A Series of Unfortunate Events, Sort Of

It didn't begin well, to say the least. The first time I traveled to Europe on my own, I started from Asia. I'd been in India for ten days, traveling in Mumbai and Bangalore for work. The best flights back to New York from Bangalore were all on Air France, which meant connecting in Paris---and since the price was the same whether my layover lasted an hour or a weekend, I naturally decided upon the latter.

My last evening in Bangalore was one of the best I've spent in India. We started off at TGI Friday's (apparently all the rage in 2008 Bangalore), but wound up at a divey outdoor bar, complete with picnic tables and ice cubes I that was forbidden by my colleagues from even thinking about---beer from the bottle only for me. We Americans are delicate.

At midnight, I hopped into the world's tiniest, rustiest taxi and headed for Bangalore's brand-spanking-new airport. So new, in fact, that a fresh highway had just been built to take people to it. A highway with which, sadly, my young driver was not familiar. When we passed the clearly-marked exit for the airport, I assumed he knew a better way; it was only when I found myself speeding backwards at 40 miles per hour that I knew he'd made a mistake. My life flashed before my eyes in concert with the headlights we were passing as we backed up past the ramp, then zoomed onto it and up to the airport.

After waging a fruitless battle for an electrical outlet (midnight is rush hour at international airports in India), I boarded the plane and settled into my cushy business class seat. I started perusing the copy of Le Figaro they'd handed me when I boarded, brushing up on my French ahead of what I expected to be a restful night of Champagne-induced slumber. It was when I went to recline my seat that I saw them: a hundred bug bites---at least fifty per foot---standing out in stark relief against my (let's face it) pasty white skin. The outdoor bar---while truly awesome---did not have mosquito netting. And having planned on spending the entire day inside, I hadn't sprayed my ankles with Off. And did I mention that I'd forgotten to lay in a supply of anti-malarial pills before the trip? Oops.

So there I was, one death-defying taxi ride and 100 potentially malarial nibbles into my wistfully romantic solo trip to Paris. I spent a decent amount of the flight determining just how much to tell my brother via email, lest I fall out of contact and have to be rescued from a delirious fever by the concierge. (As little as possible, I decided.) Eventually, calmed by calamine lotion from the flight attendant, Clarins products in the Air France lavatory, and, of course, champagne, I slept.

What had really relaxed me, though, was the knowledge that even if the worst befell me, even if my cab crashed in the Bangalore suburbs, even if I developed malaria alone in a hotel room in the Marais---I could handle it. I would be fine. I would figure it out. I was 29, independent, and flying to Europe on my own for the weekend---from Asia. I was a grown-up.

Seeing as Air France went on strike that weekend and I had to find a new way to get home to New York, I got to prove it to myself all over again really quickly. That's the thing about adulthood: it's a pretty permanent state, once you enter into it.

Looking Forward: No Mistake About It.

I read a passage from Charles Bukowski’s Factotum a few weeks ago that made me laugh. Then, when I finished laughing, I wrote it down, cut it out, and taped it to my wall. “If you’re going to try, go all the way,” it reads, “Otherwise don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail.” While I certainly have no intention of freezing on a park bench, going to jail, or, worse, not eating for several days, something about this quote—the first line, in particular—struck me.

For most of my life, I’ve put a fair amount of effort into avoiding mistakes. From big ones (should I move across the country?) to small ones (is that comma in the right place?), I’m something of an over-thinker. Sometimes it’s a tendency that serves me well. Other times, I worry so much about the potential consequences of an action or decision that I err on the side of caution - or don’t end up doing anything at all.

My blog is a good example. For two full years, I mulled over the idea of starting it. Part of me couldn’t wait; the other part was full of trepidation. Would anyone read it? What if people didn’t like it, or me? Was I brave enough to make certain aspects of my life—however small—public? 

At long last, on a hot summer day in the backyard of my favorite Brooklyn coffee shop, I wrote my first post. Again, this was two years after I’d first had the idea to start a blog. A lot of thought had gone into it, but still, I felt completely unready. It wasn’t perfect. I was setting myself up for a whole lot of mistakes, or so I thought. But the fact was, worrying about this had gotten me nowhere.

When I pressed “publish” on that post, my heart leapt. I thought I might faint. Nine months later, I can’t imagine what my life would be like had I not pressed that button. The blog is far from perfect, and, honestly, I’m still more or less figuring it out as I go. But the process has been so rewarding, there’s no way it’s not worth the effort that goes into it. It’s brought so many wonderful and talented people into my life. Creatively, it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.

From time to time, I remind myself of this whenever I feel hesitant about taking a risk. The nagging voice is still there: What if I fail? What if this is a huge mistake? My feeling, though, is that at this age—or any age, for that matter—very few decisions can be considered a mistake. Everything’s a learning experience. The bumps along the way are challenging, but challenges mean growth. Challenges mean experimentation. Challenges open doors.

Without a doubt, I’m often still guilty of choosing safety over risk. But I’m trying to remember to take chances—and not only that, “to go all the way,” as Bukowski writes. I want to look back at this time in my life and be proud of the things I did. I doubt I’ll even remember all of the countless things I worried about.

By the way, the Bukowski passage continues for a few more lines before spiraling into raving hyperbole. Somewhere in the middle, though, he repeats that first line—“If you’re going to try, go all the way.”  Then, he writes, “There is no other feeling like that.”

I’m just beginning to find that’s true.

