I can't protect him forever.

Did I ever tell y'all that Alden and I go to marriage/couples counseling? Probably not; it's not a detail that comes up in conversation very often, and when it does, people assume it's because we're experiencing difficulties in our relationship. We don't see a counselor because we're on the brink of divorce, though. We're pragmatic people and see value in therapy, and while we hardly ever go with expectations of where the conversation will end up, we always leave feeling stronger and more secure both in our marriage and in ourselves. Yesterday was one of those "I have no idea where this will go" kinds of sessions. It was also one of those where I talked almost the whole time, which is unusual; typically I have things to contribute, but I let Alden or the counselor do most of the talking. Since we talked about school starting up, though, my floodgates opened wide. I recently posted about my rainbow child going to Kindergarten, so this topic was fresh (and apparently forefront!) in my mind. I expressed my fear about Tycho going to school and having to basically put in all this effort--again--to make sure teachers and the administration and students accepted him for who he was and mitigated as much bullying as they reasonably could. He's a unique kid, and with that will come some challenges that he'll ultimately have to overcome (as he has done so well already in his five short years of life), but I can't help feeling protective and wanting to shield him from all that mess. Our counselor pointed out something important, a fact of life that I try really hard to ignore: I can't protect him from everything. I can be his rock, his guide, his mom... but that's really it. He's the one who needs to fight those battles and advocate for himself. Like, okay, duh; I can't be at school with him, making sure that his peers are kind to him at all times. It's just not feasible, and it doesn't teach him shit. I also can't stop him from changing who he is. This one was probably more difficult for me to wrap my brain around; I've become accustomed to the rainbow-loving, nail polish-adorned, glitter-wrapped human that he is, and I'm incredibly proud to see him buck gender norms in favor of what makes him happy. Sometimes when he comes back from his dad's house, he's not the same kid. I mean, he is the same kid, but he doesn't look like the kid I know. Recently, he came back wearing these super douchey-brown leather Sperry boat shoes, and while he didn't seem to mind them being on his feet, I had to hide my absolute and utter disgust. I mean, first, leather... y'all know my personal convictions on animal-based products, so I really don't have to go into that here. Second, and probably most importantly, I didn't feel like they were who he was. I felt like those shoes were a reflection of his father's side of the family, who are all gender normative and do shit like make fun of a family member for being vegan. (Who makes fun of family for something that literally does them no harm?!) When I saw those shoes, I felt a sting similar to when I was pregnant with Tycho and his father questioned how he would feel about his son if he turned out gay, or to when he saw the Elsa dress that Tycho asked for as a Christmas present and he made a snide comment about taking me to court if my boy ends up in a talent show in a dress and nail polish and dancing to Anaconda. I was secretly delighted when I asked Tycho the next day to put on his shoes and, though those douchey Sperrys were also in his shoe cubby, he went for his sparkly white ones with the elastic rainbow no-tie laces, which are getting fairly beat up after daily wear. I was even more ecstatic when Alden and I brought the boys to Target for new shoes for the school year and he scoured the rows for rainbow shoes, which we had to special order since they didn't have his size. They also don't carry them in adult sizes, like wtf, these shoes are AMAZING. Seriously, Target, I need these in a women's size 8, plz and tyvm. But while I can allow Tycho to express himself at our house ("Mommy-Tycho's house," as we call it) and wax gothic poetry about his father, I can't protect him from societal and peer pressure, or even to gender stereotypes, hard as we try. There's only so much I can do if we go to the store and, because his friend either has a similar pair or because he's been picked on for his previous choices in footwear, he chooses a pair of Sperry-like shoes. Or changes his favorite color from rainbow to a "boy color." Or decides his glittery bedroom walls aren't a reflection of who he's become, just of who he was, and he wants to paint over it all. I have to admit, I'm a little terrified of losing my rainbow child. I'm so scared of losing the creative, inventive, trendy, unique boy that I have to social pressure. Let's be real, though; as our counselor pointed out, there's definitely incentive and motivation to succumbing to peer pressure, including becoming an accepted member of a group. He's going to do some things that I simply can't control because he wants to be accepted by his peers, and I can only hope that those things are, like... changing his favorite color or choosing knockoff Sperrys instead of drugs or alcohol or unprotected sex. I should probably be counting my blessings if that's all I (and he) had to "deal with"! The best and most I can do is give his teachers and the administration a heads-up on who Tycho is and how he expresses himself, and aside from mitigating any bullying, pretty much let it go from there. I can't control every choice he makes, but I can at least set the groundwork for more positive interactions. And in the meantime, Alden and I are committed to making our home his sanctuary, the place where he can truly be himself. With any luck, his school will follow suit. http://dlvr.it/QgkkF1

My Rainbow Son's Going to Kindergarten

He sleeps in a room painted with yellow (or "golden") and sparkle paints. His nightlights are a pink  lava lamp with gold glitter and a rainbow projector across his ceiling. The blanket that keeps him warm boldly carries all the colors of the rainbow, and he repeats them with a Rain Man-like vigor like he does everything else in his favorite color: "Red-orange-yellow-green-blue-purple!" My treasure at the end of the rainbow. ❤️🌈 #tychothekidA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on May 24, 2018 at 5:10pm PDT Like every night before last night, I snuggled my son to sleep last night, waiting until his breathing deepened and his muscles twitched slightly as they relaxed before getting up. Like every night before last night, I brushed his hair back from his face, marveled at his eyelashes and his sweet pink cheeks, and kissed his forehead before slowly retreating and closing the door behind me. But unlike every night before, it was the last night he would be with me as a preschooler. Next Tuesday, he starts Kindergarten at a new school. And I'm admittedly scared shitless. Today’s stats! . 5 on Friday 30#, 39” On par with 6-year-olds Birds in his ears and love in his heart . My baby boy is getting so big!! 😍❤️ #tychothekidA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on Apr 10, 2018 at 3:16pm PDT It's not the hours spent away from him; I work a 9-to-5 and he spends a majority of his day in a classroom setting, anyway, so aside from the teary-eyed proclamations of "my baby boy is growing up so fast!" as his dad and I guide him to his classroom, there really won't be a difference in time spent away from him. But my son is... unique. Delightfully and beautifully and wondrously so, but not necessarily "societally acceptably" so. In pretty much every case where it literally harms not a single other soul, whatever is acceptable by society's standards can fuck right off. To this point, my husband (Tycho's stepdad) and I have lived this for both our sons: They're entirely their own unique individuals, and that means doing things that may be atypical of boys in general, much less their age. Tycho drew himself with Arty from #CreativeGalaxy!! 😍🎨 #tychothekidA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on Mar 27, 2018 at 3:33pm PDT I've also had numerous discussions with my son's preschool about toning down the gender-specific talk, especially since Tycho loves bucking it all: nail polish, glitter, rainbows (and especially colors like pink and purple), all loved by my son and all of which have been conversations with teachers about how they approach it with him and his peers. It's taken a couple years, but now none of these are designated "girl things." They're things everyone can enjoy. This year, we're starting a new school with new teachers and peers and community, and I feel like we're about to start all over again. Add to that the stress that comes with knowing the older kids get, the more ruthless they become; I've managed to talk down preschoolers who insist that nail polish is "for girls" by simply saying Tycho likes it and so does his stepdaddy, and there's no rule that anything is only "for girls," but I know the older he gets, the less likely I am to convince his classmates... or, worse (and sometime more irritatingly stubbornly), their parents. Got Tycho a rainbow sequined journal and a rainbow pencil bag stuffed with sparkle gel pens, and this was his reaction! ❤️🌈😘 #tychothekid #rainbowboyA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on May 3, 2018 at 2:53pm PDT No doubt Tycho will walk confidently into his new school, adorned with his bold rainbow backpack and shiny rainbow shoes and nails likely painted a colorful gradient, with a swagger only a Kindergartner who was top dog of his entire daycare could possess. And I'll be right behind him every step of the way, ready to ward off naysayers and welcome with open arms the chance to talk about gender nonconformity and enjoying everything for all its beauty, not for society's gender specificity. I just hope no one dulls his sparkle. Straight-up modeling his new rainbow sunglasses. 😆🌈❤️ #tychothekidA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on May 24, 2018 at 5:12pm PDT http://dlvr.it/QgWnyB

Fakers gonna fake fake fake fake fake...

