9:14 pm

I am a strong woman.  I am fiercely independent.  My bones rarely crush under the weight of loneliness.  But then, every so often, my thoughts drift to you.  I re-read our conversations from the day.  I let myself imagine the world we could have had.  I let myself drown in possibility and wasted time.  I bruise my knees while begging for another chance.  Wishing for a future.  

What are the right words to say.  How do I tell you that I am ok until Sunday night at 9:14 pm when I reach across my bedsheets and wish they were filled with you.   

So I am still strong.  I am still fiercely independent.  But sometimes, just sometimes, at 9:14 pm my heart melts between my fingers and suspends frozen as I hold it back from breaking open right in front of you.  Scared to say too much.  Scared to say too little. I miss you. I loved you.  I love you.  The cursor moves forward and then back.  Not tonight.  Don't do it tonight.  Don't ruin this with your sentimentality.  Don't spill your emotions all over the perfect portrait you've created.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe Wednesday.  Not in the sweet swirling nostalgia of a Sunday night.  Sunday nights are for soft edges of lies, not the hard corners of truth.  Maybe Thursday or Saturday or next month or on your birthday or at Christmas. Just any time but tonight.  

"headed to bed. good night."

"night"

Gatsby had his green light.  The hope.  The possibility.  The longing.  

My green light is a red notification and buzz of my phone.  

And wishing for endless Sunday nights. 

Losing My Religion

 This is something I've wanted to write about for a long time but haven't even known where to start.  I think about it all the time.  It's always there like a pebble in my shoe.  Small enough that you can ignore it at times but big enough where you always know its there.  And that thing is my relationship with the LDS church.  More than that for me is the evolution of my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.  However, whenever someone decides not to be active in the church anymore - everyone has a lot to say about it but no one wants to actually ask the person.  

I know for those who are not familiar with the LDS church a lot of this might be confusing.  I want to share my own experiences while being very clear that I love the foundation of religion the LDS church gave me.  I love the community of the LDS church.  I love the friendships that I cultivated in the LDS church.  This is not a "Mormon bashing" post so if that's what you came for - this isn't the post for you.  This is my personal journey with my spirituality in general that the LDS church just happens to be a part of.  However - I did not stop going to church because I am offended.  I am not bitter.  I hold no hate in my heart for the church.  I've seen many people be disregarded or people write them off after they are no longer active.  "Well this person just hates the church" "They're just bitter or offended".  Absolutely not true.  And my thoughts, feelings, and spirituality are still just as valid as anyone who is still an active participant in the church.

My reason for not remaining active is simple: I could no longer sit next to the same people I saw calling women sluts for having abortions, supporting systemic racism, supporting sexism, being disgustingly bigoted and hateful towards the LGBTQIA community, refusing to help the poor 6 days of the week and then attending a church which teachings go directly against all of those things on Sunday.  

When did saying you're part of the church become more important than acting like it?  When did we decide we were better than others because of our religion.  When did we decide that free agency - the very foundation of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints - didn't actually apply to everyone.  

These feelings increased exponentially during the Trump administration.  The support for such an evil human being by members of the church (in mild cases - solely for the topic of abortion, in more extreme cases because of QAnon) was so disheartening.  But, I loved my church.  I loved the foundation it gave me.  I love how I felt when I read my scriptures.  I loved feeling close to my Heavenly Father.  So what did I do?  Did I continue to go and support a system I felt went directly against Christ's teachings just to say I was?  Just to appear to be the good girl I had always been?  Or was there another way?  

I first went extreme.  I left.  I was out.  I was completely done.  I did all the things I had been taught I would go to hell for doing.  Not only was I done with the church but I was done with Christianity.  I still believed in God and Jesus.  But I didn't want anything to do with any sort of religion.  I think I almost had to do it that way so I could rebuild a relationship with my Heavenly Father on my own terms.  