The Beginning

To write this piece I inevitably have to go back some years and take a look at my former self. It’s like talking about a completely different person. You know when you get together with friends, have a few drinks, and reminisce on what you did and what you were like in high school? Well my story . . . my story generally blows most people's out of the water. Now, I know there are many who have more dramatic tales than mine. The stuff that happens in some people’s lives no Hollywood screen writer could ever make up. However, what I think makes mine a good one is that I came out a well-adjusted, fully-functioning, professional member of society. It could easily have gone another way. I first started thinking about suicide when I was 10 or 11. It blows my mind to write that sentence. I come from a large loving family; I wasn’t abused by my parents; nothing extraordinarily tragic happened to me; nor was there a single event that precipitated my depression. But just like some people don’t produce enough insulin and have diabetes, I have an irregulation with serotonin and suffer from depression. And it happened when I was very young.

My depression took me and my family on quite the journey of drugs, in-patient psych wards, and reckless behavior. Most nights were a real struggle not to harm myself. And of all those countless nights where I stayed up crying and wishing it would end, there were only 3 times in the span of 7 years where I gave up on all the things that usually held me back and said “Fuck it. No more.” And each time I was always saved. I recall years later my psychologist telling me that out of all the patients he’d seen throughout the years, he thought I would be one of the few to actually kill myself.

It was a struggle to keep it together. At one point, for a brief span, I was going to individual drug therapy, group drug therapy, family drug therapy, NA meetings, and seeing my individual psychologist…every week. To say the least my dance card was booked! However, counseling, the right medication, and a large helping of my parent’s unequivocal devotion to keeping my butt on this earth were huge factors of me being here today.

But there was something else.

My middle sister by 4 years had done a program while in high school where she volunteered as a health educator for the summer in South America. She did it a few times and eventually had a significant role in leadership. By the time I was old enough to consider it my parents were well familiar with the organization. Also, at that stage I had made progress with my emotional stability and general behavior, so more trust was established.

So when I was 17 for 2 months myself and another girl worked in a remote village of 800 Zapoteca Indians in Southern Mexico. Our project was to do health education and build latrines. I worked long hours doing manual labor in a skirt. I ate beans, rice, and hot coffee with virtually every meal. I slept on a cot in the post office because the families were too poor to take on two more people in any individual home. I had immersed myself in a completely different language, culture, and comfort zone, and I thrived on it.

I can remember the exact moment when I knew this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Dusk was approaching and I sat on the hard packed mud ruins of stairs leading down to the remains of what used to be someone’s adobe home. As I sat there watching rain clouds gather over the mountain valley, I knew I would never try to take my life again. My struggle with depression hadn’t ended but I would never again have a hand in my own demise.

(To be continued...)

[image by Jenny Huang via flickr]

Erin Loechner: Stories I've Only Told My Mom

If you didn't already know the incredibly talented and just plain sparkly Erin Loechner from Design for Mankind, then maybe you recognize her from her HGTV home renovation column, or maybe it's from her brand new site Design for Minikind (it's just as smart and stylish as Design for Mankind, but for littles and their parents).  In any case, Erin is one of those people who exudes warmth and positivity.  She's also incredible at supporting people in becoming their best selves (case in point: resource parties), a mission we can fully get behind here at the Equals Project. In honor of Mother's Day, and mentoring, and the bravery it takes to claim the path that's right for you, Erin is letting us share this piece she wrote for Stories I've Only Told My Mom.  If you are a mom, you have a mom, or you've ever sought wisdom other women's stories, we highly recommend you download this beautiful anthology, edited by Sarah Bryden-Brown.

Stories I've Only Told My Mom by Erin Loechner

Dear Mom,

It was Tuesday and I think I was 7. I know it was Tuesday because I was wearing my day-of-the-week underwear and we both know how dutifully I relied on my unmentionables to celebrate the passage of days.

I don’t know that I was 7 for sure. They didn’t make undergarments for that sort of thing.

I told you I wanted to be a receptionist when I grew up. I had seen a classified listing for a receptionist in the newspaper that afternoon while we snacked on Little Debbie’s Zebra Cakes (my favorite) and Walnuts Brownies (yours). I’m not sure where my sisters were -- probably playing basketball at the neighbor’s house like normal children. I liked to read newspapers and eat treats littered with high fructose corn syrup, watching you grade your students’ English essays and circle typos with a red Papermate.

You peered over your Sally Jesse Raphael style glasses and smiled. “A receptionist for whom?” you asked.

It hadn’t occurred to me that this mattered. I would be typing, talking on the phone and greeting people daily. I would be The Gatekeeper Of The Office. The Hostess Of The Lobby. The Fixer Of The Fax Machine.  Every day. And I would get paid for it! $17,000 dollars. Every year. What else mattered?

“Who you work for always matters,” you answered as you corrected a 4th grader’s misspelling of the word “tomahawk.”

Do you remember saying that, Mom?

It changed my life.

I did, eventually, as you know, become a receptionist for a high profile music executive in Los Angeles. I was paid much more than $17,000 a year and was, indeed, The Gatekeeper Of The Office. But after four months of collating concert paperwork and babysitting Sharon Osbourne’s countless canines, I remembered your words.

“Who you work for always matters.”

I quit that day, Mom. Somewhere between papercuts and expense reports, I knew I wanted to live my life with integrity and do work that mattered, for someone who mattered.

Someone like myself.

Since that day, I’ve had many odd jobs as I attempted to supplement an income that could support the life I wanted to live --- inspiring creative artists, designers and writers to pursue their dreams.

As you inspired me to pursue mine.

And along the way, I never accepted a job from someone that I didn’t believe in, and in doing so, created a professional life of integrity. Your words of wisdom on that Tuesday have shaped the way I present myself as a business owner, entrepreneur and writer.

I am now, proudly, The Gatekeeper Of Encouragement. The Hostess Of My Life. The Fixer Of Un-Inspired Souls.