(First, you're welcome for the earworm!) I wrapped up my most recent graduate class a few weeks ago with a few pieces under my belt, hopeful chapters to what will eventually become my "thesis," an actual memoir that I want to publish if not while in school, then definitely soon after. I was happy to have taken my first class in my specialization, not just because I'm pretty damn good at it ("How can you bang out a six-page paper in half a day? Without editing?!"), but because I finally found the path I'd like to go down, the part of my life I'd like to write about. I can't help but feel like a fraud, though. Like I don't know enough about my own life, have enough ownership over my experiences and my reckonings, to write about them with any kind of authority. I've been listening to Down at the Crossroads recently, whittling my one-way, hour-plus commute away with intriguing interviews from various Pagan and witchy authors, and I can't help but think... How are they so confident with what they write about? First, go check out that podcast. It's seriously fun, and I've been introduced to so many new authors and music (they play new music every episode!) and ways of seeing witchcraft from just the five or so episodes I've had the time to binge on. Along with that thought is an accompanied feeling of... dis-ease, I suppose. This part is difficult to put to words, the uncomfortable undercurrent I get when I listen to these authors talk about their books. It's not that I dislike the topics; in fact, I recently bought Jason Miller's Elements of Spellcrafting because I finally found a magickal practitioner who viewed spellwork as I do. And even if I didn't quite connect with the topic -- Deborah Castellano's interview on her book Glamour Magic comes to mind, though I have to admit, I've thought of her work more often since getting a bright red lipstick and actually liking it -- I enjoyed hearing about it and learning a new perspective. These people were subject matter experts in their particular magickal practice, and eloquent, intelligent, and aware of themselves, to boot. It occurred to me a few days later what that undercurrent was: I feel like a fraud for writing a memoir on witchcraft. Or anything, really, but what makes me a subject matter expert in witchcraft. Even if it's my journey, my experiences, my practice that I'm sharing, I feel they're not good enough to share with even my closest friends (witchy or not), much less an audience and certainly not in such a permanent fixture as the written word. Impostor syndrome is a bitch, y'all. I get that writers suffer from it, so in that regard, I'm by no means special or unique. But oh my god, just imagining -- and pardon me for a second while my shit brain runs wild with *probably-not-going-to-happen-but-anxiety-is-an-asshole-like-that* scenarios for a second -- DatC calling me and asking me all these questions like these other authors makes me shake in my fuckin' pointy hat. I'm also equally terrified of being the center of attention from a widely read book and the book totally bombing, two polar opposites that literally can't happen in conjunction unless that attention is all negative (which feeds back into the previous fear... you know that's exactly what's going to happen if you publish it, right? Nobody likes you, everybody hates you, guess you'll eat... the pages of your book you STARVING ARTIST). Kinda tied to impostor syndrome, but a fear of its own volition, too. Which is fucking great when you want to be a writer. Like, I want to be published and read and shared around the magickal community, but I don't want to be paraded in front of other people or depended on to shape someone else's craft. That's a fuck-ton of responsibility. A friend of mine put it best: I don't like the idea that I'll be paraded in front of people for that same knowledge. I hate pedestals. I hate receiving that type of attention for something that I'm good at or have specific knowledge of. I don't need to be celebrated like that. It makes me extremely uncomfortable to be put on display like that. That is, in a nutshell, exactly how I feel about being the "center of attention." Think about it, though... in order to have any chance at a successful book, you need to market and promote not only the book, but yourself. You have to pretend you're someone on the outside looking at you and your work, and going, "Hey, I just read this awesome thing by this pretty cool chick; we should add it to our reading list at the book club!" Basically, you're peddling not just your written work, but who you are, what makes up you. Sometimes, I'm worried I'm not good enough to market like that. Am I really worth that kind of effort, those accolades? Worth even giving a chance? Before writing this, I Googled "impostor syndrome when writing a book" (as I'm wont to do) and came across this post from Neil Gaiman. Yes, that Neil Gaiman. I've always been impressed by his ability to weave mythology into compelling tales appropriate for this century, and I instantly became a fan after reading American Gods. (Who didn't, though.) Anyway, I was surprised to come across this post, in which he answers a question from a reader about impostor syndrome and asking about his experience with it. You can read the post in full here, but in pertinent part: Some years ago, I was lucky enough invited to a gathering of great and good people: artists and scientists, writers and discoverers of things. And I felt that at any moment they would realise that I didn’t qualify to be there, among these people who had really done things.On my second or third night there, I was standing at the back of the hall, while a musical entertainment happened, and I started talking to a very nice, polite, elderly gentleman about several things, including our shared first name. And then he pointed to the hall of people, and said words to the effect of, “I just look at all these people, and I think, what the heck am I doing here? They’ve made amazing things. I just went where I was sent.” And I said, “Yes. But you were the first man on the moon. I think that counts for something.” And I felt a bit better. Because if Neil Armstrong felt like an imposter, maybe everyone did. Maybe there weren’t any grown-ups, only people who had worked hard and also got lucky and were slightly out of their depth, all of us doing the best job we could, which is all we can really hope for. And he's right. What more could we really ask for but just the chance? To do our best and to be recognized for that hard work and effort, no matter what came with it? So, with that, I'm still going to give it the ol' college try (ha, funny, since I'm in grad school... *faint "boos" in the distance*) and work on this memoir. I need to suck it up, write this damn thing, get it edited, and work on publication. It's not a guarantee that DatC or anywhere else will ever reach out after it hits bookshelves or Amazon, and it's not a guarantee that anyone will even buy the damn thing or think it's worth its while... ... but I have to try. Because who knows, I just might get lucky. http://dlvr.it/QYj1qL

When you can't stop trash-talking your ex, or "How to Really Fuck Up Your Kids"

A month or so ago, Tycho accused me of stealing pants from his dad's house. "You're taking all the pants and Daddy doesn't have any of my pants at his house!" Now, the weather had been all over the place that month (yay "fall" in Maryland), but considering how few pairs of pants I had in his drawer, I knew what he was telling me wasn't necessarily the truth. But how do you explain that to a four-year-old? Fortunately, Matt and I have a good enough relationship that we can talk about these kinds of things and sort them out. I told Tycho I was sorry he felt that way and that must have been confusing to hear, I'm sure he has enough pants, but let me text Daddy just in case. And that was that. After a quick back-and-forth, including me telling him to "cut the shit" (yes, verbatim -- have I mentioned we have a good enough relationship?) with saying things like that, even by accident, the problem was solved. And yes, he had enough pants. I give this example not because I want to get that story off my chest (well, okay, a little... thanks for vindicating me, Internet!), but because it shows the importance of not trash-talking your ex. I could have just as easily retorted, "Daddy's lying, I didn't steal any pants!" or otherwise accused Matt of myriad things. In fact, in some ways, it would have been easier to give into the "fuck him!" mentality in front of my son than empathizing with him and saying we'd take care of it. I know it's not that easy for others to just keep their lips zipped, even if opening their mouth is ultimately at the expense of their children's well being. It's sometimes difficult to stop the word vomit, especially if your ex pushes a particular button or, despite the passage of time, you're still not over the fact that the relationship is, well... over. You want to screw him over just one last time, get that final word in, to the nearest audience available... and that happens to be your kids. Of course, the best advice would be "just be an adult." In case you needed reasons to do that, though, here are some ways trash-talking your ex can really fuck up your kids -- and your relationship with them -- in the long run: * Sure, you'd probably love if your ex was never born (or suffered from cancer or a fatal car crash or something equally disgusting and disturbing what is wrong with you) so you wouldn't have to deal with their crap anymore. But the long and short of it is, and as much as you may not want to say it: Your children are half you and half your ex. Trash-talking the other parent ultimately means talking down about half of who your children are... and if you don't think they're internalizing that message, you're wrong. * You're setting a really bad example for them. If you're constantly calling your ex names or regularly insulting them, your children will likely take after you. And would you want to be known as the parent with the foul-mouthed or condescending kid? Hating or fearing another parent doesn't come naturally; it's a learned behavior, and if your child is learning that from you, that makes you a pretty shit parent. * You're legit abusing your child. You may think you're getting them on "your side" (whatever the hell that means), but ultimately, so long as there's no sufficient justification for it, denying visitation, trash-talking, and other forms of manipulation are all forms of child abuse. You're playing with their heads and, ultimately, their lives. Don't fucking do it. * You could lose your child.* I can't stress this enough... if you're trash-talking your ex so frequently that you start to alienate your child from their other parent, or if you're doing anything else to accomplish the same goal, you could lose your child. Be smart, motherfucker. Perpetual shit-talk may be grounds for reducing your custody, and in extreme cases, may leave you with no custody. Do you really want to give up your child because you can't stop being petty? * I am not a lawyer, BTW. Okay, so you've resolved to do better, to be better. Still feeling that vomit rising in your throat? Here are some alternatives that won't have you hugging a toilet: * Just don't talk about your ex in front of the kids! You have friends or family, I assume, right? Fellow adults in your life? Bitch to them about your ex. Sure, they may get tired of it after a while, but at least they won't go through the emotional turmoil your children undoubtedly would. * Related: Don't talk to others about your ex when your children are home. Ever say a cuss word when you thought you were out of your kids' earshot, only to have them repeat it days (or seconds...) later? While they may have a hard time hearing when you ask them to pick up their toys, children tune in when you least expect (and want) it. Tell others not to talk about your ex when your kids are with you, too. * Related x2: Talk to a neutral third party. Divorce sucks, even if you really want it and you're happier in the end. When you have kids with your ex, divorce sucks that much more because you can't just ignore them into nonexistence. Consider getting yourself (and maybe your children, too) a therapist to vent to and help you come to terms with the trials of divorce and its effect on children. * Validate your child's feelings. This goes for when they challenge you by bringing shit from your ex into your home, too. Be positive about the time they spend with their other parent. You don't need to put them on a pedestal or even say anything nice about them. Too difficult? Focus on the activities they did ("Oh, it sounds like the park was fun!"). * Support their contact with their other parent. Just because they want to talk to Daddy on the phone doesn't mean they love you less. Chances are, they miss YOU when they're with Daddy, too. Don't punish them for wanting contact with their other parent; instead, encourage it by dialing their number and giving your kid the phone. Then go to another room, across the house, and punch a pillow or something, idk. * Remind your children that the divorce was NOT their fault. I'm not a child of divorce, but my son is, and I often reassure him that Mommy and Daddy love and care for him very much and that we are better parents for him when we're apart. If you're trash-talking your ex, they're going to believe they were part of the problem and even carry that shit into their adult lives. Imagine telling your kids that their other parent is a "liar," only for those kids to grow up believing they may be liars, too, or that the other parent never told them a truthful thing in their entire lives? Or if you slip and call your child a "liar"... * If you ever find it in your heart to do this -- or, simply, if you want to exercise some empathy -- do the exact opposite of trash talk. Not only will you kill your ex with kindness (and that would drive them crazy!), but it's a message your kids CAN internalize. After all, you purportedly loved your ex at some point, or you wouldn't have made such a beautiful child together. Tell them the positive qualities they inherited from your ex: Their creative eye, their compassion, their soccer skills, even their left-handedness. Even if it's simple, it humanizes your ex, and your kids hear the compliments just as, if not more, readily than the positive message that their other half is important, too. This April, both Matt and I will be celebrating our son's fifth birthday together, in the same room, with no fighting or anything. Can you even imagine?! Not only is there no drama, but our son sees two parents who, despite any reason why they divorced, love him unconditionally and are willing to put aside their own shit for his best interest. Yes, this may take time to accomplish, but while you're waiting for the magical day when you can be within a few feet of your ex without stabbing their eyeballs out of their skull, you can at least quit the shit. For your kids' sake. Mommy, Tycho, and Daddy on Tycho's Third Birthday http://dlvr.it/Q72HWF