Once I got that out of my system (in my 30's - its not cute) I started re-evaluating.  Ok, which parts of what I'd been taught my whole life did I really feel good about?  How did I feel when I started reading the scriptures again?  What was praying like?  I started really focusing on myself, my mental and spiritual health, and what I wanted.  I WANTED to have a relationship with God and my Savior.  I wanted to keep reading the Book of Mormon.  I wanted to keep praying.  I prayed and prayed and prayed.  I felt so guilty for my feelings.  I begged Heavenly Father to forgive me.  To still love me.  And guess what?  I had so much peace.  I felt the Lord telling me it was ok.  That of course He still loves me.  And even more than that - He was proud of me.  He was proud of the way I defended others.  He was proud of the deep love I have for those around me - no matter who they are, what they believe, who they love, or how they live their life.  And I have NEVER in my life felt closer to them.  

Lauren Daigle has a song called "Losing My Religion".  The first time I heard it I cried.  Because it touched every part of my soul I had been wrestling with.  

"I've been an actor on the stage, playing a role I have to play

I'm getting tired, it' safe to say, living behind a masquerade]

No more performing out of fear, I'm trying to keep my conscience clear

It all seems so insincere, I'd trade it all to meet You here.

I'm losing my religion, light a match and watch it burn 

To Your heart I will return, no one can love me like You

So why would I want a substitute

I'm losing my religion to find You. 

I'm losing my religion and finding something new

Cause I need something different and different looks like You

I'm losing my religion to find You."

I had stopped seeing my Heavenly Father in the church.  I had to leave to find Him again.  And I did. 

I don't hate the church.  I don't hate the people in it.  If anything I feel sorry for them that so many fail to see the hypocrisy of their actions.  That they are failing to see that identifying as something different or living life a different way isn't a sign of the times, but failing to love and accept people is.  It's not the people outside the church we were warned about in the latter days - it was the ones in it.  The ones in it who have forgotten the very basic teachings of Christ - love others as you love Him, when you've done it unto the least of these you have done so unto Him. love God, love your neighbors (no matter who your neighbors are or what they do).  

I'm not perfect.  But I am at peace and have never had a stronger with relationship with the Lord.  I lost my religion, but what I gained is so much more. 

And yes I’m in therapy dealing with some of the trauma of the teachings of the church. A lot of the teachings messed me up. But that’s a private conversation. 

*if you have any questions, I am happy to answer anything but I won't trash the whole LDS church.  I still respect it just as I do with all churches.  

"you are a goddamn cheetah."

I like to know the ending of things before I commit to them.  I don't like stories where you find out the bad stuff later.  I think the books should come with a warning.  I don't want the false sense of security only to find out later that your favorite character has been murdered, the couple doesn't live happily ever after, that soylent green is people.
So what I like to do is unpack all my heavy shit right off the bat.  No surprises.  I am not the girl who drinks fruity drinks and flirts casually and tumbles home and falls right to sleep without a care in the world.  I am the girl who consumes dark, gritty, graphic content.  I am the girl who will ask you how many people you've murdered when we meet in a bar (to be fair...he WAS a double Gemini).  I am the girl who goes into her closet and pulls out all the baggage so you can see it before you realize too late that I'm not the girl for you.
I used to worry about that.  I used to think I was too much.  Too intense.
I learned at 9 years old that I needed to shrink myself.  I remember it like it happened this morning.  I was in 4th grade.  I had cut my hair short like Kelly Kapowski in the college years of Saved by the Bell.  I liked the clothes I wore.  I played make believe and rode my bike for hours without a care in the world.  Then the school talent show rolled around.  I was always a performer.  I loved being the center of attention and entertaining anyone who could still still for longer than 2 minutes.  I pulled out costumes and Madonna cassette tapes and my best choreography learned from VH1 music videos (MTV was not allowed).  So when two of the most popular girls in 4th grade (and in my neighborhood) asked me to perform in the talent show with them I knew this was the moment I had trained for.  I was ready.  There were two conditions to my invitation remaining valid
1. I needed to try at let my hair grow because it was way too short to be girly
2. I needed to lose 10 pounds.
That was the first time I went home, looked in the mirror and had any whisperings of anything being wrong or different about me.
Nine years old and trying to figure out how to shrink.  Now I was too loud.  Too big.  Too different.