Thank you, Mom.

p.s. Want to know a secret? I made exactly $17,000 working for myself. Dollar for dollar.

p.p.s. I loved every Tuesday of it.

The Art and Science of Becoming a Mother

Last year, at 37 years old, I underwent fertility treatments. After three failed rounds of intra-uterine insemination, my husband and I got incredibly lucky with a single, successful course of in-vitro fertilization.  Our treasure of a baby daughter, Isadora Rose, was born on 12/28/2011. Motherhood fits me like a glove and is something I have wanted from my first memories of childhood.   I used to mother every living thing and inanimate object in my midst.  I once ruined my coveted Babar and Celeste dolls after having coated their trunks in Chapstick “in case they got dry lips.”  I even sustained a macerated bottom lip when my brother’s pet turtle clamped on to my mouth…you see, I had dropped him while trying to feed him and leaned in to kiss his little face in apology.  You get the idea.

So it might surprise you that at age 22, I had an abortion.  My circumstances at the time were likely similar to many middle-class women who make that choice.  I was fresh out of college, living with two friends in Berkeley, CA.  I had one of my first highly challenging social work jobs on the way to graduate school.  I was also still occasionally sleeping with my ex-boyfriend from college.  In my personal life, unlike my educational and professional trajectory, I was vulnerable and I was in more than a bit of denial.  I had a rocky road with this ex that included a brief engagement and at least two breakups.  And then it happened – I got pregnant.

Reflecting back on who I was at 22 unearths many complicated feelings.  I vacillate between feeling a tremendous amount of compassion for who I was then and being harshly critical of a young woman with all the advantages to know better.   Mostly, I want to tell my younger self to hang in there until the next decade when things would get infinitely less awful.

Despite my lifelong desire to have a child, I knew that at that moment, I was in no position to do so.  I was not emotionally or financially ready.  I did not have a reliable partner.  I had dreams of furthering my education and becoming a clinical social worker.  Of course, I had more resources at my disposal than most, but I understood that this was not the time for me to become a mother.   Still, it was not remotely an easy decision to end the pregnancy.  Growing up in a socially and politically liberal family (in which I could count on support no matter which way I chose) served to bolster my confidence, but it did not take the weight off my shoulders.

As I carefully considered my options, the reality of my situation crystallized.  I asked myself the tough questions – Could a person who had been careless about birth control really be trusted to raise a child?  Could a person who still had to borrow a portion of the rent from her parents support a family?  Could a person who struggled to disentangle from an utterly inappropriate relationship be a model for a child?   Ultimately, I decided the instrumentals were workable – I could secure another job, I could garner additional financial support, I could move home, etc. – but where I was in my emotional development made the kind of parenting I always had in mind a long-shot.

As a person who had long fantasized about bringing a child into this world, with all the attendant joys and responsibilities, I wanted to offer a baby nothing short of every opportunity.  At 22, decent parenting was certainly within my grasp (in fact I had known many fantastic young, single mothers), but excellent parenting was not…I simply wasn’t there yet.  This is to say nothing of what having a child would mean for my own educational and professional prospects.

The debate in this country about reproductive freedom is almost always oversimplified.  Being pro-choice does not mean being cavalier about abortion.  Even though abortion was the right choice for me, it is diminishing to imagine I took the decision lightly.  In fact, I had the luxury of considering all angles and being intentional about my choice.  So many women, because of socio-economic, religious or cultural constraints do not have the same control over their lives.

And here is the truth about my life after the abortion: The ex in question responded negatively to the pregnancy and essentially disappeared, confirming my assessment of having an unreliable partner.  I applied and was accepted to my graduate school of choice.  I went on to establish a successful social work career, albeit one in which I would have struggled mightily to provide for a child.  And I continued to make huge mistakes in relationships until I was finally ready, at age 34, to be with the right person and to nurture a marriage.

When I discovered that I would require fertility treatments to become pregnant all those years later, I was understandably baffled and immediately reflected back to that “missed opportunity” at age 22.  For the first time since, I engaged in magical thinking about the abortion: ‘I squandered my one chance at having a baby.’  In my lowest moment, I even wondered if I “deserved” another chance at a child – maybe somehow I was being punished.  Mercifully, it all worked out as it should and with the full capacities of an adult woman with a career, relationship security and the emotional stability requisite for parenting, I had a child.

I have experienced painful challenges on both ends of the procreative spectrum.  The choice to have an abortion was gut wrenching, particularly in light of my lifelong desire to become a mother.  Later, the choice to undergo fertility treatments was heartbreaking and the process grueling.  It can be argued that these were the two most critical decisions of my life.  I am grateful that the power to make them ultimately rested in my hands.

Mother's Day for an Infertile Woman

Mother's Day is very much celebrated at the church I attend in Brooklyn.  On those Sundays, a couple of people from the congregation are usually asked to speak on the subject of Motherhood.  Last year, I was asked to speak.  At the time, I don't think the person asking me realized that I had been infertile for 7 years.  I am glad he didn't know, as he may never have asked me otherwise.  My heart was just pounding out of my chest when I received that phone call because I was so grateful I would have the privilege to speak on a subject that is so near and dear to my heart.  I accepted the assignment immediately.

Here's some of what I shared with that congregation.  I couldn't hold back the tears on this one. They were tears of gratitude.  They came before I even said the first word at the pulpit.  I just felt so grateful that day to see how far I had come and to be able to share with everyone what motherhood has meant to me…….

Mother’s Day

May 8, 2011

I am happy to be able to speak on Mother's Day - one reason is I can stand and tell each one of you women how much I love you and admire you for all that you do.