Me, Too: Breaking the silence

This post is full of triggers. Please read at your own discretion. TIME Magazine just came out with its Person of the Year 2017, and I have to say, y'all... I'm speechless. The Silence Breakers But now, I'm speechless for the right reasons. Finally, after all this time, we are finding our voices and speaking out against boundaries crossed, opportunities lost, lives shattered. We're telling our stories, not meekly behind computer screens or stealthily to our dearest friends, but with gigantic fucking megaphones. And finally, there are repercussions. Sure, we still have a long way to go; after all, Bill Cosby still admitted to his crimes and walked away, Brock Allen Turner still only served a paltry sentence for rape (and is now fighting that ruling because of course he is), and we have a shameless sexual predator occupying the highest office in the land. Still, there's a palpable shift going on, and TIME recognized it. Sought it. And if #MeToo brought these truths to the world stage, TIME just flicked on the floodlights. And begrudgingly, it's my turn to step into the spotlight. This is the first time I've ever told my entire story, and while it's one of many I could tell, it's the one that stands out most clearly, was the most egregious of them all. I was eighteen when I was raped. He has a name, but he's not famous. He could be anyone; in fact, he's been everyone since. I barely knew him. He worked stock, I was in the photo lab, so we didn't interact very often. He was twice my age, too, so when there was opportunity to talk, there weren't a lot of common interests. But it's not like he was a stranger. It started at a Fort Lauderdale nightclub. I was invited by a friend of his, another coworker who had about seven years on me and who thought it was a great idea to doll me up to go out (she told me later, because this guy had a thing for me). Not only was I grossly uncomfortable in the short skirt and the makeup, but the attention at the club was disconcerting, too: Men of all shapes and sizes and colors and ages grinding up against you, touching you wherever your skin was exposed, and in some places where it was not. I left the dance floor a number of times, only to be dragged out again and again, finally by him. I guess he thought I was "his." One hand on my lower back, pulling me closer, the other steadily pushing other men away. I didn't know you could feel simultaneously thankful (only one guy was grabbing my ass now) and disgusted (someone still has my ass in his hand). He forced a few kisses, too, on my neck and my face and my lips, even as I turned away and tried leaving the floor again. Blissfully, 2am came and the club closed for the night. Since my female colleague had already left -- no doubt because she was hoping something would happen for his friend, if you know what I mean -- he offered to drive me home. I was already past my curfew, so calling my parents was a no-go... so I accepted. I don't remember the drive home, only when he dropped me off and how his hand felt on my thigh and the alcohol on his breath as he tried to kiss me again. I got in quite a bit of trouble last night, but I should have known my parents were the least of my concerns. I avoided him pretty well after that night, only going to the stock room, where the printer paper and ink and all other supplies I needed to do my job were stored, when absolutely necessary and always when I saw him on the floor. Of course, him being occupied by something else didn't stop him from dropping whatever he was doing and pressing me between his body and boxes of merchandise. Cardboard still give me anxiety for the way it feels against my bare hands. I couldn't say anything, though. He had been working there for several years and I was only a teenager -- an adult in the eyes of the law, yes, but a child in every other aspect. I was terrified that saying anything would cast doubt, get me fired, or worse. So I kept quiet and away as much as possible. Where it went from "what a gross guy" to "what have I done" was summer of 2003. My workplace was less than a mile from my parents' house, so I often walked to work. One hot July afternoon, as I made my way to work, a car pulled up beside me and he called out, "Do you need a ride?" It was hot. I had on layers (regular clothes plus my work smock). Things had been relatively calm for the preceding month, so maybe he had changed. Whatever excuse I had, I took him up on the offer and climbed in. "Oh, I just need to grab something from my apartment." Sure... oh, your apartment is a ways away... "This might take a second, do you want to come up?" Um... yeah, you have a balcony, I'll just stand there and out of the hot sun. "Do you want some water?" No, thanks... hey, why are you grabbing my hand... I remember the layout of his apartment. Not really much inside it, just that a tiny kitchen was immediately to my left, a dining area as you step inside, a living room just beyond that, and a bedroom and attached bath the next left, just past the kitchen. I remember thinking it weird that he had such a huge mirror over his bed. I still can't look at myself naked in a full-length mirror. I remember his eyes looking around my entire body as he took away the fun of undressing. Looking up as he took away the fun of oral sex. Looking down to my chest as he took away the fun of penetrative sex. Looking away, not with shame but a grin, after he came and pointed me to the bathroom. I remember the shower stall was like a black hole. There was a pattern on the tile, but I couldn't make it out past the blurriness welling up in my eyes. I hated that I had to use his soap, had to smell like him the rest of the day. Bar soap. Like he was rubbing himself against me again. I don't remember much else, a small blessing. I did go to work that day, a hazy, lazy Sunday. The walk home after closing up felt like an eternity as he followed me slowly in his car, his voice echoing my name. I don't remember responding. Or sleeping, or any of the days that followed. I eventually left that job and that city to attend college almost 500 miles away. I had new friends, went to class, started dating. It was a warm fall evening and I was walking with my boyfriend to the cafeteria for dinner when I heard it: A wolf whistle. And there he was, down the street, walking towards me with purpose. I guess he thought I was "his." He had followed me across the length of the state of Florida to find me. There was no social media at the time, no digital means of tracking my movement, but on a campus of almost 25,000 students, he managed to find me. I don't remember what I said then, either, but my words were harsh, biting. He asked for privacy; I told him no. He asked for another kiss; I told him no. He asked me to take a ride with him; I told him no. He asked me to keep this between us; I told him no. Within an hour, campus police knew of his whereabouts and had him escorted off the premises. Still, I locked myself in my dorm for the rest of the evening, told the front desk not to let anyone in without their student ID, and stayed inside, almost cowering, for the rest of the week. I sought no legal recourse; after all, though they did their job and found him, their reaction when I told them I was being stalked and harassed was far from encouraging. Why would city police believe me. It's been 15 years since, and while writing this out still spikes my anxiety, I feel these stories need to be told. #MeToo isn't just a social movement, it's personal empowerment, and not only for those who share their personal experiences. I've shared aspects of my story several times in the last 10 years, after I bucked up the courage to say, "Yes, I've been sexually assaulted." Of course, the story just gets new layers year after year, since some men never learn and insist women are objects and treat them accordingly. My story isn't the only one adding layers, either. But by sharing my experience, I've had several friends and family share theirs with me, too, either publicly or privately. TIME recently revealed that their photo features an elbow. At first glance, it appears surreptitiously cropped from the rest of the photo, like someone just didn't make the cut, or perhaps a result of sloppy editing. Instead, they reveal it was "an anonymous woman who is a hospital worker who was experiencing harassment and didn't feel that she could come forward." These are the women helped when we reveal our stories. Who truly benefit from the #MeToo campaign. If those in power (or who, like me, feel confident enough to) share their experiences, we may see the true "trickle down" effect and dole out consequences to other men and justice to those who have suffered at their hands. Including my rapist. He with a name, he who could be anyone... and he who always has been everyone. http://dlvr.it/Q4qKw1

My son's gender-nonconformance does challenge me.