I think back to that moment and didn't understand how pivotal it was in shaping the next, almost 20 years of my life.  From then on I was dedicated to being the most perfect I could be.  Something about trying to be perfect though is that you will always fail.  So I would fail.  I would not lose 10 pounds in 2 weeks at the age of 9, my hair would still be short, I would not be the star of the talent show.  So I pinched my skin in the mirror so hard it would leave bruises trying to force my imperfection away.  I would lay in bed praying to be skinny or pretty.  I lost all control when my perfect outfit hadn't been washed and I had to wear something I knew those girls would find a problem with and would scream and cry and refuse to go to school.  I stopped playing with my less popular friends even though I had the most fun with them.  I changed my entire personality.  I was no longer the loud performer.  I was quiet.  Agreeable.  Afraid to cause waves.  As a teenager another popular girl I so desperately wanted to like me asked if I liked Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera better.  My obvious choice was Britney.  "Um....well I don't really know...." I stammered.  "Britney Spears is a slut" she retorted.  "Yeah totally" I agreed.  An opinion so inconsequential caused me almost panic because I was so afraid of my own feelings, thoughts, and opinions. I had shrunk myself down to the tiniest of cages in hopes of acceptance.
The first time I made a "controversial" Facebook post I was about 25 years old.  Babies had just been gunned down in their kindergarten class.  My post started "I'm so sorry about this post"  "I know some people will hate me"  "I understand if you want to unfriend me".  Shrinking myself back down into my good little girl cage.  Don't be seen.  Don't be heard.  Don't make anyone upset. Apologize for your feelings.  Beg them not to notice your faults.  Become so small you don't take up any space or exist at all.
Glennon Doyle talks about this in her book "Untamed" (which if you're a woman and have not read - leave this right now, go, I will give you my Amazon account info).  She talks about taking her kids to a safari and the animal keepers introducing them to a cheetah who thought she was a dog.  She was trained with a dog and learned to act like a dog.  To blindly chase after a small reward because that's what she had been trained to do.  She had no idea that if she remembered her wildness for 5 seconds she could tear the animal keeper to pieces and run off into the wild.  She had power.  Because she was not a dog.  She was a goddamn cheetah.
I started remembering my wildness when I started nursing school.  Suddenly, passion had been restored to my life..and I was good at it.  It made sense to me.  It clicked with me.  I came alive again.  I started to embrace my wildness.  I was ok being the one who spoke up in class.  I made jokes instead of waiting for some guy to make a more lame joke and have people think he was hilarious and amazing.  I answered questions.  I challenged myself.  I was unafraid of being wrong.  I was unafraid of being seen.
I had found the loose wire in the cage keeping me non-existent.  I became wild again.  I was a goddamn cheetah.
I graduated with honors.  I got a grown up nurse job.  I advocated for patients.  I spoke up for myself.  I stopped apologizing for my feelings.  I let myself voice my opinions. I embraced the space I took up.  I didn't pinch imperfections in the mirror because I no longer saw imperfections in the mirror.  I saw me.  I saw my thin hair I used to hate and thought of my aunt who has always had thin hair too and seems to be doing just fine.  I saw my eyes which have always been my favorite feature. My nose with the deviated septum just like my dad and my brother.  I would hear my loud laugh and remember my grandma.  I was walking history and ancestry.  I was strength.  I was power.  I was a goddamn cheetah.
I have now made it 30ish years and have become my own hero.  The hero I so desperately needed at 9 years old.  A hero to whisper - "You are not a dog, do not let them put you in that small cage of nothingness.  You are memories.  You are your parents biggest wish come to life....you are a goddamn cheetah."

