the battles that scathe us with wounds that run deep. The ones that leave us with scars.  Beautiful, brave, glorious scars that remind us of all that we've OVERCOME.  

And then there are times where we come out victorious. Where we are able to sneak, stumble, or charge past those unrelenting negative thoughts, beliefs or addictions.  Where we stand strong in the conviction that, damn it, we ARE good enough and we are WORTH THE FIGHT.

How different would the world be if we started looking at people through their trials and weaknesses? How much more willing would we be to embrace those around us if we knew they struggled everyday with addiction? Or self loathing? Physical illness? Loneliness? Rejection?

How much more love would we have in our hearts for people if instead of judging them for what they look like on the outside OR how WE think THEY should be living their lives, we look into their eyes and allow ourselves to see and feel their souls?

One of my favorite quotes that inspired this post is this:

   

"If only our eyes saw souls instead of bodies how very different our ideals of beauty would be."

Before all of "this" happened in my life, if you would have asked me if I was beautiful, I would have said no.  However, being that I have come to know who I am down to my very soul BECAUSE of the battles fought within the past two years, I not only believe it, I know it.  I AM BEAUTIFUL. Not in the beauty queen/model sense of the word and not because I wear eyeliner and lipgloss like its goin' outta style. But because every single day there is a war going on inside of me.  Some days I win, and some days I lose, but I never give up.

Next time you find yourself in a full fledged war with yourself or even just a battle, take a step back, take a deep breath (take a lot of deep breaths) and repeat to yourself "I am worth it".  You are worth it, you are strong enough, and you will get through it.

And that, my dear friends,  is what makes you B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L.

Guest Post: I Used My Spiritual Practice as a Crutch-by Lauren Noreen

My head ached, a migraine from the day before hadn’t dissolved like I had hoped and my eyes burned from a restless night’s sleep.  I had certainly awoke on the wrong side of the bed. My partner, hearing my tired groan, placed his arm over my back in a gesture of comfort.  Tired tears welled up behind my eyes, but I pushed them down and gently maneuvered my way out of his embrace and stumbled out of bed.  It was still an early hour, he fell back to sleep and I silently stormed over to my meditation pillow.  

I set the timer on my phone for 10 minutes and closed my eyes.  I threw myself into my daily spiritual practice.  Despite the appearance of a more peaceful posture, I grew more and more frustrated.  With each exhale, I pushed the frustration back down.  I continued to sit until the timer went off.  The minutes of physical stillness allowed for some peace, but I continued to fume. 

Finished with my meditation, I brewed myself my routine cup of coffee.  Avoiding the tension that was bubbling up inside, I displaced it onto the coffee making process.  I jammed my hand against the drawer as I reached for a spoon and recklessly poured some milk into a mug, spilling it onto the countertop.  Again the tears bubbled up, but I pushed them down and moved to the second part of my practice: reading something inspirational.  

I opened up to my bookmarked place in The Untethered Soul.  I surrounded myself with my highlighter, journal and of course, the coffee.  The familiarity of this routine comforted me.  

I mumbled “Good morning, “ as my partner peered out of the bedroom, my eyes still glued to a passage about feeling your feelings.  Again I swallowed the anxiety that bubbled up in my throat, tightening the small muscles along my neck on the way. I highlighted the inspiring passage.  I knew it’s truth intellectually and told myself that I would save the feeling for later: I was doing my spiritual practice.  

I finished my reading and sat with my partner on the couch.  While he leisurely checked his email, I turned on the TV and hit play on my recorded episode of Super Soul Sunday, continuing my spiritual practice.  Oprah was interviewing Pastor, Robert Bell.  I enjoyed Bell’s interview until I was triggered by something he said.

Oprah asked Bell to share the details of his personal spiritual practice.  I was interested in hearing what kind of meditation he practiced and the style of his prayers.  