Also, I'm just personally happy that I could feel so at peace with speaking on Mother's Day…even though I am not yet a mother.  You should know that feeling this peace is a miracle to me.  There were years when I did not enjoy this day and didn't even want to be near this building on Mother's Day as it was too sad for me to be around so many mothers when I couldn't be one myself.  But, because of the human ability to transform & overcome our trials and become something more than we are, I am not the same woman that I was back then.  I’m grateful that I can now celebrate this day, not because I am a mother, but because of what the desire for motherhood has done to my life.

Just like all of you moms who want to be the best you can be for your children, I do too.  And I’ve had a long time to think about what it means to be a good mother and to be a good influence.

I’ve come to realize learning to face our trials with strength is one of the greatest things I could ever learn in my quest to be a good mother.  Because if I couldn’t overcome my own trials, how on earth would I be able to teach my own children how to face theirs?

Overcoming trials is no easy feat.  But doing so is a gift to the world.  It’s a gift to your spouse, your children (born or unborn) and really, all humanity.  It allows you to live with more character & strength.  It allows you to be free of the toxicity & negativity & pain that you normally might send into the world.

Prior to figuring this out, there were a few other sources of great sadness in my life.  In addition to the infertility, my former husband had been suffering for many years with some mental difficulties, a situation that brought lots of anguish and uncertainty into our home & marriage.  At the time, I was barely getting by.  I was reacting to my circumstances with insecurity, fear & loss of hope.  But I began to realize that I was choosing to react that way – my pain wasn’t just a result of my unfortunate circumstances, it was a result of how I chose to react to my circumstances.  In the face of criticism, I was letting harsh words ruin my soul & self-worth.  In the face of an uncertain marriage, I was letting thoughts of losing my husband & being alone fill me with tremendous insecurity & fear.  In the face of infertility, I was letting the fear of not being able to conceive bring me feelings of inadequacy.  In the face of a life that was not what I had envisioned for myself, I felt a loss of purpose.  I looked at other mothers’ lives with envy.  And I wondered how I could ever have meaning or purpose in my life if I didn’t have a husband and a family.  For years, these reactions compounded and affected me so greatly that I no longer was living with peace & happiness.  I did not even have the strength nor the energy to help or think about others around me, because I thought my plate was already “so full” and I was already spread so thin because of my own unfortunate circumstances.

BUT, I was blessed to have a wake-up call.  Someone pointed out to me that if this was the way I chose to live my life, I would be teaching my children to live this way as well.  Once my eyes became open to the revolutionary idea that I had a choice in how I reacted to my circumstances, my long-time desire to be a good mother kicked in full force and I deliberately began practicing reacting to things in a more positive way.  And I mean it when I say I practiced!  I would actually look for little opportunities in my life where I could try to make changes & put this new way of life to the test.

And so, as I practiced, I worked to transform my usual fear and negative thoughts by surrendering my natural self/ego.  I didn’t always know how to do this.  But I realized it meant that my deepest thoughts and feelings & emotions of my heart needed to be turned around and fully aligned with a greater purpose – for me, it was surrendering to oneness with God.  That meant giving up the tendency to be full of fear, frustration, anger, selfishness, pride, judgment, doubt, or worry in my day-to-day experiences and instead – and surrendering fully & completely to the attributes of love, patience, faith, kindness, forgiveness, hope & charity.  Even in those awful moments!  Even in the face of infertility and divorce!  It is a huge sacrifice for most of us to surrender and to give up our natural selves.  Even though this was a hard to do, love for my unborn children literally fueled it gave it power and made it possible.  This turned out to be the greatest offering of love I have ever experienced.  This choice to live my life motivated by love has transformed my life more than any other decision I’ve ever made.  There is no force more powerful than love.

It didn’t come as naturally in the beginning, but little by little, I began conquering all that I had before me.  If there was a reason for me to be deeply offended & hurt, I remained still and took no offense as the offender simply clearly was not at peace, which is a sad place to be in.  If there was a reason for me to be angry, I responded with compassion for the pain someone else was in.  If there was a reason for me to be impatient, I remained hopeful and calm and whole.  If there was a reason for me to blame, I had compassion for another's state of life and forgave with no conditions, as I knew I would be fine, either way.  If there was a reason to feel hopeless about my future & the loss of my marriage, I trusted that trials of this life could be for my greater good and that adversity was necessary to build true character.  If there was a reason to feel insecure or humiliated by eventually being rejected by my husband or being newly divorced & single in New York City, I believed that it was my divine right to be full self worth and that I could face my single life with confidence.  If there was a reason to judge, I had sympathy for another’s weaknesses.  And if there was a reason to feel sorry for myself & my circumstances, instead I actually felt grateful for the privilege of learning from this mortal experience, no matter how grim my life seemed.  This time of my life was amazing and sanctifying.  My existence had changed.  And today I celebrate why this process began – it was because I wanted to be a good mother.

(Photo above taken by photographer Chris Lindsay in my home, 4 years ago.  At the time this photo was taken, I was just barely learning how to become completely at peace with my infertility & years of a hurtful marriage.  I love having this photo as a reminder of that pivotal & beautiful time in my life.  My first marriage ended unexpectedly maybe a month after this photo was taken.  I am now remarried to the most wonderful man ever, though we have not yet been able to have children - but we feel good things are in store.)

Home.

If you want people to look at you like you’re mad, tell them you’re moving to Indonesia. Always, always, their eyes widen a bit and their first words in response are usually painted in some deep blue shade of why. There’s no escaping the inevitable yet ever-so-polite mention of tsunamis – sometimes with the t, even – and active volcanoes and earthquakes and vaguely specific bombings and, most enjoyably, a link to a YouTube gem of a chubby boy under three smoking like a fiend, accompanied by a pointed look at my six year old and raised eyebrows. As if I haven’t already warned Esmé against the dangers of performing shirtless around anything on fire. On camera. For free.