2:09 AM

Sometimes my thoughts fill my brain up so much that I feel like I can't breathe without bumping into something.
So I decide to write.  Even though no one even reads blogs anymore, it's a way for me to empty my head a little.  Watch thoughts and feelings trickle out and turn from something messy into something tangible.  I love hearing the sound the keys make as I pour these thoughts out.  Each strike feels like relief.
So what's on the agenda tonight?  What is keeping me awake?  What is causing this mind claustrophobia?  Well the easiest answer would just be "me" but nothing that comes to "me" is ever easy.
Tonight I took a brief but powerful walk down memory lane.  A time about 5 years ago when I felt truly alive and free.  The walk started off breezy.  Like stepping outside on the first day of Spring.  Everything is thawing and coming alive.  In the middle of this walk I ran into a massive boulder and getting around that boulder was painful and difficult and took that first day of Spring feeling and shot it right into Canadian January.  I felt cold.  Empty.  Strange.
About 5 years ago I started coming into my own.  I started going to therapy.  I started figuring out how to love myself.  I fell in love with someone else.  My best friend.  I started slowly.  I didn't race into it like I usually do everything else in my life, maybe that's why it felt like it would be real.  It was what everyone says it will be.  It was electric and powerful and made me feel completely free in a way I had never felt before.  I spent nights with him as we poured the deepest and most secret parts of ourselves out to show each other.  I spent days with him driving in the sun with the windows down.  Music on the radio, knowing it would take at least 20 minutes to get all the knots out of my hair from the wind, but not caring because he would take those blue eyes and look right into mine while we talked.  Warsan Shire has a quote that says "His eyes were the same color as the sea in a postcard someone sends you when they love you, but not enough to stay".  And that's what he was.  He was so real and so tangible - but he was like the ocean.  Floating in and out.  Sometimes drifting away, barely reaching your toes in the sand. Other times overwhelming you and taking your breath away with the force of it.  I wrote letters to him.  I kept them in a box in my closet.  A place to keep all the words I didn't know how to say to him, childishly thinking that we didn't need those words.  That what we had was so special and so unique - convention would ruin it.  It turns out there were so many words we needed.  He hurt me.  Over and over again.   Just like the sea he would float away and come crashing back in with a storm.  I could never figure out what he wanted but when he was there I didn't care.  I just wanted him.  His laugh in my living room.  His name on my phone.  His Jeep motor coming to pick me up for some random adventure.  I allowed myself to give in completely to this crazy messy and insane feeling because...it was him.  The times he was floating away I would cling onto the good memories.  The ones of us texting rap lyrics to each other, the times when we would sing power ballads at the top of our lungs together, the Chinese food and bad 80's movie nights.  I thought those were enough.  But it wasn't.  So when he left for good - I was left hollow and empty.  The memories no longer filled me with warmth but instead they made me curl up against myself.  Feeling my bones to make sure I was still a human.  Crying so hard I ached.  Staring at the wall when there were no more tears left.
I still remember the first date I went on after he was gone.  I remember the sound of my fake laugh.  Looking out the window of the restaurant just in case he happened to be walking by. Wondering if he would be hurt to see me with someone else.  "I had a great time - do it again sometime?" came the text the next day.  "I just didn't feel anything between us" was the response.  Maybe because I didn't feel anything at all.
So here I am 5 years later.  I've tried giving myself to others.  I even consistently dated someone for awhile.  He would compliment me endlessly on how beautiful he thought I was.  He loved that I made him laugh.  I was like a quirky puzzle that he was interested in solving.  There were things he didn't like about me. My love of murder, the fact that I was a vegetarian, and the tiny detail of the fact that he felt like I was disconnected.  That I wasn't really giving him very much but pretending to.  I acted outraged but the fact was - he was right.  Quirky puzzles get tiring when you can't solve them.  Another one bites the dust.
I continue trying.  I hop on those dating apps and I swipe and swipe.  I laugh at dumb jokes.  I flirt mindlessly.  I try desperately to form a connection before realizing I'm playing pretend.
So tonight the biggest heaviest thought, the one sucking the air out of my lungs is "Can I even connect with someone again?".  Are none of these guys right?  Or am I just all wrong?  Am I looking for something unrealistic?  Am I secretly comparing every relationship to the one with him?  Is that ok?  The good parts were so good.  They were everything I ever wanted.  Is it possible to find that again with someone who stays?  I certainly haven't found that to be true.  So I continue to talk and flirt and try to connect all while looking for the next one.  Wondering if the really good thing is just around the corner.  But what if I keep looking around that corner and find nothing.  I keep running and running and just run right into myself.  How do I determine if there really is something better out there or if I'm just so irreversibly screwed up that I should just give up now.  Or do I lower my expectation?  Do I settle for someone good who doesn't make me feel like my heart is going to beat out of my chest everytime I see his name on my phone. Is it still real if the sound of his voice saying my name doesn't make me want to cry it sounds so nice?  Do you only get one chance at that feeling?
It's 2:49 now.  My head feels lighter.  My heart feels heavier.  I don't miss him.  I don't think about him at all really anymore.  I'm a different person.  My favorite songs are different.  I have a new favorite color of blue that doesn't resemble his eyes at all.  Even my hair is different.  There is nothing left of the girl who was willing to give everything to him.  Who was ready to let love take her and hurt her over and over.
And maybe that is the problem.  There is nothing left.