He paused and then replied that “his life was his spiritual practice.” His interactions with his kids, his wife, his work, the people he meets with everyday are all his spiritual practice.  

I felt sick to my stomach.  In that moment, I made a connection between Bell’s words and how I spent my mornings (and days) those past few months: I was hiding behind my spiritual practice. I was afraid of living my life.  My spiritual practice was controllable, neat, predictable and safe.  I clung to it and wouldn't’ let life get in the way of it... My hand was clenched with my spiritual practice inside and for that reason, the time spent in meditation and reading couldn’t expand out into the rest of my life.  I feared to let it all unravel.  

Instead of contracting further when I heard Bell’s message, I chose to expand.  I chose to soften.  I chose to receive his message. I knew that what he was talking about was what I wanted--an open-hearted life in which I was part of it all.  

I took a deep breath.  I chose to open up and take in his words instead of push them away like I had been doing all morning.  I clicked the remote to “off” and gently guided myself back to the moment.  I turned to my partner and embraced him with a softness that was absent when I awoke.  I relaxed into the uncertainty of the moment and allowed the pain I had been avoiding all morning to coexist with my open heart.    

Disclaimer: A daily spiritual practice is needed to connect us to ourselves and to rinse our minds of fear and reenergize our spirits. This must be translated into a living, breathing moment to moment conscious life in which we take what we’ve learned from our practice and practice it in our interactions with each other and the decisions we make and actions we take.   In this (true) story I hoped to highlight one of the ways we can use spirituality to avoid living our lives.  

Overtime I shifted my morning spiritual practice, not on the outside, but on the inside.  On the outside, I continued to meditate, drink my coffee, read something inspirational and pray.  It was the way in which I did all those things that changed. I remembered that the point of my spiritual practice was the quiet time and connection to help me to live my life with the loving, peaceful, focused consciousness that I desired

BIO: 

Lauren Noreen helps women and men drop the self doubt and fear that’s holding them back so that they can feel confident in attracting their heart’s desires.  She is a Teacher, Inspirational Speaker and Life Coach working with clients all over the world.  She is also a Certified Eating Psychology Coach and helps men and women find their natural, healthy weight, end mood swings and experience a better quality of life by shifting how they eat.  

She lives in Boston, MA with her finance, L.J. and her 2 cats.  You can download her new FREE audio guide: 3 Powerful Steps to Squashing Fear and Stopping Worrying here: 

Website: www.laurennoreen.com
http://www.laurennoreen.com/squashfear

And So It Begins: Part One

It all started about three and a half years ago. We were living in Mesa at the time and I began noticing a certain area of my stomach that didn't feel right.  At first, I tried to ignore it.  Sometimes, when I felt it with my hand, it scared me, especially the numbing sensation that occurred every time it was touched.  It was a large mass, as hard as a rock, that eventually began to protrude out making it look like I was pregnant.  Being that I had an extensive medical background (thank you WebMD) I decided to play doctor and diagnose myself with a gluten intolerance. My findings were confirmed when the mass didn't seem to bother me as much after cutting out wheat, at least that's what I told myself.  I felt better having found an answer that seemed to pacify the worrier in me and continued on with my life, being quite pleased with my bad-doctor-self.

Fast forward about six months.  We were now living in Utah. After settling into our house and finally getting back into a routine I started noticing lumps where there shouldn't be lumps.  Again, I began to worry.   I made an appointment to see a (REAL) doctor.  She did an exam and informed me that the lumps I felt weren't anything to be worried about. Phewww, crisis averted.  I was relieved and very grateful.

As she continued the exam she got very quiet. I had briefly mentioned my "gluten intolerance" issue and how my stomach felt very hard in that one place.  Upon further inspection she commented, "Wow, I don't like the feel of that".  Oh. Crap. She ended the exam and told me I needed to get an ultrasound done on my uterus, and that it had nothing to do with what I was or wasn't eating. An ultrasound on my uterus AND you mean to tell me I gave up gluten for no reason? Double crap. I started kicking my doctor self.