I really do always know what to say, though. I’ve had years of practice. First, before we moved to Oman, and then a few years later when we left for Jordan. With a slight wave of my hands and murmurs of nothing to fear but fear itself…and maybe also Dengue…we all usually swim away from the conversation safely to higher ground. Usually.

Because every once in a while, someone sweetly tries to drown me.

“Won’t you miss home?”

Home. That one word and I start to flail.

Shirtless summers catching frogs and singing Simon & Garfunkel  into the box fan, thinking that making love in the afternoon sounded lovely at the age of five and differently just as at the age of now. Whiling away entire afternoons with a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and a stack of library books, never far from the hose. Or my mom. Holding tight to my best friend named Grandpa until the night my dad picked him up like he wasn’t 6’2” and the strongest man in the world anymore, carrying him outside to meet the ambulance and haplessly slow paramedics in the driveway.

Gasping, I search for shore, but all I see is the piece of red velvet hanging from my attic door the year Santa ripped his pants, which was only a few years before all of my older sisters and brothers moved out and moved on, diluting my Christmas magic with every in-law they added.

I call for help, but all I hear is the telephone. My dad’s cancer is back, and it stays until he is gone. The next thing I know, my sister calls with the same news of her own. It’ll be okay, she promised. And she promised again and again and again with the births of my first and second and third girls. And two weeks after that, there would be no more calls. She stayed as long as she possibly could.

I guess she was right. It is okay. And so am I. Some days, flooded. Most days, afloat.

Home. I can’t for the life of me picture it. It still looks like my mom and smells like Oscar de la Renta and vanilla ice cream and chlorine and lilacs and cow manure. It’s in my daughters’ chandelier smiles, unbreakable wills, and their every move. Every. Single. One. It’s when he walks in the door, and I only know this because it disappears every time he leaves. It’s in the first haircut I gave my girls after my sister’s death, biting the insides of my cheeks bloody and drowning in tears. Is it even? I wondered. Not remotely.

It’s in the eyes of someone who has lost her world, someone who’s found it, and someone who’s trying her damnedest to get it all back. It’s in Sunday meatloaf and fish fries on Fridays and fireworks on the Fourth and the agony of annual exams that leave you feeling like you’ve just dodged a bullet. And also like you’ve taken one.

It’s in the babies who made it and the ones who didn’t and the ones who live on in your dreams every night. It’s in the love that brought you to life and the love that nearly killed you and the dandelion that’s destroyed with one wish that everything gets better.  At some point, you’ll settle for better.

It’s in the beginnings and endings and the to be continueds. It’s in the coming and going, but mostly in the leaving for good.

I get misty every time I read the phrase home is where the heart is. It’s almost impossible not to feel a little lost when your heart’s been broken by life.

Will I miss home? Oh…I already do.

Photos found, in order, here and here and here.

The 30x30 Project: Happy 30th Birthday to Me

i’m a huge advocate of relishing life + splurging on self. i tend to live life by the personal mantra that it’s short, let’s enjoy + have no regrets. so 30 loomed + i wanted to do it up big… not only celebrating a marker of three decades, but really celebrating a personal victory of having conquered some of my own demons. having finally made it as a photographer. as an artist. a self sufficient + somewhat accomplished adult. i was on the tail end of a brutal saturn return, + i wanted to celebrate my new found happiness in a million self serving ways... i wanted a kenyan safari, a week in tulum with all my besties, a three month south east asian sojourn, a roadtrip across america, some solitude in a cloister in the desert… the list went on + on. i let myself dream huge… no limits.+ then i had my eureka moment… for my birthday, all i really wanted was to give back…. for my 30th birthday, i took 3o days to travel to india + sri lanka to find women who were just like me, + tell their story.  i found + documented the stories of a few amazing ladies that had started + run businesses, as a result of micro lending.

i’m a huge believer in the idea of micro financing.  i’m often shocked at the amount of people i encounter that have never heard of it. micro lending that is. it’s so easy. it’s so affordable. it takes so little + helps so much. so i wanted to spread the word. one trip, 30 days,  women,  portraits, stories, an exhibit, a book.... one small movement by one small 30 year old me.  it's still a work in progress. one of those sort of life projects that may take years until it feels completed...  but what began as a gift in story telling, really only just gave back to me... the priceless gifts of some amazing + incredible stories... it was the best 30th birthday present i could have gotten...  + here's a few i get to share with you.  (click through the images to read these women's stories)[gallery link="file"]

Looking Forward.

Ask me my age, and ninety-nine percent of the time, I’ll hesitate before answering. This isn’t because I’m embarrassed to admit the number (I’m twenty-six); rather, it’s because I actually have to think about it to make sure I’m getting it right. My age at heart and my age in reality are two completely different things. I may be twenty-six. I feel eighteen. According to my parents, this feeling never really goes away. That’s not such a bad thing, I suppose – what’s wrong, after all, with being young at heart? Still, it’s jarring to think I’ve been out of college for five years; that I have to worry about things like health insurance; that people often mistake me as the mother of the children I babysit; that I’ve finally reached the age at which I always thought I’d get married.

Sometimes I look at my friends--most are in long-term relationships and hold steady, full-time jobs--and feel light years behind. Everyone else, it seems, knows what she wants and where she’s headed. They have plans. I have none.

But I also have very little to complain about. I’m a freelance writer, which means I create my own schedule. I live in the city of my dreams. I have wonderful friends and family. I keep a blog. In a recent post, I wrote about feeling “directionless but not purposeless.” It’s true, as a freelancer and as a single girl in a big city, I often do feel a bit lost. I don’t know where I’m headed, and I honestly haven’t a clue what’s next for me.