The Secret Club: My Love Letter to Nursing School

Today was my last official day of school.  I typed that sentence and immediately started crying.  I have no adequate words that could possibly describe what this experience has been for me.  The last time I tried to explain it I finally said "It's like what I imagine falling in love is like".

This has brought me more pain, stress, sleepless nights, heartbreak, and feelings of frustration that anything else.  But it has also brought me more joy, triumph, laughter, and peace than anything else.  I'm going to share a really long excerpt from a book on nursing I read once.  It is by far the closest thing I've ever found to describe what nursing actually is.
"Nursing is among the most important professions in the world. 
In no other profession do people float ably among specialties, helping to ease babies into being, escorting men and women gently into death, and heroically resurrecting patients in between.  There are few other careers in which people are so devoted to a noble purpose that they work twelve, fourteen, sixteen straight hours without eating, sleeping, or taking breaks and often without commensurate pay simply because they believe in the importance of their job.  They are frequently the first responders on the front lines of malady and contagion, risking their own health to improve someone else's.  Nursing is more than a career; it is a calling.  Nurses are remarkable.  Yet contemporary literature largely neglects them.
At 3.5 million strong in the United States and more than 20 million worldwide, nurses are the largest group of healthcare providers.  The women who compromise 90 percent of the workforce are a unique sisterhood whose bonds are forged through the most dramatic miracles and traumas as well as the tedious, routine tastas necessary to keep human bodies functioning.  Nursing, for brave men and women, is "like a secret club that holds immense emotional joy and fulfillment in spite of shared tragedies".  Nurses call the profession a secret club because their experiences are so novel, their jobs so intimate and occasionally horrifying, their combination of compassion and desensitization so peculiar, that they imagine nobody else could understand what it is like to work in their once-white shoes.  
Pop culture would have us believe that nurses play a small, trivial role in healthcare; medical television programs tend to show doctors lingering at patient's bedsides while nurses flit and intone "Yes, Doctor" in the background.  But this is not the case.  "We are not just bed-making, drink serving, poop wiping, medication passing assistants.  We are much more".
They are, for example, reporters.  They discuss and document patient status, serving as the main point of contact for doctors, surgeons, therapists, social workers, and other specialists.  They are watchmen, keeping vigil, meticulously monitoring vital signs, deciphering patients' individual trends and patterns, painstakingly double-checking dosages and medications.  They are detectives, investigating deviations, asking questions, listening carefully, searching for clues.  They are warriors, called to serve at the first sign of outbreak, fighting infection, containing disease.  They are gatekeepers, turning staff members away when patients need a break from procedures, a nap, or a moment to digest their circumstances.  They are scientists, constantly learning, tackling sociology, psychology, physiology, anatomy, pharmacology, chemistry, microbiology.  They are advocates, lobbying physicians for or against procedures, for pain assistance, for a few more minutes of time.  They are teachers, educating patients and parents: how to suction a tracheostomy, change an airway, inject medication, breastfeed a newborn.  They are the muscle, holding patients down to insert or remove tubes or needles, pushing people to get out of bed following surgery, breaking a sweat when performing CPR, lifting, moving, pushing, forcing, turning.  They are confidants, protectors, communicators, comforters, nurturers; easing fears, offering solace, cradling babies whose parents can't be there, consoling loved ones who feel that all hope is gone.  They are multitaskers: supporting, coordinating, and inhabiting all these roles at once.  And they are lionhearted diplomats, helping a patient die with dignity in one room, facilitating a recovery in the next, keeping their composure even when they are shaken to the core."
My heart is filled with so much love and pride at what I have accomplished and the profession I am joining.  Throughout my time I have laughed and joked about how terrible men are with a patient while also comforting a woman who just lost hers.  I have witnessed miracles, humans coming back from death, infants that shouldn't be alive who fight with everything they have.  I have held the hands of a woman experiencing a terrible miscarriage.
I have watched two beautiful baby boys go from tiny and struggling to leaving the hospital in the arms of their parents.