I made the appointment and went in for my ultrasound.  The lovely tech, who was performing said ultrasound, was very animated in her discoveries.  Halfway through, she started giving commentary about how this was the largest tumor she'd ever seen.  Every measurement she took she declared things like "Wow, I've never seen one this big" or, "You're going to have to have surgery".  I walked out of the ultrasound bawling my eyes out.  Crap.  I have a HUGE tumor and I am going to need surgery.  Damn you WebMD, you failed me......you failed me big time.

My doctor finally got back to me after what seemed like forever. She confirmed that it was in fact, a tumor, and that there were two options.  I could either leave it alone and wait and see what happens with it in three months (which looking back, now seems like the better option) OR I could see about having surgery to remove it and have it biopsied.

Fast forward a couple months, and two more opinions.  I decided to have surgery to take the beast out.  It was a pretty major procedure.  They cut me hip to hip, much like a C-section. Except with a C-section the stomach tissue and skin has had time to stretch and grow making it much thinner and easier to cut through, sew up, and heal. Mine was just all unstretched stomach and skin fat.  I stayed in the hospital for three days to recover, and boy did I milk it.   My little sister (the bodyguard/nurse) came and stayed with me attending to my every need.

Upon arriving home, I had strict instructions to not go up and down stairs. Crap. Bedroom and bathroom are upstairs, kitchen and food are downstairs.  And not to lift anything over 10 pounds for six weeks.  The doctor informed me that the tumor weighed one and a half pounds.  For even more dramatic effect she told me it was the size of a four month old fetus. (Oh, did I mention that I looked like I was four months pregnant?)  It was not cancerous, thank the heavens above, but she did say it was hairy. Um.....gross.

About a month into my recovery it happened.....the "incident" that caused the unrelenting pain that I have been feeling now for two years.  It happened when I bent down to pick up an empty laundry basket and felt the slightest twinge in my back. CRAP. CRAP. CRAP.  I was on the floor unable to move.  CRAP.

That was the day my back went "OUT".......and to this day, my back has not found it's way back IN.  

To be continued....

Lessons Learned as a Teacher in the Hood

I am very grateful to say that I have lived in some pretty cool places.  When I graduated from high school  I moved from Boise to Salt Lake to attend Westminster College.  While there, I got my teaching degree AND met my husband, Mr. X, through a mutual friend.  Mr. X and I got married and he finished his undergrad at BYU and applied for Law School.  After applying all over the country we narrowed down our options and finally ended up packing up what little stuff we had and moving to Upstate New York.

I LOVED everything about Upstate New York.  I loved the people. Some of the nicest people I have ever encountered were native Upstate New Yorkers. I loved that I got to teach African refugees how to read, and tutor their kids in their schoolwork.  I loved exploring the outlying towns that were so quaint and beautiful.  I loved looking out over the hill we lived on and seeing luscious shades of green for miles and miles, and then when the colors turned in the Fall, the majesty and beauty of it was indescribable. I honestly don't think I have ever seen anything as beautiful as fall in New York.   I loved the cute little college part of town where we would go to get the best eggplant parmesan known to man.  I craved that little Italian restaurant on a daily  basis.  I can still remember the pizza place, with the wings and the thin crust pizza that made you drool when you dreamt about it.  And there was that one day when  I found the best sandwich shop ever. Needless to say, we spent a lot of time eating out our first year there. Oh, how I loved that little town.

As soon as we got settled I set out to find a job.  I wanted to teach. The only teaching position that was available was for a junior high Spanish teacher.  I don't know what possessed me to think I could teach Spanish to junior high kids, but I set up an interview anyway. I showed up shakin' in my boots and nervous as all get-out but determined to make it a good experience.  I sat down and we went through a series of questions.  Everything flowed smoothly and I felt confident about how it went.  After, I really did expect to hear her say that I was hired. But instead, what I got was, "Look, I think you are cute, and nice, and you will make a great teacher, but these kids will eat you alive! This is a rough school,  and you are just too sweet." Then she ended with, "There is a position for a bilingual teacher at an elementary school. I think you will be perfect for it." She passed on my info and the next day I got the job over the phone-yes, they were THAT desperate.  It was the best teaching job I ever had......it was the only teaching job I ever had.