I'm going to start this post off with a paragraph I read on a blog: Before anyone asks, no, I’m not some sort of new age, millennial, hipster chic parent living in a commune, attempting to raise genderless, nameless offspring who will one day grow up and decide these things independent of their father and me. (Okay, so maybe I am that parent, perhaps even worse. But I think this should be prefaced with, "I never intended to raise my child as my son... it's just, he had other plans for me.) My son was just shy of two when he started wearing nail polish. I have a ton of colors, and he picked a shiny blue to decorate his tiny nails, little jellybeans dancing on the ends of his fingertips. I thought very little of it at the time, thinking it was cute and, shoot, blue. He babied those nails and showed them off to everyone he could. He's about four and a half now, and today, he wanted to wear sparkly press-on nails to go with his pink button-down shirt. For picture day. And ya damn right, that's what he's wearing. His outfit for picture day, entirely his choice. Including the glitter press-on nails. 😍✨💕 #tychothekid #tychoandnoodle #realmenwearpink #genderbenderA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on Nov 10, 2017 at 5:54am PST I always believed myself a progressive mom who refused to let gender norms dictate what her son did or wanted. To this point, it's been relatively simple, even adorable: The female-centered Paw Patrol shirts from the girls' section, the rainbow tutu and pink galoshes (two sizes too big but worn every day for over a week), and the manicures -- we've upgraded from simple nail polish to the full-on at-home salon experience. But recently, I've been tested. My little gender-creative child recently asked me for a dress. And not just any dress, but one with sequins and glitter and entirely white. Tycho found and wanted to get some pink galoshes and this amazing tutu. 😍 #tychothekid #independentkid #realmenwearpink #realmenweartutusA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on Oct 8, 2017 at 12:59pm PDT It may have something to do with recently marrying my soulmate, an experience and a subject that deserves a post all of its own. I bought two dresses off Amazon, one lace and form-fitting, the other adorned with silver details and tulle. A few weeks ago, Tycho wanted me to try both of them on, and though his preference was for the latter, in each instance, he gasped and said, "Mommy, you look like a princess." It took me a while for the stars in my eyes to dissipate, I won't lie! A couple days later, he asked me for a dress. "A princess dress, like what you have for when you get married!" I paused for a second... did he want a dress because he wanted to be more like Mommy, or did he sincerely want a dress? I told him sure, I'll look around for one, and that was pretty much that. I've already had to go through a rather painstaking effort to get both his classmates and his preschool teachers on board with his penchant for polish and glitter and all things whimsical. Kids have come up to me asking why Tycho is wearing nail polish, and most of the time, it was averted by saying, "He likes to wear it." And I've had to correct a teacher for saying pink is a "girl color" by noting every color is for every kid, and please don't make my son feel ashamed or wrong for liking pink.  Now that they've known him for a few years, literally no one bats an eye at the polish or the pink or anything else wild he comes up with. Tycho requested rainbow nails, so we all have rainbow nails. 🌈 #pridemonth #lgbtqiaplus #tychothekid #nails @doggedveganA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on Jun 3, 2017 at 1:13pm PDT But a dress? I admit, this one is even difficult for me to wrangle. Guess there's more gender normative behavior engrained in me than I like to admit, especially since it's now personal. But maybe he dropped the matter entirely, right...? As Tycho examined and admired his glittering pastel fingertips on the way to preschool, I asked if he still wanted a dress for maybe Christmas or Thanksgiving. He misunderstood me at first, thinking I was asking if he wanted to wear one: "For both!" I clarified it'd be for a present, and he was still insistent on wanting one. "Umm... white, and sparkles, and poofy." I simply can't deny this is who my son is. Shoot, at Target yesterday, he quickly and almost recklessly abandoned a set of Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas for a two-set of footie jammies, one gray background with colorful birds and one pink and white polka dot with a large pink fox face. The disappointment in his eyes when I told him they were 5T and he still fits in 3T was palpable, and we hunted that damn clearance rack until we found his size. The moment we got home, he had those jammies on. Before he was born, Matt and I had a few discussions about what we would do if Tycho was gay. Obviously, we'll love him no matter what; that's not at all predicated on who or what he is. At this point, I don't think Tycho is gay, but it's very clear that he's gender-nonconforming (or, as another beautiful article put it and how I'll always consider it, gender creative). And I never thought I'd be challenged by it, but here we are. His happiness, though, far outweighs my desire to be comfortable, so this Christmas, he'll be getting a white dress. I'll be a bit anxious about it, I totally admit that; this is more pushing my boundaries than it is his, since he's clearly comfortable with his decision. We owe it to our children to let them make their own decisions and, so long as it doesn't harm others (and I don't mean their delicate sensibilities!), to not force them to conform to whatever society deems "appropriate." Tycho knows himself, far more than I ever will, even with the privilege of being his mom. I owe my trust to him, and he deserves every ounce of unconditional love I have. So he'll have that. And his little white dress. And all the love and support he could ever want. My flower child. 🌺😍 #tychothekid #lethimbegreatA post shared by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on Sep 14, 2017 at 5:22pm PDT http://dlvr.it/Q0GQyW

I want the world to know...

You would think that, at 32, I'd have my shit together and at least a few things about myself figured out. You would also think that I'd be more confident with that shit and those things. After all, I'm a grown-ass woman with supportive friends and family, so there's no reason to be anything but confident. It's not like they're going to up and leave (and if they do, were they really worth it?). Here I am, getting ready for this year's Capital Pride Alliance Parade and wondering if I should be going as an ally or as an official "coming out." I didn't think this would cause so much consternation, but the more I vacillate between the two, the more I come to terms with... yeah, it should probably be the latter. But I still find myself nervous, almost anxious, about it. Will people believe me? Hell, do I believe me? Is this me trying to be different or unique, to fall in a certain category because it'll ruffle feathers? Or is this just an attempt to fit into a group when, really, I have no experience, so what the hell do I know? I've put this "confessional" off so long for fear of these questions and more, but I'm doing it anyway, fears be damned. So let me start here. Put it black and white. For, you know, the whole world to see. Because that's not nerve-wracking at all. *huge, deep breaths* I'm bisexual. (That wasn't so hard, now, was it?!) (Nah man I admit I'm shaking a little. Chickenshit!) Okay, I'll admit. I've said this aloud to a small handful of people before. I've even posted about it on Facebook, I think. It's always felt flippant, though, almost defensive, like I should deny it because I'm in my 30s and shouldn't I have known this ages ago? Or... basically, regurgitate those previous questions until my brain is literally spinning in my skull. Thing is, I'm pretty sure I've known for a while, potentially as early as puberty. This, I've never told anyone before, so buckle up, bitches, we're taking a trip down an oft-forgotten destiny path on Memory Lane. (And now the nerves are really kicking in!) When I was around 12 or 13, I hung out with this girl friend. Our parents were music colleagues, she was in chorus, and I was starting out on violin. I honestly don't remember other details of how we met or how we got to hanging out -- were our parents meeting regularly and we came along for the ride? -- but suffice it to say, we were around each other regularly. At that point, I had maybe had a crush on one boy, a classmate in elementary school, who made my hands sweat and my heart race, like all school-age (and, let's be real, adult) crushes do. I remember asking my fourth grade teacher to pass a note torn from my notebook to him (why did I think I could trust her with that??), in which I basically poured my heart out. I'm not sure if he got it, but he did invite me to our Fifth Grade Dance, for which I was sick and unable to make it. Cue abject disappointment! Other than him, I hadn't had any other crushes up to this point (and, learning much later in life that I'm also demisexual, how few crushes I had growing up no longer surprises me). I don't even know if I had a crush on this girl, but it was obvious she had one on me, and I was both attracted and more than complicit in experimenting. But I had so few experiences -- okay, I had no experience! -- that I didn't know what this feeling was or any idea what to do with it. I honestly let her, in her relative infinite wisdom, take the reins and lead us to wherever the path was going to lead us. She appeared much more confident than I did, more willing to show me the ropes, but she also realized it was probably taboo, even in a pretty liberal, "out" musical community. So perhaps it was blissful irony that my first kiss, my first time touching another person and being touched in a way that made me quiver from head to toe, was with a girl... in her bedroom closet. ... I feel like this needs to be a longer piece at some point, maybe as a project for my master's program or something (because I need something to write about!). But for right now, just digging up that memory is enough, especially considering the residual feelings of conflict, feelings I haven't processed yet and therefore can't vocalize. Unfortunately, this lovely woman passed away a few years ago, and I feel terrible that I had never reached out after our parents parted ways in our mid-teens. I don't know what I'd say, how I'd feel, or what (if anything) would come of it... but she was, for all intents and purposes, my first foray into sexuality and in truly experiencing feelings for another person. I really hope, if she hadn't by then, she found herself before leaving this world. This year, in addition to honoring this newfound (or new-expressed) part of myself, I honor her memory. Not as someone who was LGBTQIA+, because I honestly don't know how, if anything, she identified, but as someone who was confident enough in herself to reach out in every sense of the world, and who ultimately reached out to me and opened my world, too. I'm not quite sure how to end this. I don't think there is an end, really, so maybe absentmindedly trailing off is apropos. I'm excited to attend this year's Pride Parade, nervous to do so as someone officially "coming out," and still taken aback by how this memory bubbled to the surface literally as I was writing this post... but I know this is just the beginning. Thanks for all your support. http://dlvr.it/PKC1FW

Withholding.

via If there's anything I learned recently, it's that withholding sharing your partner's positive qualities (the "say") or affection (the "do") with your partner themselves can make or break a relationship. Having Matt hold them back from me broke ours, in a way that led not to an explosive end, but a quiet fizzle and a whimper of defeat. It wasn't just that the "say" or the "do" were withheld; they were replaced with sarcasm, tear-downs, and critical eyes, done because he was "uncomfortable" with sharing any sort of praise or affection. While sex itself was never an issue, there was no warmth, there were no hugs, there was no hand-holding or kisses. There was little appreciation for accomplishments big and small, just wondering what more I could have done. There was no trusting environment, no place to find solace within the four walls of our townhouse, and after a while, the walls inside my head started to become a less safe place, too. For the longest time, I thought I had failed. I felt rejected, unworthy, dismissed. After a while, I had little integrity and self-respect. The life was sucked from me despite a façade showing a happy face to the world; I didn't mean anything to my partner, so how could I mean anything to anyone else. After a while, I started withholding, too. Not to the same extent, but whether because I didn't feel like sharing his positive qualities when none of mine were acknowledged or because I was actually starting to feel less like he even had any positive qualities, I had already started building my fortress, walled myself against the painful lack of affection and sealing my own away. Talking didn't help. Fighting didn't help. We're three weeks away from being able to file for divorce (thanks, Maryland), and while that's been good for us in many ways, for this, it still hasn't helped. Worse, I started to wonder if every relationship would have the same foundation: Lacking clear and kind communication, denying romance or sweetness or affection, feeling complacency instead of love, refusing to share good and bad because you certainly could and should have done more, squelching that part of yourself because why bother when your partner will never return it. A month or two ago, Tycho was throwing a tantrum in the kitchen over wanting cookies and milk despite not finishing his dinner. While I didn't give in to his demand, I did sit on the floor, at his level, and wait for him to compose himself. After a few minutes, through hiccups and tears, he asked again if he could have cookies, and again I said no; the next question he asked: "Can I have a hug?" When Tycho is upset, one of the first things I'll offer him is just that: a hug. It's his reset button, and it assures him I'm there for him no matter what. In my arms, he feels safe, calm, and open, and he's more willing to give me his all. My hugs are his judgment-free zone. I'm much older than he is, obviously, but I still sometimes feel like I need the same: A safe, calm, and open environment where I can truly be myself and know I'll be readily accepted, no matter what. I didn't have that in my marriage; if anything, I had the opposite, and it affected how I cared for myself or what I thought I was worthy of. I held back so many emotions because I felt unsafe. But now... now I share myself with someone emotionally intelligent, open, empathetic, caring, and yes... safe. It goes both ways, too; despite still occasionally feeling inadequate or fake (because, after so long denying you feel this way at all, actually expressing it is akin to acting), my emotions and sentiments toward him are entirely real, and I am so goddamn thankful to have that space to share my entire self with someone I love with every fiber of my being, and for him to feel the same. I sometimes wish I had this in my marriage. It would have made for a freeing and rewarding experience, being able to share yourself fully with someone, for that someone to celebrate you fully, and to return the favor with zeal. But... while I never it there, I'm lucky to have had the opportunity to experience it at all, share my all, and celebrate him, too.  And damn right, I'll be sure to point out every last amazing thing about him. ♥ http://dlvr.it/MxHZdY