 I have placed tubes and IV's.  I have mixed and hung and passed medications.  I have had to be there when a doctor gives someone a terrible diagnosis.  I have celebrated when a very sick patient recovers and goes home.  I have seen people die.   I have seen people be born.  I have cried and laughed and ached and smiled.

Beyond just the experiences I have had....I have to briefly talk about the family I have created with the people I have experienced all of this with.  My own personal secret club.  The people I can text, "I don't know what I'm doing I am having a nervous breakdown" and they respond that they feel the same way.  The people who I have cried with and laughed so hard I've peed my pants with.  The people I can vent to about anything and they understand.  The people I can talk to about a difficult case or patient and they know exactly how to help me decompress.  I love these people.  These people have my whole heart for my whole life.  I will ache for them so much when I don't get to see them every week.

My instructors have been a constant source of understanding.  More than teaching us technical skills or nursing concepts, they have taught me how to love others.  They have taught me how to fight through hard things.  They have encouraged me and kept me sane.  I am so lucky.
There are too many thoughts and feelings but I just wanted to document what nursing and the last 3 years has meant to me.  When I decided to quit my salary job and go into debt for nursing school I had at least 700 breakdowns and I questioned my decision every day.  It was in the quiet moments of a terrible night while I was on my knees pleading for the Lord to help me understand that I heard a whisper "this is who you are, this is who you are meant to be, this is what I made you for".

The Lord made me to be a nurse.  He made me to advocate and love others fiercely.  He made me to save lives and prepare other lives to pass on to the next life.  I am a nurse.  This is who I was always meant to be...and I'm so glad I was.

Females Are Strong As Hell: Why I Support the Women's March

I have been thinking about writing this post for a week now.  I have been struggling to put my thoughts and feelings properly into words.  Everyone knows that prior to Donald Trump being elected as the president I was not a fan.  I felt his derogatory terms about women and his disgusting imitation of someone with disabilities was horrifying.  When the tape leaked of Donald Trump's conversation with Billy Bush, I heard a lot of people still supporting Donald Trump.  Saying that he only said the word "pussy" and we hear that word all the time.  I will repeat myself when I previously stated that it was not his use of the word pussy that was offensive (although I do find it to be quite a vile word for the female anatomy - nicknamed by men no doubt) it was his use of the word "grab".  Grab is aggressive.  Grab does not equate with consent.  Billy Bush was fired for laughing at what Donald Trump was saying.  Donald became President of the United States of America.  The most respected seat in the world.

Shortly after Donald Trump was elected you had the people he was surrounding himself with making decisions that seems antiquated and unfair.  Talks of overturning Roe v Wade, de-funding Planned Parenthood, and spreading the thought and feelings that all immigrants were terrorists.  The White House website completely changed.  There was no mention of resources for the LGBTQ community.  To my conservative and religious friends- this part is specifically for you.
I am a Christian.  I am Mormon.  I am straight.  I am white.  I am a woman.
I have never had an abortion nor have I ever been in a situation where that has been a choice I had to make.  I have never been in a position where I needed birth control and could not afford it.  I have never been in a position where my abilities or status were judged prematurely based on the color of my skin.  I have never been hurt or taunted because I was gay.
I have however experienced men saying vile, sexually aggressive things to me simply because I have a vagina.  I have been whistled at.  I have been called a stuck up bitch because I did not reciprocate those feelings or find them flattering.   I have heard comments in church alluding to the fact that men can't help it if they have so many women to choose from and another woman's feelings get hurt because of it.  I have heard other comments in church stating that it must be the woman's fault that she is not married.  There must be something wrong with her.  I have held a friend while she cried after being raped by a guy who she thought loved her.  I have held that same friend after she was told by police there was not much they could do and asking her point blank is she was "sure she said no".  Have you ever heard anyone ask someone who has just been shot "are you sure you told them not to shoot you?"