I started teaching in an inner-city elementary school in Syracuse, New York.  Not only was it my first year, but I was teaching a bilingual class.  BILINGUAL CLASS.  I had learned Spanish in Spain....while on a mission.....for my church.  My Spanish was good, but it wasn't THAT good!  The kids that I taught were from Puerto Rico.  I thanked the heavens above they gave me a full time assistant, who was also from Puerto Rico.  I dove in head first and loved every second of it.

I soon came to learn that life in an inner-city school was far different from any life I had ever known.  Every single day, before turning the kids loose for recess, my assistant and I combed the playground for knives, swords (yes, we found an actual sword one day) guns, and drogas (that means drugs in Español).

One particular day, while outside, everything was flowing beautifully. All the kids were playing merrily, running, laughing, doing what sweet, innocent kids do, when all of the sudden there were sirens, and LOTS of them.  Within minutes of hearing the sirens we watched as eight cop cars pulled up to the house LITERALLY across the street from the playground.  I was in absolute shock as a group of policemen, all in bullet proof vests mind you, jumped out of their cars and proceeded with a drug raid.   TRUTH.  We were right across the street from this horrific scene and the horrible thing was I was the only one watching in horror.  There we played, naked and exposed to any bullet that should come our way (and by naked I mean without bullet proof vests and cars to hide behind, GASP). My assistant (who lived in the neighborhood) and the kids were so used to this scene they causally glanced over now and then to check in with what was happening and then went on playing.  I was in utter disbelief and I feared for, not only my life, but the sixteen lives I had been entrusted with. What if the people inside the house had started shooting? In our direction???  I yelled at my assistant to herd all the kids and get them inside.  She looked at me and said, "Oh Miss Ericka, we are okay, they are used to this."  My response was, "GET THESE KIDS INSIDE!!"  We made it back safely, without harm or gunshot wounds to the head.  Apparently, the house across the street was a well known casa de drogas and they arrested the guy inside, no shots fired.  I went home traumatized that night.

There were funny things that happened in that little classroom I loved so much. One day I was doing a lesson on insectos (bugs, if you will).   I kept using the word that I had learned in Spain for bug (which was not insecto btw). Every time I said the word my little students would giggle profusely.  Some of them even turned red in the face.  After about the fifth time using the word my assistant, pulled me aside and said in Puerto Rico that word was slang for a man's, ahem, you know what. I had repeatedly said "dick" over and over and over again.  "This dick goes from a caterpillar to a beautiful butterfly, and this dick curls into a little ball to protect itself, this little dick bites, and those bites can really sting",  I think you get the picture. I was, of course, mortified and wanted to crawl into a hole.  My kids however, thought I was the funniest person on the planet.  I still laugh about that experience to this day.

There is yet another experience that I will never forget.  It was when I was teaching the unit on Community Helpers. We were on a walk around the school and we came across a cop car.  I felt this was a good opportunity to talk about policemen and how they serve the people. We stopped and I started an impromptu question and answer session, that didn't get very far.

Me: "What do policemen do?"
Josef: "Take away our mami's and papi's".
Me:"...................uh......"