Why I will not abandon the United States... and why you shouldn't, either. (Even if you really fucking want to!)

via (and a great related article) I am fortunate to have so many wonderful friends around the world, some of whom I've never met in real life. They are in places like Australia, Germany, Sweden, Canada, South Africa... literally scattered across different continents, each as beautiful as the next. At some point or another during the presidential primaries, they have all offered me and my son safe haven where they are, with no time limit and with every intention to make us staying there a permanent thing. On Tuesday, the United States made history by electing a man entirely unfit to run for any political (or other) office, much less the presidency. We did a complete about-face from President Obama by electing someone so heinous, so unbelievably crass, so lacking moral fiber... but white. And male, I may add, considering his running mate was white, too. The racism and misogyny from this election is almost impossible to comprehend... how could we do this. I've joked about (and... erm, researched) seeking asylum in another country several times during this election season, especially when Trump won the Republican primary. I knew he would get it, and knowing how zealously marginalized white men (and some other individuals!) have felt with a black president in office, I knew Trump would be our president-elect. That same night, Canada's immigration site crashed as like-minded Americans sought to get the fuck out of what they never signed up for in the first place. I've done the same, and when my friends have reached out saying they have space for me and Tycho, no doubt... I considered it. I'm still considering it. You know what, though? I can't leave. Not because I physically or logistically or even eligibly can't. I can, and I have ample opportunity, as well as some fantastic people willing to help me and my son create a new homeland and start a new life. But this election is now so much bigger than me and what I want to do. It's turned instead into what I, and others on the same side, need to do to protect our women, our LGBTQ+, our Muslims, our disabled, our blacks, our immigrants, our people. Our Americans who, because of their minority status, will be treated like second-class citizens by at least half the country and, equally horrifying, their leadership. Even if their policies never materialize, both the rhetoric from the primaries and how Trump emboldened a group of people to outwardly express their hatred for minority groups have already done their damage. In fact, that is probably the more dangerous part than any policy Trump could ever dream up or attempt to implement: outright bigotry is now normalized. But it's not too late. Now is our time to work towards reversing that damage. Republicans (or conservatives) against Trump, I know this will be reminiscent of watching your best friend completely blow it on the dance floor (that is, awkwarrrrd)... but you're in a particularly excellent place to change the establishment from the inside out. I implore you to become active in and even employed by your local, state, and federal government to directly change rule of law that will come from your own party or wing. Democrats (or liberals, or progressives -- holla!) need to hold Trump accountable to the law, to the Constitution, and to the truth. The real truth, not Trump's warped, narcissistic, self-serving version of that truth. Write in to and call your government officials at all levels, assemble grassroots efforts to protect those who need it most, and make your voices LOUD and CLEAR. You make up half this country, and your voice will help those who cannot speak for themselves. And everyone: We have the power of dissent, we have the power to be advocates. A group of Americans are already using that power to protest the election in several major metropolitan areas across the United States, and even if this inevitable inauguration happens, the fire needs to keep burning. It will be a long, busy, exhausting four years, and they will almost absolutely bring some awful policies, broken families, personal struggle... but if we all work together, we will do our part to ensure we don't free-fall into the worst situation fathomable. America: I love you. I truly do. I love every last one of your citizens, for all their flaws and convictions. And despite wanting so badly to leave as the writing on the wall surrounds us... I stand with you, and I will stand for all your citizens. Plan. Mobilize. Listen. Empathize. Stand up. Be heard. Work fast. Care for yourself. And don't leave... FIGHT. via via via http://dlvr.it/MdLd6P

Telling myself the truth.

via I've often been accused of being able to "get over" something quickly like it's a bad thing, or act as if the feeling associated with a bad situation doesn't exist, or move on and "discard" things I see as negative influences in my life with seemingly no consequence. Most recently (and frequently), I've been accused of compartmentalizing. Samhain is when I typically reflect on the past year, what all has transpired, and what I may learn for the coming turn of the wheel. This one brings with it some interesting challenges: Moving out, custody agreements (and disagreements), making a life on my own, graduate school, breakups and makeups and breakups again... this year really ran the gamut of life-changing, sometimes sucky experiences. And yes, for the most part, I've been able to separate the feeling from the fact, accomplish what I needed without a lot of fuss or muss. I initially found that ability not at all detrimental; in fact, I found it beneficial, as I could disentangle myself from the emotional bullshit that comes from the situation. I explored this more when prompted this week to write a poem using Dorianne Laux's Heart as the example. Choose a word, reflect on it, then write a poem of metaphors. I originally had "compartment" at the top of my assignment, thinking that would be its direction. The more I researched the word's meaning, though, the less I thought it applied: Compartmentalization (in psychology) is an unconscious psychological defense mechanism used to avoid cognitive dissonance, or the mental discomfort and anxiety caused by a person's having conflicting values, cognitions, emotions, beliefs, etc. within themselves. So it did end up being inappropriate; while I do have my coping mechanisms, there's no cognitive dissonance experienced by removing the feeling. It's just... removing the feeling in the first place. Freudian psychoanalysis provides more appropriate ego defense mechanisms: Isolation occurs when an individual separates ideas or feelings from thoughts or situations, notably those producing anxiety or stress, and often replaces them with purposeful happiness.Intellectualization, a form of isolation, concentrates on the intellectual components of a situation in particular so as to distance oneself from the associated anxiety-provoking emotions (that is, thinking to avoid feeling).Third perceptual position is a way to "achieve" intellectualization, where the individual adopts an independent observer role to gain new perspective and simultaneously removes their own emotion from the situation.They're not great coping mechanisms by any means; in fact, after finding these, I readily see why someone would say I'm stoic or avoiding or, more positively, able to "see the silver lining" in everything. This especially comes to light when I think about the last year and the biggest change therein: Deciding to divorce. Even here, I waxed poetic about getting my best friend back when, all defense mechanisms aside, I was destroyed and thought myself a failure. I hated asking for a divorce, I hated feeling like I didn't do enough, and honestly... I hated Matt, too, for his part in why I asked. I refused to deal with the emotions as they came up, instead trying to find some reason for being and a glimmer of hope when all I wanted to do was collapse in my new kitchen, alone and dejected, and sob. It does eventually rear its ugly head, resulting in a depression lasting for days or even weeks at a time, but in an effort to get the shit over with, I emotionally isolate. ... I don't really know what I'm doing with this post. Maybe, by virtue of finding and internalizing my findings, I can do a better job feeling emotions as they come up rather than subconsciously positioning myself as a third party. Maybe this is just a way of recognizing and there's no real need to change. Maybe... maybe this is a big fat fuck you to anyone who thinks I'm without emotion because frankly, how many people are open about hearing others' struggles? Who really wants to hear that my divorce is killing me? Who asks "how are you" with true intentions of wanting to know, rather than doing it out of social convention? And after almost 32 years, who wants to believe I'm anything but happy? I suppose this is me telling myself, it's okay to feel shitty sometimes, even in the moment. It's okay to acknowledge it, to feel it, to express it. It's okay for others to think you have no emotions, but it's reasonable to expect them to take those emotions seriously when you do feel them and express them to others, as they do exist and are felt and are often experienced deeply. If they're not okay with that? Well. There's their big fat fuck you. If they are? Then thank you... thanks for helping me acknowledge and feel and express, even if it's difficult for both or all of us. Especially if I struggle. ... I really don't have much more to say on this. But it feels good to finally tell myself the truth. http://dlvr.it/MY11tX

Why my divorce is a good thing.

