One single focus.

It has been a MINUTE since I’ve written anything. Not just on here, but like – anything. I’m a writer, and process everything through words, but the last thing I wrote was the last post on this blog & that was a year and a half ago.

It wasn’t because I was lazy, or unmotivated, or had nothing to say. I actually had a lot to say. I was consistently biting my tongue and sitting on my hands in an attempt to keep myself from writing.

Last fall, I went to one of my monthly appointments with my knee surgeon & y’all, it wasn’t great. I thought I was doing everything I possibly could to get myself up to speed, but he hit me with a heavy dose of hard reality. He told me that I could either choose to step up my game & get the reward of living a fully active life, or decide to go at the rate I’m going and never be able to be active in the capacity that I was used to again. Either way, I had to choose immediately.

When I went into my MACI implant, I had no idea how hard the recovery was. My surgeon never sugar coated it — I just couldn’t grasp the toll it would take on me and my mental health. In my mind, I was moving mountains. I did my physical therapy, I tried to eat well, I worked out a few times a week. But I wasn’t getting the results needed to get over the line separating me from being athletic again. On top of that, my metal health was in a rough place. I was depressed, unmotivated, and lost the fire in my belly I previously kept lit regardless of my situation.

After spending a good day being pissed off at my ortho, I did a lot of self reflection. I realized that the reason I was so upset over what he was saying was because it hit me to my core. I was exposed. Online, via phone, in face to face conversations, I was so good at selling that I was working as hard as I could to recover. But the reality was that I did the bare minimum. Did I eat well? Sure. If you count a healthy lunch as eating well & throw away the multiple nights per week that I ran to McDonald’s or Papa Ray’s. Did I exercise? Yup! Twice a week I went to my gym downstairs and hung out on an elliptical for about 45mins before lifting a few weights that I knew I could lift — never once actually pushing myself. Did I do my physical therapy? Yeah! (I mean, sometimes, maybe once a week, and because I wasn’t doing it enough, it always hurt too much for me to progress so it was like I was on one of those mall toddler trains that just keeps going in circles, not wanting to admit to myself that the ride kinda sucks and I might be too old for it because it was easier to sit on the train and pretend to be happy about the ride than come to terms with the fact that I should really be going on the larger, scarier, rollercoaster or something, ya know?).

I was good at two things: 1. Starving myself for a few weeks so I could lose a dozen pounds & then gain it all back because I was starving. 2. Lying to myself to the point where I was genuinely convinced I was pushing myself enough to make a full recovery because I didn’t know how to do it alone. But now my surgeon exposed me & I was so naked that even I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.

So I decided the next year would have one singular focus: health. Mental and physical. No writing, no trying to balance my social life, no dating, no worrying about advancing my career or education. No shows, no feeling bad about not performing, no staying home to read or watch TV. Everything – every single project – was put on hold so I could focus on my health.

That’s not easy for me. I’m a creative and my impulse is to take on too much. I love being passionate about projects I abandon two months later. I love juggling multiple parts of my identity. I love writing and reading and going home after work to watching dumb shit on TV. But I wasn’t succeeding in handling multiple things at one – so why not just try switching it up?

Step one: Get back to the gym.

For the longest time, I wouldn’t join a gym because I have a BEAUTIFUL gym in my building. Like, three rooms complete with a pool and boxing ring, kind of beautiful. And I justified my rent because of the amenities, so why pay for a membership? It would be throwing money out the window, right? But why the hell does that matter if I’m not using it? For two years, I wasn’t able to get myself to exercise consistently enough to make progress, no matter how strong a burst of motivation was, so why would that change?

The only time in my post-high school life that I ever did well with consistently loving to exercise was right out of college. I joined a gym & made great friends who made working out the biggest highlight of my day. I knew that I needed to get back into group fitness because I’m a former team sports athlete and nothing will push me more than a good leader and wanting to hold my own against my peers. My surgeon gave me the OK to do anything that wasn’t cardio (unless it was on a bike or in a pool). So I rejoined my old gym, made friends and everything was easy.