But here’s the thing. I’ve learned that being lost doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’m happy. I’m having fun. And I’m pushing myself to keep trying new things (I recently started a series on my blog chronicling my adventures). How could I possibly be wasting time?

Having a plan might mean feeling more secure, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t sound appealing on some level. On the other hand, not having one--despite the pitfalls--is deliciously, unimaginably thrilling. Anything is possible. The future’s wide open. It’s the ultimate adventure. And I’m looking forward to sharing bits and pieces of it here with you on the Equals Project.

See you next week!

A Word or Five About Our Design

I don't know about you, but I take on many roles. I'm a mother, a daughter (and daughter-in-law), a friend, a surrogate aunt, a wife, a sister-in-law, a business partner, a cousin, a niece. When we started to think about The Equals Project, it was important for us to visually think about the constant straddling that women do. While at the core of our beings, we are equals — equals to men, equals to each other — we often live with one foot on either side of an invisible line. Our logo brings that line to the surface. Equals straddles a solid line, indicative of the many divides we encounter—men/women, work/life, child/mom, abundance/poverty, old/young, privileged/oppressed, expectations/reality etc. It can be a divider, but it can also be a mirror. 

In our minds, while we are always on one side of the line or the other depending on the situation & circumstances, we are never complete without the other side, whether that other side represents an opposing idea or different people. It's the other side that makes us who we are as much as our own side. We are what we are because the dichotomy exists. This brings it back around to The Equals Project's mission and purpose—to widen the discussion about women's experiences. None of us are who we are without the experiences of others, and by understanding others, we gain a deeper understanding of ourselves. We hope that while we all peruse, read, and discuss, coming into contact with stories, opinions, and experiences that are different than, or similar to, our own, we can gain that deeper understanding.

Welcome!

It was a dark and stormy night—no really, it was.  Our boutique creative agency YOU + ME* was in need of a retreat/vision quest/mini sabbatical/whatever you want to call it and we decided the perfect location was Salt Lake City in January.  We weren’t there to seek inspiration at Sundance or on the slopes (though that would have been a solid plan following the storm that blew through town).  Instead, we flew three quarters of the way across the country to attend the Altitude Summit, lovingly referred to as Alt, a design and social media conference that attracts creative powerhouses from all over the country. If you think boondoggle when you hear conference, it might not be obvious why we expected to forge a bold new path for our business from the lobby of the Grand America Hotel.  But forge we did.  It was time to step away from the glare of our computer screens and into the warm glow of shiny notebooks and neon pencils.   We wanted to liberate our brains from practical matters like business taxes and invoicing systems and let our minds wander toward our biggest dreams and grandest plans.  Most importantly, we needed to meaningfully connect—with old pals, new friends, and each other.

Over the course of our four-day trip, we had a blast (um, as you can see), extended our wheelhouse with a few new tricks, and figured out the next step on our never-ending quest to create a business that reflects our values and leads to fulfilling personal and professional lives. We stayed up late into the night discussing the fact that our internet circles are closing, rather than widening, comparing our experiences of the world, and chatting about our desire to connect women to each other in ways that extend beyond what our houses and weddings look like, what we cook for our families, and how we conceive of and present our outer selves. We downed coffee after coffee contemplating the fact that the online world has been one in which women have been framed as tearing each other down rather than building each other up. We lamented the dearth of online content for women that acknowledges that we are more than our outfits, our homes, and our consumption habits.

From that, the Equals Project was born.

And it looks like others have been thinking along the same lines. From the growing "Things I'm Afraid to Tell You" movement among bloggers, to the focus on meaningful gatherings in Kinfolk magazine, to people sharing incredibly thoughtful stories online with the sole intention of helping other people achieve happiness, it's clear that the internet is evolving from a place where we store and showcase our (often-unattainable) goals into a place where we can be real, multi-dimensional people. As we slow down and think about what we are really consuming on the internet, it seems as if we as a society are aching for meaning and process, rather than destinations and results. We hope you will find here a collection of stories, discussions, and art from women across the country (and across the world) that compels you to think, contribute your own stories and thoughts, and most of all, to act.

We are more than what we can cook, we are more than what we can create, more than our makeup, our jewelry, our aesthetic tastes. We are people with complex ideas, and conflicting thoughts, who read, travel, discuss, do, and make. We are people who are influenced and inspired by the women who came before us, and we aspire to create something greater than the sum of our parts.

After many months of work, tellingly accompanied by more grins than swear words, it’s finally time for us to make the Equals Project a reality.  We still have to pinch ourselves a little bit when we think of the talent, the stories, and the passion found among this amazing group of contributors and collaborators.  And we only get more excited when we think of how the Equals Project will be interpreted in print early next year.  We've also taken to jumping up and cheering on an hourly basis when we think about kicking off Equals Does, our philanthropic call to action--money is not the only tool for making a difference in the world.  In a short while, we’ll be announcing our first project representing Equals Does and featuring a series of inspiring projects that share a similar spirit. If you’re interested in supporting the Equals Project, you’re in luck:

• Follow us on facebook and twitter for regular updates
• Share The Equals Project with your friends, family, and every nice person you meet
• Contribute your writing, photography, or video (see submission guidelines)
• Send us a story of how you’ve used your skills, talents, or sheer gumption as a force for good in the world

Let's continue this conversation and get to know each other better, shall we?