via (and a great article to boot!) It's been about a year now since we informed the world of our impending divorce, and it'll be another three months or so before we can file. Before anyone says "sorry" again, this has been a good thing for both me and Matt. We are, by and large, far happier apart than we were together, and our happiness cultivates better parents for our son, who remains the most important thing in our relationship (and will likely bind us for the rest of our lives). I just happen to reflect on this now, as the wheel turns again and I find myself pondering loss, death, and ends. The American Divorce Story is so laden with such things, it's difficult to imagine it being anything but. This past year, though -- as I struggle to find my footing, carve my path, and stand straight as a soon-divorcee facing the 32nd turn of her own wheel -- I discovered it is anything but. I've learned who I am and what I want out of life, and it's not stuck in something that drags both me and my partner down. This past year, I've become me: The badass, independent goddess with an inner rock star who doesn't take anything less than the absolute best from herself and her partners. I'm no longer compromising, and whether I feel the first pang of rejection or if I (gasp!) fall head over heels in love, I will still have myself and my dreams. I've learned I'm not, in fact, a crazy person. While Matt and I were toxic for each other and I certainly won no Wife of the Year awards, I was still pretty convinced I was a complete failure at everything I attempted. Getting out of a self-destructive relationship and on my own helped me recover from the years of emotional beat-downs. Each bill paid, each good food selected, each piece of furniture or knick-knack meticulously placed, each time I fixed something on my own (with no one looking over my shoulder telling me it was wrong) became a personal testament to how capable I truly am. I've learned my belief I was "boring" wasn't reflective of me. This really stuck out when I had a difficult time writing my OKC profile; while I consider myself relatively interesting with some pretty cool hobbies and talents (and I'm a writer, so this should be easy, right?!), actually telling strangers about myself was incredibly hard. I kept seeing myself as insipid and never worth anyone's time. From the dates I've been on, though, I may be worth it after all! I've learned I made the right decision. Of course, no one wants to wake up in their 30s (or ever) with all their shit packed in a corner of the basement just waiting for the house to sell so you can move to a new apartment... alone. No one wants to question if staying would have been better than leaving because your home is suddenly so empty. But then you get that reminder, the cosmic two-by-four across the back of your skull saying, "What a dumbass! And not you... the other guy!" There have been moments even during this separation period where I was reminded how little respect was given to me, and those moments cement my decision every damn day. There will come a time, I'm sure of it, when I have a life partner by my side who supports and encourages and respects me for who I am, and for whom I will be equally enthusiastic to support and encourage and respect. Until then, I'm happy to continue growing me... to face the darkness head on and emerge on the other side, truly reborn. http://dlvr.it/MRbnfY

Reach for the stars... you're guaranteed to hit something good along the way.

You guys. YOU GUYS!! I can't believe I haven't written about this sooner, but the overwhelming joy swept me off my feet with such gusto, I didn't even think to say anything here. I got into grad school!! OMG OMG OMG!!!! Okay, so! After graduating from Florida State in 2007 with my BA in Creative Writing and Music, I applied to a Creative Writing master's program through the University of Central Florida, where I was promptly denied. Too little life experience, they said, and I agreed, tucking my tail between  my legs. My spirit was crushed; all I ever wanted to do was become a writer and flourish in a community of like-minded creative souls, and receiving that rejection letter drove a stake through my heart. The next several years were spent getting a degree in Legal Studies and doing paralegal work across Orlando and, after moving, around Maryland. The job was great and I learned a whole hell of a lot, but I wasn't fulfilled; it wasn't until one of my best friends, Sam, referred me to a legitimate writer/editor job that I got my "big break" into the professional writing world. Getting into grad school remained in the back of my mind, though, and after some encouragement and a Graduate Open House that had me literally writhing with excitement, I finally bucked up the courage and applied. Many, if not all, of my writing samples came from this blog, and my Personal Statement (or Statement of Purpose) shirked convention by talking not about how I've "always wanted to be a writer since developing my first short story at the tender age of seven," but about already being a writer and what the grad program, its instructors, and my fellow classroom colleagues could learn from one another. Two long, agonizing months passed with no word. Once they received my final letter of recommendation and the status on my account changed from "incomplete" to "awaiting decision," I checked nearly every other hour for something, anything. At that point, while my heart would have withstood damage beyond belief, even getting a rejection was better than the waiting game. And finally, after going three whole days without obsessively checking my account, I received this email: (Can I say, thank GOD they include "Congratulations!" in the very first line?! Even before opening the email, I was running around the office!) I am OVER THE MOON!! There are literally no words adequate to describe this level of exuberance and the want to jump out of my own skin. I start this coming semester with a Poetry Workshop, which is awesome on so many levels: (1) I've never done a poetry workshop, and just thinking how it will enhance my writing is daunting and exhilarating all at once; (2) I consider my writing poetic already, so studying actual poetry will only expand those horizons; and (3) my academic advisor and the department head opened up a new section just so I could be in her class. She personally re-reviewed my application and said she thought a poetry workshop would be fantastic for my writing, so she ensured I had a spot so I can study with her. AMAZING. Amazing!!! So, in celebration, and considering I'm sure several others are looking for MFA Personal Statement inspiration (because I legit googled the SHIT out of them before drafting my own), here's my submission. May it serve as fodder for your own graduate application packages. :) Love love LOVE to y'all!! Personal Statement Stephanie Fox, prospective graduate student UBalt MFA: Creative Writing and Publishing Arts Concentration in Non-Fiction I’m a veritable unicorn of the literary world, a writer lucky enough to actually do what she loves for a living. … well, okay, the work isn’t exactly what I want to do, but I get a steady (and livable) paycheck every two weeks to write and edit a plethora of different materials every single day. The rub? I’m a government contractor, so what I end up writing is limited to technical documents, the security workforce, professional certifications, and the Department of Defense. Not quite what I’d call riveting, though I try to write in a way that’s not drier than a well-done filet. You know, something palatable. My work is certainly challenging, though; not a day goes by when I’m not genuinely thankful to pursue my passion, push the boundaries to write creatively and develop intriguing imagery for an otherwise mild industry and audience, and—let’s face it—put the exorbitant amount of money I already put into my undergraduate education to good use. However, between this career and the preceding six years as a paralegal (since, as implied, actually getting a job related to your undergraduate degree is easier said than done), I’ve noticed my own personal writing pursuits trending towards a distinct flatness and, eventually, a rather boring voice. I had an incredible undergraduate experience. My first two years were spent as a Music Performance major, an up-and-coming professional violinist playing in full orchestras, smaller chamber ensembles, and solo works. The equally (or exceedingly) creative people around me were nothing short of inspiring, and I drew on a lot of that creativity and talent as I progressed through my degree. Halfway through my junior year, I decided to double major in Creative Writing and instantly found an equally (or exceedingly!) creative group of aspiring novelists and essayists, all working together to hone their individual talents and foster a community that encouraged others to pave their own destiny paths. For the remaining year and a half of my college experience, my writing improved dramatically, my portfolio increased exponentially, and my voice sang from the rooftops (on key, of course, considering my musical training). I loved reading my classmates’ work and getting their comments back on mine, critically examining every line for intent and purpose while appreciating the work as a whole and how each line played its part. I ultimately discovered a fondness for creative non-fiction, learning to see my life as a narrative and turning ordinary life and any little experience within it into an introspective work of art. Nowadays, I’m paid to write and edit for a major government organization under the DoD umbrella. The love for critical examination cultivated during my undergraduate career and its writing community gave way to becoming a subject matter expert in my field, offering editorial expertise and constructive criticism when nitpicking my colleagues’ writing. But it’s a lonely life, being the only writer and editor in my division and one of two in my entire directorate, with no ability to have others review my work with the same fervent desire to find meaning as I did in the writing community from years ago. I recently attended a Graduate Open House for the University of Baltimore’s Creative Writing and Publishing Arts MFA Program, where I had the pleasure of meeting potential future classmates guided by a similar passion and love for the written word. Simply listening to them discuss their experiences, desires, and dreams was inspirational; I heard the hunger in their voices, the craving for experiencing and influencing others’ writing while developing their own voices as those around them experience and influence them. I practically wriggled in my seat when Dr. Kendra Kopelke, with her devotion not only for poetry but for helping her students “plork” (or finding play in your work, if any of my colleagues—stuffed to the gills with overcooked, unseasoned meat—could ever imagine such a thing!), danced and gesticulated and took my imagination to new heights as she described the program and her students’ accomplishments. In her own right, and if she is any indication of how other professors in the MFA Program approach the written word, Dr. Kopelke was the one who truly inspired me to file my graduate studies application with UBalt. I’ve obviously overcome one major hurdle in every aspiring writer’s narrative: “I want to be a writer when I grow up,” and I’ve managed to do just that by firmly establishing a career where I write every day for a modest living. No mean feat, but this achievement comes almost at the cost of my personal expression. In researching MFA programs around Maryland, I discovered one that pushed creative limits and nurtured each student’s individual energy and spirit while offering that work-life balance. More than anything, being an MFA student at UBalt would provide the opportunity to commune with other fervent and talented writers, foster a new creative community where I could both develop myself and help develop others, grow as a writer while finding balance between my professional work and personal “plork,” and bring that passion back into my voice. Then, once again, I will sing on-key from the rooftops. http://dlvr.it/M3sR6F