Just kidding. It was actually really fucking hard. The first class I took was a spin class, which I used to do all the time. I could barely get through the warmup. But by some collision of the universe, my former college professor (who knew everything I had been through over the past few years) was my instructor that night & I finished it. The second class I took was Bodypump – something I also used to take regularly – and I cried after it. I couldn’t do anything with my lower body. I didn’t account for how mentally difficult it is to go back to something you used to be able to do & not be able to do it like you used to. Everything that I lost in my accident came back to me and I was pissed as hell.

Plus, being at my old gym made me miss my friends. I was lonely. I wanted them back. I envied everyone who had gym friends. I envied everyone who could hold their own during class. Honestly, I was just jealous and angry all the time. But I decided to take that energy and transform it into motivation. My back was against the wall – what was my other option? Not being able to be physical again? Wasn’t the whole point of this crazy ass surgery so I could be physical again? So I showed up. And I asked for help. And I was vulnerable and honest and opened up about my injury. And that vulnerability and honesty led to people helping me, checking up on me, motivating me & being forced into my friendship because I love a good cult. I gave myself the space and freedom to be a beginner again. To not be hard on myself. To do as much as I could that day, feel proud of it, and not compare my journey with anyone else’s.

The second thing I needed to work on was losing weight. Not only did I put on weight in a way that felt uncomfortable to me, but my surgeon kept stressing how the rate of success, and longevity of my implant, would increase if I lost weight. So I decided to finally love myself and eat healthy without starving myself & the weight came off and you guys I’m so happy!

Just kidding. I starved myself. Not starve starve, just “starve”, ya know? I didn’t not eat, I just ate as little as I could while on a fad diet and counted E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. Everything. Guys, I literally logged seltzer (WHICH IS NOTHING BUT WATER WITH THE ESSENCE OF FRUIT) in an app. I swore off bananas. I ate salads WITHOUT DRESSING. I didn’t eat beans because some book told me they were too inflammatory. Then one night, during a spin class, I pushed myself harder than I normally did because I was getting stronger, and I almost passed out. Like had to call my mom and stay on the phone with her until I got home because I was so scared of fainting and bashing my head on the sidewalk.

So I threw away the diet books, deleted my apps, and decided to take a different approach. I love healthy food. I was never someone you had to force to eat fruits or veggies – I just liked them. And my mom taught me enough about nutrition that I was already equipped with the knowledge of what food was nutritious & would give me energy. So here I am – someone who loves healthy food and is slowly but surely loving herself more and more. It seemed easy, right? Just eat the healthy shit you already like, the stuff that makes you body feel good, and stop eating the shit that doesn’t make you feel good. And it was that easy. Which is why I fucking hate diet culture. There’s an entire industry making money off convincing us it’s hard. They thrive and make money off our self hatred. They want us to think it’s so hard & that we need their secret formula to lose weight. It’s not. Eat things you know are good for you. I didn’t put anything “off limits” because that made it feel like something shiny to miss. Instead, each meal I prepared or ate out, I asked myself if there was a way to make it healthy. Usually there was. And if I really wanted fries instead of the side salad, I got the damn fries. And getting them that day usually got them out of my system enough to not make a run to McDonald’s out of impulse & instead limit them to that meal on that day. I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, I just chose to make it healthy more often than not and stopped eating when I was full.

Which leads to painfully slow weight loss. I’m taking a pound a week maybe when I used to be able to lose five in a week. But my life wasn’t dictated by some dumb diet & here I am a year later, still able to eat healthy and continue losing weight. I got to know myself on a different level. It took a lot of reconditioning to not get disappointed by how slow it was, but I got there. I realized that the daughter of a defensive lineman for the NFL will never be skinny. It’s just not going to happen. And at the end of the day, that honestly wasn’t the type of body I was aiming for. I wanted to be strong – and knew I could be strong. That was always my advantage in sports. When I cheered, I could lift anyone. In softball, I was a power hitter and third baseman. I knew I could be strong. So I started caring less about the size of my waist and instead fell madly in love with the way I was able to master technique, push my endurance or up the amount of weight I could lift. And I fell madly in love with the way my inner strength was now being reflected in my muscle definition.  I just wanted to look as strong as I felt. Slowly but surely, I fell in love with my physical self for honestly the first time ever. And that shit’s powerful. And I didn’t have to count my calories to get there.