Warmly,

Elisabeth & Miya

Taking First Steps

It’s a gift to be able to tell when something is ready. I’ve always admired people who can identify that perfect moment to quit their soul-sucking job and completely change paths, break off a relationship that leaves them feeling terrible about themselves, move to a far-off city where they don’t know a soul, take a class in something that scares the bejeezus out of them, or even just leave a karaoke bar before the mood deteriorates from Sweet Caroline to All By Myself. I’m terrible at that, all of it. I love supporting people who are on the precipice of change, who need some hand holding and cheerleading before they embark on a solo adventure to Nicaragua or run off to open a surf shop in Montauk (I don’t discriminate on goals though. If your dream of a lifetime is to become a real estate attorney, I will check out all the books on property law for you). You should hear my speech about how doors start opening for you when you’re following the right path. There may even be a part about how it’s like leaning into the yoga pose that you hate the most because the discomfort is a sign that something deserves to be strengthened.  It sounds cheesy, but it’s very inspiring; you’ll have to take my word for it.

When it comes to my own next steps, I’m much more hesitant (An image popped into my mind of my daughter poised to launch herself down a particularly steep slide when she had second thoughts, bolted toward me, and clung to my leg muttering incoherently about broken arms and bears waiting at the bottom. That’s pretty much how I feel about change.).

Given my commitment to the constraints of the known instead of the abyss of the unknown, it shocks me to think of how many times I’ve jumped right into something that truly frightened me. That person almost seems like a stranger to me. I guess I’d really like to be her though. I’d like to be someone who says “yes,” even—no especially—to things that give me goose bumps and an ache in the pit of my stomach. And so I pretend that’s who I am when it counts.

I don’t do it often (which is quite possibly a good thing given that a certain level of commitment to your present life tends to be an asset to things like marriages and parenting), but every couple of years something proves sufficiently inspiring to compel me to be another person for long enough to send me on my way. It’s like I close my eyes, hold my breath, and commit to being brave until I’ve gone too far to turn back.*

I’m holding my breath right now. It’s incredibly uncomfortable to release something into the world that really matters to me. My urge is definitely to hold this project close---to spend many more months trying to come up with the perfect way to describe it, to tweak the site until it’s all that we want it to be, and to reach a point where I don’t worry about sending it off to play with the big kids. But instead I'm being brave because it's the right thing to do.

*Apparently, pretending to be another person is a common theme in my life. I wasn’t kidding when I said that I have to give myself a crutch for any large gathering where I’m expected to be chat and mingle like someone who wouldn’t rather be at a quiet dinner with her nearest and dearest. I should figure out the appropriate bravery talisman and then we’ll sell them to pay for printing.

Hope & Childhood

"Mommy, Baachan and Jichan will come back tomorrow, and we will all go to the playground together." We've just left my parents off at the airport; they are making the journey back to San Francisco after a week visiting us and shuttling my nearly three year old daughter around Brooklyn. She calls them by the japanese name for grandmother and grandfather. "Oh, honey," I say, "Baachan and Jichan will be back soon, but not tomorrow." "They will! Tomorrow they will come." And she leaves it at that, nodding to herself. It dawns on me: she is wishing, or more than wishing — longing — something that I haven't noticed her doing before.

I've found that one of the most unexpected things about having a child is that it brings back so vividly my experience of being a child. Though she is still so young that there have been just hints and glimmers of her inner life, through my daughter, I am starting to remember how I lived seamlessly gliding between reality and fantasy for much of my day, every day. There was the strong conviction, even though I logically knew it not to be true, that if I hoped for something with my eyes shut tight enough or felt longing strongly enough, the impossible would somehow become possible. The possibilities, as the saying goes, were endless, unconstrained by logic or physics. I could reverse time, my orthodontist would decide to override my mother's wishes and give me hot pink braces, my little plastic figurines would really spring to life at night and carry on a life of their own. My hermit crab, Zeus (yes, I was that child), would decide to crawl back into his mighty shell rather than apathetically dragging his nubby stub of a body around in little circles, a hint at the surrender he was planning. My parents would finally agree that the our new puppy, who at that point had been responsible for the destruction of not less than sixty percent of the flooring in our house, was lonely and wanted a litter of friends to play with. I hoped for smaller things, too (ants on a log, a sunny day to go to the zoo), but it was as if the things that I knew I couldn't control, and perhaps more importantly, likely wouldn't get were the things for which I felt compelled to hope with the most conviction.

Though I hope for many things as my life moves forward, I don't hope anymore with the same conviction that I did as a child. I don't throw my entire being into hoping or longing; hope at this point is often guarded, muffled by reality, translated into drive and action.  I am not sure at what point hoping for hoping's sake fell out of my emotional repertoire. I remember hints of it in my adult life: sitting on my grandfather's bed after he had died and the body had been taken away, thinking about my husband the night after our first date, being pregnant with my daughter and waiting to hear the results of all of the routine tests. I'm curious about whether hope of this sort can be reintroduced, or even whether it has a place in my inner life as an adult.

These videos are so evocative of that hope in childhood. The first, Caine's Arcade, is a wonderful story both because the boy is so passionate about his arcade and because there was an adult who recognized that passion and became caught up in it. The second, a video for "Tuck the Darkness In" by the Bowerbirds, just captures that hope so profoundly.

"Tuck the Darkness In" by Bowerbirds from Secretly Jag on Vimeo.

Image at the top is a screenshot from the video above via the fabulous The Fox is Black.

Filed Away: On Pinterest and Dreams

I am a careful curator of my own digital life, a user and lover of many websites on the Internet. But my Pinterest account was short-lived. One evening, I found myself pining for Bogotá—for its lively, colorful streets—as I scrolled through a photo essay on a travel blog. I made up my mind. This place is next. And since I had recently joined Pinterest, all I had to do was click the “Pin It” button in my browser bookmarks bar—and voilà. My dream destination was pinned. Filed away. Captured. Done.

For a moment, I felt productive.

