So, I don’t transition well.

The last few weeks have felt excruciatingly long. I don’t transition well and don’t feel like I suffer well, at all, most of the time.

My past few weeks could be summarized by numbing myself through outlets of social media, living for my next release in a workout’s sweat, the next episode of How to Get Away with Murder, mindlessly adding to my pinterest wishlist, or the early night’s end. I’ve lashed out in my grief at Rand, namely so I don’t have to own or be accountable to my feelings that puzzle and confuse me. Loneliness always seems close, if not already accompanying me.

I’ve been angry, really angry, that this place I feel God is calling me isn’t easy. That the things that once had a sweet taste are no longer savory, let alone appetizing. I feel like it should be. I feel like all my hardwork makes me deserving of it. The idea of trust and faith seems in the distance, but I can still see them, faintly. I feel left to be with myself no more clear of what is ahead then I did before graduating with my Master’s.

I do know that a baby is coming out of my body at the end of June. That Rand is leaving his job at NDUS to be a front end engineer and work remotely for a data company based out of San Francisco. I do know that the morning will begin earlier than I hoped, that I’ll begin the task of trying to keep my own soul and my children’s soul’s alive in the activities of the day, that there will be arguments, naps, poopy diapers, and demandingness ahead. And that there will be legos, lots of legos to pick up.

I wish the mundane of the day tasted sweeter. People love to mention tidbits like “they grow up so fast” or some other similar montra, but rather then offer advice, I wish people would look into my eyes and ask me what it’s been like and tell me they remember how hard it was and encourage me somehow. Namely in the form of an unlimited pedicure and manicure package.

When I am not lost in my bitterness and resentment of this transition, I find myself struck by how much has changed. Not in the list of accolades from these past years, but in how the silence of sitting on the couch and just being in the presence of my husband warms a part of me. How I look at our little sweet pup Kia and feel a tenderness towards her and how when the cat curls up in the sink of our closet of a bathroom, one day out of the week, I can look at her tenderly and stroke her little soft cheeks.  And how I am drinking a cup of tea and liking it.

Something soft in me is still alive. And I want to fight to keep it alive, but the realization that the only one who can produce or sustain that fruit isn’t myself, but Jesus. How in the midst of this transition where I am quite literally throwing a tantrum He looks at me with no less disdain and even is still proud of me. I just can’t.

I find myself asking myself “what do I want” and “what am I numbing myself from?” “Why do I run from you, Jesus?” I run because I am scared. Scared to feel. Scared of the uncertainty and unknown timeline. Scared because I don’t trust that I can actually feel these things and not have to change them, but know that there is no guarantee and my *gulp* happiness nor my children’s happiness is the point of all this.

I feel left with the same confusion as when I started, but something tells me amidst that I get to keep pressing forward, leaning into this awful tension, the best I am able, and owning what I see, as I see, when I fall short.

I wish the simplicity of that left me with some sort of guarantee or certainty, but it really doesn’t. I’ve been bound to living out of my feelings for so long that feeling them and not necessarily reacting from them feels foreign, strange, and suffocating, at times.

What do I want? I used to feel like I wanted the white picket fence or some level of perfection and security, but that doesn’t feel like it is it, lately. I’ve notice how I’ve twisted this white picket fence into a white picket job. I’m sort of realizing this now. I feel like moving towards that will mean that my heart can be alive and flourish, but I find myself holding, tightly, to what I think this means– leading therapeutic groups. I’ve approached many these past few months and have gotten little response or direction other then discouragement or confusion. I wonder what peeling my fingers back from beneath this dream I’m clutching means and, better yet, if I’m even ready to do that. What does it mean to move towards what true vulnerability looks like for me– the unknown?

I feel like it looks like expressing my loneliness, not attempting to fix it, necessarily, but allowing myself to have needs. To feel and process through my emotions instead of medicate from them. To not fill in the blanks of what therapeutic group work looks like, necessarily, but continue to ask. To have a desire to lead Tabata class at the YMCA and enter into the uncertainty of what that means.

Man, I go to rational and practical real fast still because, like I said, just feeling the confusion of it all and sitting in that, still terrifies me. Sometimes I feel alone in that or crazy, part of me doesn’t doubt that I am, but then, there are moments like last night, eating tacos with another family with two young kids, doing the best they can, and gently I feel the presence of company with fellow Ragamuffins and the beauty of communion with others. Restoration in the relational diety I was designed in the image of.

A moment, that moment. That moment, where there is a brief taste of The sweetness from living water and hope to continue forward.

My tribe. 




One thought on “So, I don’t transition well.

  1. I love you, Jess. I’m pretty lost for words, maybe because a hug doesn’t really fit into words. So here’s an air hug. Keep being your brave self, sister.


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