Traditionally, I’m someone who shouts my goals to the world. I thought it would keep me accountable. I wanted to be complimented on my journey. I wanted social media to think I’m cool. That I’m inspiring and motivating and DOING. IT. In an effort to try and keep away from old habits that never worked in the long term, I decided to be a little quieter this time. I posted maybe 1/10th of my journey. I instead put my focus on doing the work. I wanted to smash my goals first. And honestly, I’m so sick of diet culture that I wanted my life to be more interesting than showing progress shots. I showed what I was eating when I made a bomb ass vegan dish. I also showed myself shoving a cheesesteak in my mouth on my birthday. I showed gym selfies when I felt good or defeated but I also showed the days where I watched hours of the Masked Singer with no pants on. Because my days were no longer controlled by wanting to prove what I was accomplishing through social media posts or blog posts telling you all what “worked for me” when I only made the changes a few months ago. I wanted to weave my new way of living with all the other parts of me that are beautiful and worthy of praise as well.

There aren’t going to be before and after pictures. I hate before and after pictures. I’ve posted before and after pictures in the past. I hated myself during those years – big or small. The reason I posted them in the first place was to get approval through social media because I hated myself. They tell me that I’m supposed to be ashamed or embarrassed by who I was. That the person on the right who is smaller is somehow better because of her physical appearance alone. Fuck that. The person I was last year is a fucking beast. She was terrified but showed up. She learned how to walk three times. She decided to put aside everything to focus on her mental and physical health. She entered a space where she didn’t look like she belonged and made a home out of it. She proved she belonged and worked harder every single day to become who I am today.

And once I started doing what was physically good for my body, the mental health aspect fell back in line. My depression stopped ruling me. Was every single day great? Did I feel strong and capable all the time? Hell no. Honestly there were several times I left the gym in tears because I felt so broken. There were days where I couldn’t get out of my head. Days where I felt defeated and that I’d never be enough. Where I felt like an imposter or fraud. Those days still pop up every now and again — hell, I had one on Tuesday. But despite what my brain is trying to tell me, I always show up. And the good days start to outnumber the bad days so often that you can live with the bad day, knowing that it’s temporary.

So, I smashed last year’s goal. Smashed it so hard that it’s so intertwined in my daily life that it’s no longer a goal. What was my secret? That there’s no secret. Show up for yourself everyday. If you hate a type of exercise, then don’t do it and find something else that you like. Eat food that makes your body feel good and strong. Don’t deprive yourself of anything. Give yourself permission to be a beginner. Be vulnerable and honest. Don’t lie to yourself. Ask for help. Fuck diet culture. Stop starving yourself and start fueling yourself.

Let me know if and how I can help. I wouldn’t have made it through this past year without the tribe of people lifting me up each day. I tried doing it alone. It didn’t work. It took being vulnerable & allowing myself to let the same people who motivate me be there for me on my bad days too. It took being patient and comfortable with fear.

With last year’s goal done, it’s time to focus on a new one for the upcoming year. And like last year, I’m going to let my actions speak for themselves.

But I can say that you’ll see a lot more writing from me.

November 7th, 2003

It has been quite some time since I wrote a post about grief.

I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it’s that I’ve had so many things happen recently that I’m too distracted to think about my dad. Maybe it’s because I typically write during downtime at work and am unwilling to go there. Maybe it’s part of getting older and distancing myself from my dad’s death. Don’t get me wrong – I miss him often. The Eagles Super Bowl, my brother having a baby, my nephew’s music career taking off… but it has been awhile since I’ve felt true grief.

Today I’m breaking that streak.

I’m writing a book about the year my dad died. All of the time I’ve spent on the book so far has been on the events leading up to his accident. The weight of replaying his death was pushed aside as I reveled in taking a walk down the path that led me to my 8th grade friends. It stung a bit when I talked about the ways my dad and I didn’t quite see eye to eye but I’ve made peace with a lot of that.

Maybe I’m more of an optimist than I give myself credit for because I didn’t think it’d be hard to replay the days right before his accident. I thought that since I replayed them in my mind hundreds of times, writing them down would be no different. Oh, how naive I was mere hours ago. Because as I started to write about the last time my dad picked me up from school, I had to choke back tears and fight to keep myself together until I got to a good enough stopping point to grab my stuff and head back to my apartment.