Medicine Cards: Armadillo

I was writing out a list of personal boundaries (because honestly, I've never done it before, and now being in my 30s and writing them down, I see how important they really are) when the armadillo came across my Facebook feed. I found it interesting, so I did a little investigation on the animal totem and discovered this story. I swear, the Universe sometimes works in strange ways... Armadillo wears its armor on its back, its medicine a part of its body. Its boundaries of safety are part of its total being. Armadillo can roll into a ball and never be penetrated by enemies. What a gift it is to set your boundaries so that harmful words or intentions just roll off. Your lesson is in setting up what you are willing to experience. If you do not wish to experience feeling invaded, just call on Armadillo medicine. If Armadillo has waddled into your cards, it is time to define your space. [...] It may be time to ask yourself the following questions: (1) Am I honoring the time I need for my personal enjoyment? (2) Do others treat me as a doormat? (3) Why do I always get upset when I am taken for granted? (4) Is there a reason for my being a "yes" person? [...] If you have no boundaries, you are like a sponge. It will seem as if all the feelings in a room full of poeple must be yours. Ask yourself if you are really feeling depressed, or if this feeling actually belongs to the person you are talking to. Then allow Armadillo's armor to slide in between, giving you back your sense of self. [...] The underside of Armadillo is soft, but its armor will protect this softness if the boundaries are in place. Hiding from your true feelings and fearing failure or rejection will amplify your need for cast-iron protection. You have the power to rid yourself of these doubts and to touch the deepest part of beingness. You will know you are doing the right thing. Overview: Respect your Sacred Space. Drop hesitations and banish abuse. Use proper boundaries and thrive. via http://dlvr.it/LqZlDK

Cracked.

via  I'm not going to crack. There's too much in this world that brings me joy, pleasure, excitement, unbridled happiness, and to forsake all that for the darkness that envelops me... I can't crack.  It's so easy to forget all that is good when your perception of the world flatlines. Not really dead, but not really here; hovering just in the middle, where even finding something truly enjoyable is suppressed by the weight of all things heavy and disheartening and depressing.  I've been like this for a couple days now with no real sign of the clouds lifting. Those of you who also suffer depression know it just happens -- one day, you're driving down the road on your way to work and you wonder if it would really be all that bad if one of the two-by-fours in the truck ahead of you dislodged and flew through your windshield. It's not a serious thought, really, but you're struck by how little you believe that matters, or that anything actually matters.  All the energy I have is devoted to mustering even a breath. Writing this? Difficult, considering I can't feel my arms. And the voices in my head telling me "you're worthless, why would anyone want to stay, don't say anything, keep to yourself, you're shitty and no one loves you..." they end up taking away that energy to breathe, to type, to rationalize.  But I'm still here, and at this point, that's really all that matters. I have a beautiful boy and a strong love keeping me afloat, though neither understands what's going on or how to help, if they can at all. Sometimes, all you need is for your son to laugh uncontrollably as you make "tickle bubbles" in the pool, or for your partner to offer their hand... not grab it, not drag it over, but let it be there for when you need that lifeline.  And I have myself. That doesn't feel like much right now -- in fact, having myself feels more like a burden than a blessing, especially as I continue keeping others' feelings in consideration and further neglecting myself by telling myself how undeserving I am. When I return, though? I'll have myself, truly.  Something good has to come out of this. I can't be "gifted" with this ugly, manipulative monster and not see how his existence can actually better my life when he's vanquished (until the next time, at least). I've been dealt a hand containing all these shitty low-value cards, but what if they amount to a royal flush?  In that spirit, and in the interest of finding a bright spot somewhere, here are my Top Nine Good Things About Depression:  1. I have become pretty self-aware.  I mean, I consider myself a pretty "happy" person a majority of the time, which is probably why it shocks others to the core when I fall victim to depression. Those moments, though, when the darkness sets in and your world comes to a standstill while the planet continues revolving, act as a viewfinder into who you are and force you to become introspective.  As a result of this questioning and analyzing, you have a better perspective on how your behavior affects yourself and those around you, and you take active measures to remain cognizant of both. Many great creators -- artists, musicians, poets, writers -- have experienced depression at some point, and it's likely this introspection that leads them to the art they create.  2. I am more empathetic.  Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve, but I've noticed those who speak little to others actually reach out to me in need. I like to think struggling with your own inner demons leads to a better understanding of what's important to others, and when you share that importance with them, it makes them feel appreciated and valued. I've had some fascinating discussions with people who want only to be heard by someone who truly wants to hear about their passions.  3. Depression helps my thinking.  Okay, not all the time -- see the two-by-four. There are times when the thoughts only serve to hurt you. But those less threatening obsessions and ruminations actually become fodder for analytical thinking. Your brain is constantly on the treadmill, running through its monstrous thoughts ("he hates me, he never loved me, and why would he considering who I am"), then once you realize it's the monster thinking and not you, seeking ways in which that monster is wrong.  4. I don't have a choice about staying physically fit.  Yoga is one of my mainstays for staying sane, so I practice at least twice a week. I'm developing a home practice, too, with the help of some killer podcasts. I've also developed a link between eating well and positive days; perhaps more importantly, there exists the desire to drown myself in carbs and cheese and chocolate and other crap food when I'm feeling down, and that only serves to make me feel even heavier (in more ways than just physically).  I'm by no means disciplined, and sometimes I do give in to those desires -- my lunch today is leftover lasagna, speaking of carbs and cheese -- but eating better and exercising means feeling better, too.  5. I am less judgmental.  You've heard the demand for people to pull themselves "up by their bootstraps," right? Even if they're giving their all, it's never enough for those who believe everyone can do better. Being disabled by a disease that wrecks my life to varying degrees every month or two, I know firsthand just how difficult it is to tear yourself out of bed and brush your teeth, much less the effort someone may need to put in every day to accomplish at least that much. I also know what it's like to be judged by these efforts, and like hell will I ever judge anyone for putting in the most they can, even if it seems very little to those around them.  6. I've cultivated compassion.  When you have experienced the want to cry in the middle of a board room for no reason at all, you become attuned to people who want to do the same. Even listlessly staring into space can be sign enough that someone needs to know they're valued, they're loved, they're important. Now when I see someone tearing up, I instantly tune into my intuition, feeling the weight of their sadness, and offer a hand or a hug if they want. It's nice to know someone recognizes it and cares about you, even if it's a small gesture of kindness.  7. I retreat!  This is a constant work in progress, but I know I get angry and lash out when I fall into a state of depression, and I've learned to say little or to watch my tone when I do speak. It's difficult to keep others' needs in mind when you're not even focusing on your own, but being an asshole when depressed doesn't help the other person, especially since they're likely not the cause. I've even resorted to, "I love you, I just don't love myself right now, and I don't want to say anything I may regret later. I'm going to read for a bit," just to remove myself from situations.  9. Every day -- and every little thing -- counts.  I've truly believed this in the first place, anyway, but when life is so difficult you feel like literal crap, it's so easy to fall into a negativity trap and allow it to consume us. Good days are easy; I can appreciate the warm sun, my favorite shows, satisfying sex. Doing this when you're depressed? Like you're not already running a marathon to get yourself out the door, now I need to appreciate things, too?  Those little things you take for granted when you're happy feel herculean when depressed. Like right now, I am typing, breathing, and listening to music, all the while feeling nothing... so my exercises are to appreciate the ability to read, the clean air mingled with others' lunches cooking up (and their great cooking, if it smells this good!), and the guitar riffs lining up beautifully with the vocals.  Even as I write that, it puts me into the present, and those problems or emptiness I felt moments ago lift temporarily. For people suffering depression, there are these brief windows of respite, and those times lead to really clinging to those positive thoughts until they dominate once again.  "You have a track record of making it through every single day up to today." And I do. While not every day has been sunshine and roses, I'm still here, and I still right. And when mingled with the sun, these tears will only grow my garden.  I like it - I'm not gonna crackI miss you - I'm not gonna crackI love you - I'm not gonna crackI killed you - I'm not gonna crack     http://dlvr.it/Lp3KG2

I edited Brock Allen Turner's simpering letter to the court.