So here's where my passion for the women's march comes in to play.  I have seen many articles floating around saying "why are women doing this?  Name ONE right women LEGALLY do not have that men do!"  "Stop whining!" "What do you want?  Free manicures and pedicures???"
1. Legally you are correct.  Men and women LEGALLY have the exact same rights.  But how about the female nurses I know with years of experience getting paid less than male nurses that have just graduated nursing school?  How about the fact that this week SEVEN men were in the oval office making executive decisions (including decisions about women's reproductive rights) and that would never be seven women in a room deciding men's reproductive rights (or any rights for that matter).  How about the fact that I have seen articles calling slut-shaming and cat calling "trivial" problems.  How about the fact that rape is the only crime for which the excuse that the temptation to commit it was too powerful is considered a DEFENSE when in any other crime it would be considered an admission of guilt.  How about the fact that telling women to quit whining and we must just want free manicures and pedicures is executing the reason for the march flawlessly.

2.  I think the terms "pro life" and "pro choice" are antiquated terms based on what they are currently representing.  Pro life is the term for being anti-abortion.  And that seems to be about it.  We are demanding that women have babies but what about after the baby is born?  How are we supporting these women who have had these babies because we told them they have to?  Because we sure as hell don't want to help them with welfare either.  So we wonder why our homeless population and crime rates escalate?  I personally have religious and personal beliefs that would prevent me from having an abortion personally.  HOWEVER - my church (yes Mormon friends I'm looking at you) is in fact ROOTED in the concept of PRO CHOICE.  Free agency.  The right for us all to choose. Do WE believe in abortion?  No.  But demanding that someone makes a decision based on our personal beliefs is wrong.  If you are truly truly "pro life" (in the terms that anti-abortionists use it) then be all pro life.  Be pro welfare.  Be pro public funding for programs that help these women raise children.  Make adoption more accessible.  Otherwise this is what you sound like "Why would a crack whore have a baby???  She can't even take care of it!  A child shouldn't be raised in that environment!  Oh a gay couple wants to adopt that baby?  No.  No no no we can't do that.  That's wrong too".  MAKE UP YOUR DAMN MINDS.
3. I have seen a lot of people post about the women in the streets who were using vulgar language "more than Donald Trump ever did".  Once again.  The problem with Trump was not the term he used.  It was the aggressive use of the words around it.  These women took these disgusting terms and used them instead.  You want to say you'll grab my pussy?  How about I make a "pussycat" hat and march against you? (Because once again the hat was NOT A VAGINA.  THE HAT HAD CAT EARS.  LIKE "PUSSY" CAT.)  You want to call a woman "nasty".  I'll call myself nasty all day.  Because the only crime you could accuse a "nasty woman" of was just being a woman.  And I am in fact a woman.

4.  The march was not in ANY way shape or form a pro-abortion march.  This march included men and women.  Gay and straight.  Atheist and Christian.  Muslim.  Buddhist.  Pro life and pro choice (don't get me started on the people saying pro life people were not welcome....it was one group.  Please stop).  White, Black, Hispanic, Asian.
This was more of a march for those who were worried about their rights being taken away than anything else.  This was a march for my friends who are now even more scared to be black because of the racist comments the POTUS has made.  This was a march for my friends who are now even more scared to be gay because of the bigoted comments the VP has made.  This was a march for anyone scared that their access to free birth control, other contraceptive, STD and cancer screenings were in jeopardy because of the comments Paul Ryan made.
5.  Please stop talking about the march in broad terms  Were there some women who were being more vulgar than others?  Yes.  Were there some people making inappropriate comments about burning down the white house?  (Madonna....girl....I'm looking at you)  Yes.  Were there some who made a bigger statement about abortion than anything else?  Yes.  Nobody is perfect.  Women are just as imperfect as everyone else.  But if I were to judge you based solely on the banana balls crazy statements made by people such as Ann Coulter....I don't think you'd be very happy with me.  And PLEASE stop saying that women asking for equal rights is women acting like victims.  None of the women I know who have been through horrific things view themselves as a "victim" of anything.  We are strong.  Compassionate.  Outspoken.  Powerful.  We are not victims and I see no behavior that justifies the word victim for women who are fighting for equality.  Also please make note of the word "equality"....people like to say women want to be more than men or greater than or cut men down.  Nope.  Just equal.  I saw one sign that said "men of quality do not fear equality"....that's pretty much all we're going for here guys.