I know writing this book is ultimately good for me. It’s helping me realize things about myself that I truly didn’t know existed. It helps me process my thoughts and gives me some sort of control over such a horrific part of my life. But sometimes it reveals parts of me that I wish didn’t exist.

My guiding light is to be as truthful as humanly possible when writing about events that happened fourteen years ago. The whole reason I’m writing this book, aside from my own selfish desire to record my life and prove that I went through it for something greater than pure pain, is that I want other kids going through similar situations to know they’re not alone. I would have given anything to know a story like my own when I was a teenager. I would have loved to be told by someone who has been through it that it’s okay not to be okay. That I’ll never fully have it all figured out but the good days will eventually outweigh the bad and at the end of the day, the worst year of my life would also hold some of the best days of my life. So I’m not masking how I feel, which I’m coming to find is hard as fuck.

The chapter that got me today is called November 7th, 2003 and is about the last time my dad picked me up from middle school. He called me out on wearing a skirt that my mom told me I couldn’t wear to school and I was irritable. He took me out for ice cream and our conversation was forced. He was trying to reach me and I just wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be reached. I was a pissed off teenage girl who just wanted to be anywhere but with her parents.

I told him that he needed a new car. I was embarrassed because we had an old car and I was now going to a school where a lot of my friends were more well off than we were. He told me the only way he could afford one would be if someone crashed into him. I secretly hoped it would happen. I didn’t want him to be hurt, or anything like that, I just wanted the car to be banged up a bit so we could get a new one. That’s not what I’m having a hard time with. I understand and accept that it was an uncanny remark that ironically foreshadowed what was to come. While I was convinced at first that those words caused my dad’s death, I didn’t live in that ridiculous theory for more than a day or two.

The part that haunts me the most is what came next. My dad parked in our driveway and sat for a few seconds in the driver’s seat. I wondered why he wasn’t getting out. I followed suit and allowed the awkward silence to float over the car. After a few more seconds he looked at me and said the sentence that I wish I could erase from my brain.

“Sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.” 

“Of course I do!” I shot back. But despite my best attempt, I don’t think I convinced either of us. He smiled at me, got out of the car and headed into our apartment. I remained there and felt like I had just been punched in the gut. Because the truth was, I couldn’t find it within myself in that moment to love him. I wanted to. I knew my dad was one of the best around and that even our recent inability to see eye to eye couldn’t erase that.

I sat in the car for a few minutes eating my ice cream between sobs. I wanted so badly to be able to tell my dad that I loved him and mean it. I searched and searched for the love I knew he deserved but kept on coming up empty. I wanted so badly to be able to run up to him, throw my arms around him, and tell him that I loved him but my broken thirteen year old heart had been through too many changes in too short of a time and I blamed him for all of it. In the moment, I couldn’t tell him that I loved him. And I knew I couldn’t fool either of us.

I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I knew my dad was a good man and that I was lucky to have him as a father. I wanted so badly to say that I loved him, I knew deep down I did, but I didn’t feel it in my heart. I couldn’t help but wonder – What was wrong with me? Why was I so broken?

After calming myself down, I made my way up to our apartment. My dad, resilient as ever, already outwardly moved past what must have been one of the most heartbreaking exchanges of his life. He was all smiles when I walked in, as if nothing had happened. Looking back, I’m sure I hurt him. Every parent fears the day their child resents them. While they recognize that it’s the natural way of things, and that it’ll pass, no one enjoys the moment it knocks on their door.

And I know every teenager goes through a period like that. But not every teenager’s dad gets in a car accident the next night that would eventually end in his unexpected death.

That’s what’s so cruel about losing a parent at thirteen. You don’t get to grow up and apologize for how selfish you were as a teenager. On the day you finally realize everything your parent did for you, they’ll be long in their grave. You don’t get to look back and laugh at the way you acted and you don’t get to make up for your mistakes.

With my mom, I was able to have that conversation where I tell her I see how much she sacrificed for us and she tells me it’s a mother’s job. Where I tell her that I’m sorry for the way I treated her and she reassures me that every teen is like that. I didn’t get to do that with my dad.