* * * * *

I had joined Pinterest to see what I was missing. Naturally, I created boards for my interests, from my own photographs of street art to deliciously decrepit abandoned buildings (a board I called “Elegant Ruination”).

But these images were largely ignored by other users: no repins, no likes, no comments.

From the beginning, I saw what people liked: Party ideas. Hairdos. Photographs of luxury bungalows along the sea. Yes, people liked other things too, but when I perused Pinterest in the weeks I had an account, I saw more images from gourmet cupcake recipes and wedding planning blogs than I’d ever seen. And there’s nothing wrong with cupcakes and weddings—I happen to love both—but from the start this visual paradise just didn’t seem like my thing.

But I wanted to enjoy it.

So, giving in to Pinterest’s aspirational world, and my own desires, I added a board of industrial-chic lofts and a complementary board of pretty designer things to put inside my imaginary million-dollar space: Overpriced honeycomb-shaped bookcases at CB2. Lamps and rugs from Room and Board. What the hell, I thought. Let the drooling consumer in me go wild.

Suddenly, I found myself searching interior design blogs for airy spaces with high ceilings, brick walls, and wooden beams; and indoor swings, hammock beds, and hanging egg chairs to pin. While my own photographs of gritty art and urban ruins got little to no attention, these images of my dream domicile were repinned and liked and commented on like crazy.

And so, I observed this process for several weeks.

* * * * *

On my blog, Facebook, and Twitter, I’ve constructed a persona primarily from my own writing and photography. From my creations. Yet Pinterest was different: it encouraged me to shape my digital identity by curating content that was not mine: Marketable representations of goods. Other people’s dreams. Things I will never have. Pixelated perfection, I suppose. And so I swirled in a community of repinners and dreamers, in a Stepford-wifesque reality.

I noticed many users creating travel bucket lists, and at a glance, their boards were shiny and tidy and vibrant. So one evening, I tried the same: I created another board for places I wanted to visit. But the more I pinned images of Colombia and Cuba and Morocco, the more I felt as if I was bottling up experiences that had yet to happen—and may not happen—shaping my hopes and uncertainties into concrete, clickable images and then filing them away.

I once read a piece about bookmarking articles to read later, with the help of tools like Instapaper. It talked about bookmarking as a form of anti-engagement—a moment of fake action, of swift satisfaction: “It provides just enough of a rush of endorphins to give me a little jolt of accomplishment, sans the need for the accomplishment itself.”

I thought about this as I organized stunning images on my boards, some of which were snapshots of cities I had longed to explore. The process was entertaining, but time-consuming and, ultimately, inert. Or, it felt as if I was moving backward—foraging and favoriting, then labeling and archiving. In a way, I was doing something. And yet the more I pinned, the more I felt further disconnected from doing itself—a step in the opposite direction from the image, the idea, the what-if I had pinned.

When I realized I had been sitting upright in bed, pinning and accumulating “things” for three hours, I deleted my account.

Sure, I was collecting things in an online space. But it still felt like clutter, fit for shoe boxes under my bed. And with Pinterest, my aspirations no longer floated in my head. They were right there: discoverable, pinnable, and recyclable by others.

Aren’t my dreams supposed to be elusive? Unable to be bookmarked?

I don’t doubt Pinterest is fun and effective if you use it in a way that works for you. But it felt strange, even meaningless, to compartmentalize and file away my dreams. Yes, I am a planner and organizer—and an active curator of my digital life.

But at some point, I just had to stop.

Learning to be Happy, With or Without a Baby

During my first year of infertility, I remember feeling sad about my life when I heard that other friends were pregnant.

We're talking...mmm...maybe I'll cut out of this party early because I can't hide these tears any longer.  No thank you, I'll just sit this 35th baby shower out.  Don't you dare hand me a flower at church to carry around on Mother's Day cause I am already seconds away from busting out of this building early.

For a solid year, I was just seconds away from the deepest feelings of desperate/teary sadness, anger at the cruelty of this unfairness, inadequacy as a woman, shame that apparently something was wrong with my body, fear that I never would get pregnant, resentment that I was being left behind outside of the circle of mothers, and worry that somehow my life was not going to be worth anything if I couldn't get pregnant & have a family.  WHAT A SAD WAY TO LIVE!!  It was sad.  Very.

Luckily, years two, three, four, five, six, seven, & eight of infertility have been a completely different experience.  It has been a miracle.

I started learning that if I didn't change my overall perspective on trials, even if I DID get pregnant, I would still be pretty jacked up!!  Because even with a baby in tow, inevitably there would be many other things that wouldn't go my way.  It’s not like all of life’s problems would be solved by a baby (ha!)  So I started to see the scary reality that if I chose to live this way, basing my happiness on perfect circumstances, that I could easily live & die and only have small glimpses of happiness, only when things happened to be lined up perfectly.  I realized that was not the kind of life I wanted nor the kind of woman or mother that I wanted to be.  And so, year two I became a changed woman.  I changed the way I thought about my trials.  And I haven’t looked back for a day since.

And one of the greatest side effects of choosing to be happy?

I don't feel the tendency to compare my life with others anymore.  My life is what it is….and it is beautiful.  I now get to enjoy being TRULY happy & overjoyed every time I see a little baby.  And I am thrilled each & every time I hear of a friend or sister or cousin or neighbor who is pregnant.  And I am amazed at the miracle of a birth every time I hear that a new little one has arrived to this beautiful life safe & sound.   Babies are miracles.  Getting pregnant is a miracle.  Birth is a miracle.  Creating a family is a miracle.  What a shame that hearing of these things used to make me sad & cause me pain.  They're the most beautiful things that ever happen in this life!  What a privilege it is to see it unfold and to be a part of it in many ways, even if I am not yet a mother.

-Mara Kofoed