That. Broke. My. Heart. These kids were growing up in a place where their visions of the world were so completely skewed because of the choices their parents made....because of the choices their parents made...and their parents before them.   They grew up in a world where all they were taught was how to SURVIVE living in that part of the "hood".  A lot of those kids looked at Police as the enemy: men and women who came to their house in the middle of the night, banging on their doors, hastily barging in and taking over their household. All while watching their parents scramble to hide whatever substance/weapon they had that was illegal.  I actually watched this scenario play out when the kids interacted in the "house" center. These kids didn't act out "mom cooking breakfast with baby in the crib, and dad getting ready to go to work" like I did when I was their age.  They acted out the scenarios that took place in their homes when their parents were taken away to jail.  They wouldn't run to a cop if they were in trouble, they would run from them because in their world, cops were on the side of the enemy.

 I had a mom who was in jail for murder, a dad who was a known drug dealer, and who knows what else, I would hear stories of how moms (some of them still teenagers themselves) would take their kids to parties till three a.m the night before and drag them from house to house.  I had kids who wore shoes that were two sizes too big and didn't have coats, in negative degree weather. There were some who had never been to a farm, or gone far enough from their community to see a cow in real life. While others who had never read a book, and didn't know what a horse said, or a lamb. Sometimes the only meal those sweet babies got was lunch in my classroom, and you can bet that we loaded them up.  If they wanted thirds, they got thirds.

I also had moms and dads who were good hard-working people.  Who tried to instill in their kids honesty, loyalty, hard work, and how to rise above the violence and crime that plagued those streets. I had single parents who worked 3 jobs and were still on government assistance to provide for their families. I saw and heard things that made my head spin. I learned to love and accept every single one of them.  The parents who dragged their children all over town till three in the morning, the parent who worked a night shift, only to turn around and go work a day shift to be able to put food on the table, the druggie, the partier, the teenage mother, I loved every. single. one. of them.   After all, that was the only world they had ever known themselves.

One incident in particular, happened when two of my students got in a fight. The fight resulted in punching and physical violence.  After breaking it up I sat down with each chico and we talked about other ways to resolve issues that didn't include hitting or violence.  Later that day, when the kids were being picked up I explained to one of the dads what had happened and the conversation I had with his son.  He pulled me aside and told me to never tell his son NOT to physically fight again! And that in that neighborhood it's either fight for your life or die.  I was speechless. I was so naive to all of that I just sat there dumbfounded not knowing what to say. A lot of those kids were taught from the time they could walk those exact sentiments.  They saw the kind of violence and activity that I only saw on tv, in their own streets....in their own homes.  It was a whole new world.

I ended up only teaching for a year and a half.  I got pregnant, had #1, and never went back.  The time that I taught in Syracuse will forever be one of my favorite experiences.  I learned so much. And I loved those kids beyond words. I find myself wondering where they are at in life.  It's a cliche, I know, but I ended up learning more from them than I could have ever possibly taught.

Ten Things......

I have this sweet friend who I met on Instagram.  Funny huh? She sucked me in with her amazing, sassy, easy, fashion sense, but kept me coming back for more with her open and honest posts about her life and the experiences she's had.  One day, after I posted something, she emailed me and shared with me even more of her story. A story that was so different from mine, yet so similar in many ways.   She is an incredible example of strength, perseverance, and vulnerability.  I have learned from her that we learn from others, and why it's important to share our stories, weaknesses, faults, and be honest about them. I hope one day to be able to be as honest with you as she is with me and the people who follow her page.  

Anywhoooo.....she asked me to share ten things that make me happy.  So, here goes.  