And yes, I know he knew. I’ve been told every single comforting phrase from every single person in my life. He’s watching over me and knows. Everyone is like that as a teenager. He would never want to see you beat yourself up. He loves you and you love him and that’s what matters. I’m a good person.

But there’s a difference between the closure you get when you can have that physical conversation with someone and trying to read the mind of a ghost.

No matter how much I’ve tried to forgive myself, or how many times I’ve been told that he knew I loved him, I’m sitting here fourteen years later with the same pit in my stomach and hole in my heart. And honestly I don’t think it can be repaired. The only way I could ever patch it is if I had been able to have a conversation with my dad about that day. That opportunity is just something that can’t happen.

And that’s okay.

We all have sharp, broken pieces. We can smooth out as much as possible, but there will always be some holes. It’s part of being human. We try to ease our suffering as much as possible but there will always be some things that hurt as bad as they did on the day we got those wounds. And we will spend so much time trying to twist them and pretend they’re not there. We’ll search for any words from friends, family, therapists, teachers, books… anything to try and fix it. Our loved ones will try and patch it up for us because it hurts them to see us hurt. But at the end of the day, we can’t fix everything. And that’s one of the most beautifully human things about us.

I don’t hate myself and don’t live every day regretting what happened on November 7th. It’s one unfortunately timed day out of a million wonderful moments that made up my relationship with my dad. It wasn’t the defining moment. My worth isn’t defined by that single exchange and I can live with what happened. Most days I forget it even happened.

But sometimes it creeps up, or you decide to rip it wide open by writing a book about your life, and you want to crawl back into your thirteen year old body and hide away in you reading teacher’s classroom or group therapy room or behind your stack of books. Those nights are hard, lonely, and unable to be smoothed over with good intentions or reassurance.

I’ve been down this road before, and know that at this point in my life, it ends with waking up tomorrow feeling fine. But tonight I’m sad. And that’s okay. Because my dad died as the result of car crash when I was thirteen and that really fucking sucks.

That’s what grief is.

It’s ugly, it’s uninvited. But it’s real, and it’s the truth.

Teens these days.

(Photo: Carol Kaliff, Hearst Connecticut Media)

Today kids across America walked out of school to protest gun violence and the inability for our government to pass common sense gun control.

That’s incredible. I can only imagine being a government & politics teacher, or any other branch of history/American studies, and witnessing your students actively participating in and organizing peaceful protests. Or deciding not to participate because they didn’t agree with the protests. Either way, it’s a teach by doing moment. It’s teaching kids to be actionable instead of simply memorizing facts or spitting out theory.

Facebook is flooded with posts of alum, teachers and parents talking about the school walkouts or walk ins, where assemblies are being held in memory of the students killed due to gun violence. CNN is live-streaming the walkouts and the words of our CT Senator Chris Murphy. Across the nation kids are holding up signs stating their beliefs and desire for the adults in charge to be actionable. They are no longer complicit and trusting that adults will get the work done. The Parkland students showed them that their voice matters even when they are unable to vote. That you don’t have to wait until you’re 18 to voice political opinions.

I was young for my grade and didn’t turn 18 until I was in college. I remember being furious that I couldn’t vote in the primaries that year, even though I would be 18 by the general election. I was always highly opinionated when it came to politics, thanks to my mother who was always a well-informed citizen and my brother, who walked into the Democratic Headquarters at 16 to start volunteering. I would tag along with him, making calls to remind democrats and independents to vote, checking in on our elderly residents to see if any needed rides to polls, attending Chris Murphy’s debates when running for Congress, joining the Young Dems chapter my brother helped start and my favorite part of the process: going from poll to poll on election night to watch them count then ending back at Headquarters or a restaurant to hear the results roll in. I couldn’t vote, but I was more engaged in the political process than most adults.

Which was why I was furious when adults would undermine my intelligence in my teenage years. I would often hear that my opinions, and the opinions of my peers, were just echos of my family’s beliefs. I understand the thought, and recognize that may be true in some cases, but I could never understand why my civics teacher would take so much time explaining our nation’s workings to us, only to tell me that my opinions were just something I inherited from my parents when I got in a fight with a classmate over Bush’s reelection. Of course my family influenced my beliefs, but I was also smart enough to research and act on my own. I was old enough to hold opinions.