An article from Business Insider came across my Facebook feed recently, republishing a letter Brock Allen Turner, convicted felon and rapist, wrote to plead the court for (I can only assume) a more lenient sentence. While he certainly got that, while reading over his letter, I noted he missed some important details and had an awful lot of "I" and "me" statements for a rapist. I'm an editor and strive to provide the most information possible to my audience, so considering the lengths to which this letter will reach and how it may actually strike a chord in some, here's my attempt to fill it in. (Some parts I had to just plain strike out because... really. He said it. Without a shred of irony.) The night of January 17th changed the life of my victim forever. I can never go back to being the person I was before that day, but I will always be a rapist. I am no longer a swimmer, a student, a resident of California, or the product of the work that I put in to accomplish the goals that I set out in the first nineteen years of my life never mind; quite frankly, no one should care, as I brought this on myself. Not only have I altered my life by raping an innocent woman and getting caught in the act, but I’ve also changed [redacted] and her family’s life. I am the sole proprietor of what happened on the night that my victim's life changed forever. I would give anything to change what happened that night. I can never forgive myself for raping [redacted]. It debilitates me to think that my actions have caused her emotional and physical stress by unwarrantedly and unfairly forcing myself on an innocent woman. The thought of this is in my victim's head every second of every day since this event has occurred. These ideas never leave her mind. During the day, she shakes uncontrollably from the amount she torment herself by thinking about what has happened. I wish I had the ability to go back in time and never raped [redacted]. She can barely hold a conversation with someone without having her mind drift into thinking these thoughts. They torture her. She goes to sleep every night having been crippled by these thoughts to the point of exhaustion. She wakes up having dreamt of these horrific events that I have caused. I am completely consumed by my poor judgment and ill thought actions. There isn’t a second that has gone by where I haven’t regretted forcing myself onto [redacted] (and moreover, where I haven't regretted getting caught). Because of my actions, her shell and core of who she is as a person is forever broken from this. She is a changed person because of me. At this point in my life, and if I ever have any hope of changing my actions, I never want to have a drop of alcohol again. I never want to attend a social gathering that involves alcohol or any situation where people make decisions based on the substances they have consumed rape or force myself onto anyone. I never want to experience being in a position where it will have a negative impact on my life or someone else’s life ever again. I’ve lost two jobs solely based on the reporting of my case, as I well should have, as I am a danger to society. I wish I never was good at swimming or had the opportunity to attend Stanford, so maybe the newspapers wouldn’t want to write stories about me. I'm having my own pity party because I was caught in an act that, if I an truly reformed, I will never do again. All I can do from these events moving forward is not rape anyone. I know that if I were to serve my sentence to the fullest extent allowable by the law, I would be able to be a benefit to society for the rest of my life, or at least would not be stupid enough to do this again. I want to earn a college degree in any capacity that I am capable to do so my victim to lead a normal life, too. And in accomplishing this task, I can make the people around me and society better through the example I will set by not raping anyone and teaching others that rape and rapists, and not the victim, are to blame. I’ve been a goal oriented person since my start as a swimmer and by believing anything in front of me is mine for the taking. I want to take what I can from who I was before this situation happened and use it to the best of my abilities moving forward. I know I can show people who were like me the dangers of assuming rapists do not come from affluence or that I am entitled to a woman's body. I want to show that people’s lives can be destroyed by people who commit rape, and that I have effectively destroyed a woman's life by being a rapist. One needs to recognize the influence that peer pressure and the attitude of having to fit in can have on someone. One decision has the potential to change your entire life. I know I can impact and change people’s attitudes towards rape culture that protrudes through what people think is at the core of being a rapist or rape apologist. I want to demolish the assumption that victims of rape are to blame, and my decisions hurt someone because I, and I alone, committed them against another innocent person. But I never ever meant to intentionally hurt [redacted]... well, no, I never meant to get caught. My poor decision making and belief I would not get caught in the act of raping someone hurt someone that night and I wish I could just take it all back. If I were to serve my sentence to the fullest extent allowable by the law, I can positively say, without a single shred of doubt in my mind, that I would never rape anyone again (or, at least, not be caught again). Before this happened, I never had any trouble with law enforcement (because, you know... I was likely never caught or effectively had a slap on the wrist) and I plan on maintaining that. My victim has been shattered because I am a rapist. I’ve lost my chance to swim in the Olympics because I am a rapist. I’ve lost my ability to obtain a Stanford degree because I am a rapist. I’ve lost employment opportunity, my reputation and most of all, my life because... you guessed it, I am a rapist. These things force me to consider my actions, face my sentence with my head held high, and offer my sincere apologies and retributions to my victim.I would make it my life’s mission to show everyone that rape happens because RAPISTS RAPE, not because of anything the victim did or will do. I will never rape anyone again, which will ultimately be a betterment to society. I want no one, male or female, to have to experience the destructive consequences of rapists raping them, or their family members, or friends, or any other human being, regardless of affiliation. I want to be a voice of reason in a time where people’s attitudes and preconceived notions about rape and rape culture have already been established. I want to let young people now, as I did not, that things can go from fun to ruined in just one night if you commit a felony and rape someone. There... that's better. http://dlvr.it/LXct8C

Samhain, death and rebirth, and our relationship

In early August 2009, Matt asked for my hand in marriage. In late August this year, I asked him for a divorce. Halloween 2010 marked our wedding, a joyous occasion celebrated with loving family and friends. This year, Halloween is marked by a prominent realty sign and opening our doors to potential new homeowners. And the world, it keeps on turning... via The cycle of birth, growth, death, and renewal plays over and over again through natural systems and human lives. Embracing these cycles is difficult; it begs the acceptance of things coming to their ends, naturally or otherwise, and forces us to consider what may come as we are reborn. Regardless of our desire for things to remain the same, they are in constant flux and will continue to change. Tomorrow is Samhain, and as the growing period ends and death lingers in the air, I can’t help but consider these cycles and the inevitable, sometimes painful evolutions that come with each revolution. In our lives, we experience death in so many ways: Loved ones passing, losing jobs or homes, a person changing in ways you never expected. This year, we experience the death of our marriage. The allegorical roller coaster we rode through the majority of our relationship finally stopped when I asked for a divorce. Realistically, I endured it for far too long, and I determined I was done riding. I mean, I don’t like roller coasters, anyway; why was I forcing myself, and why make someone ride along with me? While incredibly sad in so many ways (and some days, I still mourn the eroded foundation that led to this inevitability), in the time following my request, Matt and I have discovered what we first had and what we ended up losing along the way: Our friendship. We have returned to our bantering, our genuine care and love for each other, and our common goals. And now, we have a piece of each of our hearts that walks outside our bodies, a beautiful little boy who forever binds us. The world around us is dying, leaves are falling, the ground is cold and unyielding, and our wedding vows follow the same path. But in this death, we’ve rediscovered each other. I don’t regret getting or being married; saying I do would deny the importance of everything I’ve either gained along the way, not the least of which is our son, or my decision to take full responsibility for my own happiness. Nor did Matt or I fail at anything, just decided to get off the roller coaster once and for all and explore the rest of the park instead. We started our relationship as best friends, and as we end our marriage, we return full circle to that very sentiment. When I reflect on our 10 years together and five since our wedding, the really shitty parts are of course seared into memory, but I have to remember what amazing good came of it, too. To put that aside to focus only on the shit blatantly rejects that which tied us together in the first place, and the tie to which we return. So, our dear friends and family: Mourn the loss, provide your support, maybe even offer us a hug. We would surely appreciate that! But as the year continues and the earth springs back to life, know that we’re seeing our relationship the same way. In the end, and as we embark on our new journeys at the turn of this wheel of the year... I’m so, so happy to have my best friend back. http://dlvr.it/CbkBjy

Let your true voice sing

This past week has been particularly eye-opening and challenging. Along with all the other changes going on in my world now, just in time for darkness to reign supreme and for thoughts to turn even deeper inward, my world was rocked by some well-timed messages speaking directly to my soul. Call it a cosmic two-by-four, if you will. Literally everything has been about the throat chakra (vishuddha) and jalandara bandha (“throat lock”): A yoga class, some well-placed readings, situations where I need to remove the blockage and let my words flow, a reminder to “speak ye little and listen much,” and a gift of lapis lazuli. A photo posted by Stephanie Fox (@letitproducejoy) on Sep 24, 2015 at 6:56am PDT Like, seriously, okay… I got the hint. ;) The vishuddha is the body’s voice, a pressure valve which expresses energy from the other chakras. If blocked or out of balance, it can easily affect the health of all other chakras; in balance, it allows for the easy expression of what we think and feel. Personal truths are brought into the world, and the energy between body and spirit flows freely and easily. This concept lends strongly to being impeccable with your word, a lesson learned from don Miguel Ruiz in The Four Agreements. The most difficult agreement we can make with ourselves -- and the one we must make in order to make the others -- is to acknowledge and honor the power of the word, both internally and externally. Being impeccable leads to personal responsibility; every word you say holds the power to create the world around you. As a force for expression and communication, one must begin with powerful, positive words towards one’s self; only when we do that can we project those powerful, positive words to those around us. I’ve been told multiple times my vishuddha is blocked or underactive. I guess I need to start believing it. ;) Most people pick up relatively quickly that I’m not one to speak my mind except when vitally important, reserving myself instead to burying those thoughts. And yes, part of it is strictly my nature; I’m an internal thinker, rarely sharing what goes on in my head. What they don’t know is the reason why. When I was younger, I was very shy, quiet, and highly empathetic. The moniker “mighty mouse,” given to me by an elementary school teacher and carried with me through most of my life (much like “giggles,” ha), applies more than just to being strong when small, but to my quiet nature, too. I learned very early on that speaking up meant potentially starting conflict, something I absolutely loathed, and experiencing situations where my voice was drowned or tuned out. Instead of rocking the proverbial boat, I’d either swallow my feelings or apologize and back down when I did say something in disagreement with another. Emotions, thoughts, ideas, and so forth were all pushed down in favor of nodding in mock agreement and going with the flow. This was reinforced as I grew older and through certain life situations, and eventually, I started to really believe my thoughts weren’t worth hearing. With time -- and especially recently -- these “negative” emotions blocked up any opportunity to express the “positive” emotions, leaving me unable to speak any words at all. Sure, I appear very jovial on the surface, and by and large, I really am. But I’m admittedly terrible at communicating pretty much anything, reserving my word instead for the benefit of others rather than to express my opinions and thoughts freely. As a result, there have been several times when refusing or finding it impossible to speak my truth created a personal reality that, quite honestly, holds little water compared to what actually exists. Inevitably, it’s led to a lack of confidence, assurance, and self-love. So, as the bruise from being whacked so hard with that two-by-four subsides, I’m determined to create my own reality from the ground up, to acknowledge that which actually exists and state it in a way that makes me believe it. It also means shifting from “I’m not worth hearing, so best to keep quiet” to “I may not speak much, and that’s okay, but when I do, I am worth hearing.” A distinct shift towards conscious confidence, even if it’s faked at first: Much like smiling, it eventually becomes second nature. It takes a confident person to express themselves honestly, openly, and lovingly. I’m not in control of how others deal with my personal expression (and I need to let go that anyone’s opinions or feelings are more important than my own), but I am entirely responsible for creating my own reality through the power of my words, and that means being responsible for and impeccable with my own sense of confidence. And really, I owe it to myself. I’m ready to speak up, to open my vishuddha, to create the confidence I should have to create the reality I will come to learn I deserve. The truth about truth is, if you don’t express it, you continue to enable that which doesn’t feel good or right. Time to open my goddamn mouth once in awhile. :) Positive Affirmation: I speak freely and with confidence. It is now safe for me to express my feelings and to create the life I desire. Everything I do is an expression of Love. http://dlvr.it/CFyL10