All of this is to say, I don't remember an America more angry, more divided, or more hateful than I have in the last 6 months.  What happened to love thy neighbor?  What happened to everyone matters?  What happened to bring me your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the homeless, the tempest tossed.  I feel the hatred and anger surrounding the women's march and to be honest, anyone with a differing opinion than Donald Trump - goes against every religious and personal belief I have.  I was taught by my church and my parents to speak against things that were wrong.  Where do you think the Savior would be if He were here today.  Who were the first people he went to during His ministry.  The poor.  The hungry.  The needy.  The outcasts.  The adulterers.  The prostitutes.  The imperfect.  He chose to lead with love.  Teach by example.  He never let His differing feelings or opinions cause him to look at anyone any differently.  I don't like Trump's America.  I don't think we are making anything great.  We are building walls around our country and around our hearts.  We are forgetting to help those who need us.
I was taught with love that we all have the right to choose.  I respect your right to choose to support Donald Trump.  That doesn't mean I have to.  That doesn't mean I have to agree with everything he says or does.  I respect a woman's right to choose what is best for her life and her body.  That doesn't mean you have to.  But would you force someone to eat cake just because you like it?  Do we force people to join our church just because we know it's the only way to true happiness.  No.
So...can we please spread a little more kindness.  A little more listening and talking instead of arguing and spreading hatred (it CAN happen....if you question that....message me and I'll link you to a healthy conversation I had with people about the wall along the Mexican border.  It was healthy and enlightening).  Can we brainstorm better solutions and  use our voices to truly make America great?  I think that's the America our dear Lady Liberty would want.  The America that we were always supposed to have.  The one we can have.  Because kindness is magic and human beings are magic if we let ourselves be.

Mom

I never needed my mom.  I was born with an innate stubbornness, a fierce independence, the belief that I knew everything and I could do it all on my own (except when I needed something like money or a ride...I was a real treat of a child).  I didn't talk to my mom.  I didn't share things with her.  I didn't tell her about my insecurities, being bullied, feeling like no one liked me, friends being mean to me, or any of my failures.  I wanted my parents to think I was perfect.  I wanted them to think that I had everything under control and I had it all figured out.  I was an overweight preteen with acne so...I had literally nothing figured out y'all.
When things got hard in my family I got resentful and angry.  And can you guess who I took all that anger and resentment out on?  My mom.  It wasn't fair and I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it but I did it nonetheless.
So here I am 30 years from my birth and 20 something years from ceasing to feel like I needed my mom and yet if there is one person I need more than anyone else on the earth...it's her.
So what changes?  Maturity I suppose.  Life experiences definitely.  Calling your mom from Target having a Level 5 meltdown because you don't know what kind of jam to buy can humble you a bit too.  With maturity and life experiences comes reflection.  And as I've reflected...this is what I've realized

• The woman who drove me to school and dance lessons was my mom
• The woman who calmed me down after a yelling match with my dad about homework was my mom
• The woman who would make every single holiday feel special was my mom (seriously...even Valentine's Day you guys)
• The woman who had huge dreams and the talent to make them come true but sacrificed all of that for a family was my mom
• The woman who lost her daughter and her mother within 2 years of each other and still forged ahead was my mom
• The woman who would answer the phone every day I called from college crying was my mom (this was the first time I was in college...we'll get to nursing school in a minute)
• The woman who can make you laugh until you pee your pants is my mom
• The woman who would still get up early in the morning so you don't have to walk in the cold and snow is my mom
• The woman who will answer the phone even though she's in bed and listen to me vent about hurt feelings is my mom
• The woman who would defend her children until her last breath is my mom
• The woman who passionately encourages me to pursue my dream of being a nurse is my mom
• The woman who believes in me is my mom
• The woman who taught me to value myself is my mom
• The woman who loves me even though I am still stubborn, fiercely independent, and a know-it-all is my mom
• The woman who thinks I'm wonderful even though I am terribly flawed is my mom

I wish all the time these days that I could see myself through my mom's eyes.  Moms have a special way of seeing their children.  A special way of knowing just what to say and just when to say it.  A way to keep the entire family together.  Dads are cool but moms hold it all together.  Even if you may not have your mom in your life for whatever reason...chances are....you know a mom.  And I would bet everything I have (it's not much..don't get excited) they posses these same qualities.  They will listen to you when you're elated or when your heart is breaking.  They would fight for you.  They would help you any way they could.  They would defend you and love you so much you don't know what to do with it all. 

Because moms are magic.  My mom is magic.  I don't know much...but I know that.