I remember a car ride where my mom and brother were talking a politics. I listened without much input, thinking instead of my recent civics lesson on political parties.

“What if I’m a Republican instead of a Democrat?” I asked my family.

I was constantly the lawyer of the family. I always wanted to think about situations from a different angle. A contrarian, always thinking of the other side before agreeing with my family.

“Your beliefs line up with the Democratic Party,” my mom replied.

“But what if they don’t? What if I’m a Republican instead?” I asked.

“Then you can be a Republican.”

I went home and did all the research I could on both parties. I spent hours trying to understand the difference and political platforms. I weighed policies against my moral beliefs and found that I did side with the Dems.

All of this was done my freshman year of high school. Clearly I was already intelligent and thoughtful enough to question my beliefs and recheck them against my political affiliation. My thoughts and opinions haven’t changed much. They evolved slightly with the times and my maturity. Whereas I used to think we should eliminate marriage entirely, calling everything a civil union, so we can eliminate the religious context of marriage, I’ve realized that battle gets misconstrued and calling everything a marriage is a better angle. I used to be much more fiscally liberal that I am today. I used to be pro-choice under medical necessity but am now entirely pro-choice. Tiny tweaks, but my adult mind is still in line with my teen mind.

So I still get angry that I was always underestimated. That adults did not believe that I researched my policies enough. To be fair, this still happens. I was constantly accused for siding with Hillary instead of Bernie because she was a woman, when in reality I thought she was the most qualified candidate we ever had and her fiscally moderate policies enabled me to reap benefits while still covering costs of social security and welfare.

People may say that I was a different type of teen. That not everyone was as mature. Well then, why not teach them to find their own opinions instead of dismissing them?

I think adults fall into an awful habit of thinking kids don’t know enough. We talk down to them and assume they can’t possibly understand. But clearly they do.

Today’s teens are living in a world where any question they have can be answered in a matter of seconds on their phones. Teenagers are actually MUCH better at recognizing “fake news” than we are. Aside from their obvious increased technical literacy, they’re also taught how to seek out information. As students, they have access to online encyclopedias and academic research. They’re constantly being told not to trust sites like Facebook and Wikipedia, and instead fact check every piece of information they want to use. They’re writing research reports and getting graded on whether or not their facts are confirmed. They’re much better at finding the truth than we are.

Without the ability to vote, I believe they’re getting antsy. I remember talking to my cousins, just shy of 18, about how much it sucked to be unable to vote in such an important presidential election. And now here we are, with massive school shootings happening at levels that I can’t even comprehend, and they’re done with us adults. They can’t vote, but they can speak for themselves and remind politicians that they’re voting very, very soon.

We need to stop underestimating kids and instead listen to them. That’s how I treat the kids I babysit. I never want to influence their own moral and political beliefs, so I just listen to them and encourage them to think about where they stand. The other day a kid I babysat was doing a project on trans kids and I found that she knew way more than even I did. I offered no opinions and instead just let her inform me on the topic. When I was watching some younger kids, someone came to the door who was running for local office. What followed was an hour long conversation with the kids about what their platforms would be and how they can run for office within their school. While I would steer at times, like suggesting they invest in scientific research when they said they wanted to stop all hurricanes, I let them carry the conversation.

We invest so much time and money into our kids and their education. But often when they want to show us the results of that investment, we don’t listen. While what happened at Stoneman Douglas was horrific, it is inspiring to see the students use their voices and speak up for themselves when a politician is dismissive of their question. Unless you’re a teacher or school employee, the topic of school shootings will ALWAYS impact the kids in your life more than it will ever impact you. Empower them to use their voices, especially if they’re teenagers. I’m so proud of these teens who are speaking up for the students in Sandy Hook who are still too young to speak for themselves. There are no longer only parents representing their students, but students themselves being actionable.

Keep going teens. Stand up for what you believe in and know that your mind is worthy of respect and your opinions are worth being heard.

Let people lead their own stories.