• My babies.  I have two. They are my everything. That is all. Oh, and can I add, the relationship that I have with my husband who often times has to suffer pre-reading these posts, although I spared him this one.  
• A good book.  My favorites from the past year are: (Don't laugh)
• "Excuses Be Gone- Wayne Dyer, the first time I read this book I didn't get it. The second time I read it, it knocked my socks off and changed my life.
• "The Placebo Effect"-Dr. Joe Dispenza, if you are trying to change or heal any aspect of your life this is your book.
• "Untethered Soul"-Michael Singer, speaking of souls, this one spoke to mine.
• "Daring Greatly and "The Gifts of Imperfection"-Brené Brown,  I mean.....just read them. 
• "Awaken The Giant Within"-Anthony Robbins, it has taken me over a month to get through a couple chapters in this book because it is so filled with amazing, life changing, holy awesome tidbits of information on how to live your dreams.  And people, I'm living the dream.......well, I am starting to anyway. 
• "The Giver"-Lois Lowry, such a good, easy read.  
• Thunderstorms in the middle of the night. We've had a lot of those lately.  And let's add the sounds of rain, rivers, and waterfalls. 
• My siblings.  I have three.  
• My oldest sister has been going through almost the exact same  pain as me except 100 times worse.  I have depended on her throughout the last year. We have cried together, laughed together, gotten angry together, given up together, and pushed each other to "keep on truckin" as my Grampa used to say.  And in the process we have grown more than we have ever expected.  Most people have to go through things alone in their lives, I have been blessed (is that the right word?) to have been able to experience my struggles with someone who understands exactly what I am going through. We have a goal of walking down our favorite path to get to the beach in our favorite spot in Maui.  And by walk I mean run, skip, jump, and cartwheel.  We will get through this, just FYI, and we will bask in the sun and shout our gratitude from the wave tops.  
• My younger sister has always been my protector, well, when she wasn't beating me with barbie dolls and hairbrushes-let's just say I knew how to push her buttons.  Being the shortest of the family, I stand at a whopping 5'2''. Whereas,  all my siblings stand well over 5'11''.  My tough, sweet sister would threaten to beat up anyone who messed with me. Never you fear, she was always there to attack or stare down anyone who dare come after her little runt of a sister.  To this day, she is my protector.  She sticks up for me, gets mad for me, and encourages me to be tough when I gotta be tough.  I'm pretty lucky to have such an amazing bodyguard. Oh, and did I mention we are 13 months apart? Practically twins and always mistaken as such (except for the whole height issue....oh and the major difference in our athletic ability. I will let you guess which of us is more athletic.....and remember she will beat you up if you choose wrong.)    
• My little 6'3'' brother.  What can I say about my brother? He's smart (like graduated from Yale smart), funny, sarcastic (I love me some good sarcasm), easy to annoy (the funnest part about being his sister), and  honest.  If I need an opinion about anything, he's my man.  
• Conversations with my Gramma, who also happens to be one of my heroes. 
• Friends. New friends, old friends, Instagram friends, friends who live close, friends who live far.  Friends who laugh with me, cry with me, laugh AT me, point out when I am being a hypochondriac or over dramatic (wait, whaaaaa?), and just plain know me, sometimes, better than I know myself.  I have AMAZING friends. And I thank my lucky stars for them every single day.  
• Mis padres (that means "my parents" in español) What can I say? I have the best.  
• Cats. Cats make me so happy. Just kidding, that's a lie.  I hate cats. HATE them.  And yes, hate is a very strong word....but I mean it.  I had a cat growing up. I think we doomed her to be a miserable beast when we named her Misery.  She would sit on top of the couch that backed up to the banister and as you walked down the stairs she would swat at you.  Nothing like a kitty claw to the eye to wake you up in the morning.  She was a brat.   (And I may have loved her a little, but all other cats be damned). 
• Chocolate, sugar, donuts, cookies, cakes, lasagna, bread, ice cream, did I mention chocolate?    
• Meditation. Meditation makes my grey skies blue and my blue skies even bluer. I don't go a day without meditating, even if it is just closing my eyes and envisioning my goals becoming reality or just opening up my heart and focusing on the inside.  Sounds silly, I know, but I can't deny the clarity that comes from becoming one with my soul.  (Don't you roll your eyes at me.)

And there ya have it.  Just nine of the millions of things that make me happy (and one thing I hate just for good measure).  I would like to hear what ten things make my blogger friends happy.  If you are my friend, and you have a blog (you know who you are....and don't you dare ignore me, or I will send my sister after you) I challenge you to write ten things that make you happy. Now go!