As a Chicago resident who is also a huge Eagles fan, I spend almost every Sunday of the football season at Chicago’s Eagles bar, Mad River. This past season I went alone for the first time. I was scared of going to a bar alone but figured if I got there early enough, I could grab a bar seat which would make my solo journey a little less noticeable. When I got to the bar there was one seat left at the end next to a woman around my age. I figured she was saving it for a significant other, because I’m a bad feminist, but decided to ask anyways. To my surprise, she was also alone. I soon found that there are a lot of solo riders at sports bars. East Coast transplants who don’t have the energy to convince their Bears friends to peel away from their own game for an afternoon to come to an Eagle’s bar. I spent the rest of the season sitting at the bar and getting to know new Eagles fans.

Over the season, I inevitably made new friends. When you’re spending 6 hours, or 12 hours during playoff games, at a bar, you get to know people well. We exchanged stories of superstitions, trash talked Chip Kelly and shared fond memories of watching games with our families.

After the super bowl, one of my friends and I went back to Mad River for one last drink at the bar that brought us so much luck that year. Without the distraction of the game, we got to chatting about our lives. During the season I had been at Mad River healthy, was absent for a couple weeks, then came back on crutches. As I recovered, I went down to one crutch then eventually was able to start walking without them. Everyone knew I had knee surgery, and made sure to keep a close eye as I stood on the bar pouring champagne into the mouths of fellow fans after our NFC championship game, and she wanted to know the full story. I proceeded to tell her all about the accident and struggles with my first doctor. Before I could get into the story with my first doctor, she asked: “Did he let you get an MRI?” “No!” I responded, with a hint of excitement of recognition in my voice. “You always know a bad doctor when they won’t prescribe a MRI,” she responded. I could tell that she had experience in that area.

She proceeded to tell me a story about how she almost died due to a doctor not prescribing a MRI. When she pushed for it, her doctor still wouldn’t budge so she stopped complaining. On a visit home, her mom forced her to a different doctor, who saved her life with emergency surgery.

I was speechless. Here was this person who I got to know well over the course of several months, and I had no idea that she had such a near death, life defining experience. I knew she preferred American to Whiz but didn’t know why she had a scar on her head. It’s not so much that I didn’t notice it, I just didn’t really care when I saw it. Chalked it up to a childhood accident, or car accident, or who cares what, it’s not my business.

One thing I’ve realized about myself is that I don’t really ask anyone their story. It’s not that I don’t care about the story… in fact, I often find it the most captivating part of a person. I have just realized over time that people will tell you their story when they’re ready to tell you their story.

There are large chunks of my life that I’ve told to a stranger but am not willing to share with my close friends. There are things I don’t want my coworkers to know but broadcast on the internet. There are points in my life where I would tell telemarketers that my dad was traveling, or tell guys at a bar that he worked in IT, because I didn’t feel like being reminded of his death.

I’ve also learned a thing or two through life. My mom always taught me that there were things about people that were far more important than race and when I would refer to someone as “my Hispanic friend” she would press me to help her remember who the person was beyond their heritage. What was their personality? Where could she have met them before? My friends have expressed how much they hate that the “where are you from” question is the first question asked of them. I’ve learned that friends have hometowns they don’t like to be reminded of and asking about family life is not always a warm opening.

Through all those experiences, I’ve learned that we never need to feel pressured to hit every base right away when getting to know someone. I remember I used to hate when I would disclose that my dad died, only to be asked how immediately. I thought that was so self-indulgent. Why does it matter? So you can quantify my hardship? So you can make sure it was a freak accident that wouldn’t happen to you? The only time I was ever cool with it is when people asked because they could relate. My dad died in a car crash, their mom died in a hospital. Not an exact match, but enough of a community.

A lot of times we ask abrupt questions because we genuinely want to know more about people. The intention is fine – we’re curious beings and want to know about the others around us. But after my dad died, and I hated being asked that question, I started challenging myself to not ask other people questions that are too pointed. When I did that, I started finding out that the stories eventually come out anyways… now they just come out on the owner’s terms. I have to imagine that’s a much healthier way to go about things.

For quite a few years, I’ve trusted that I’ll eventually come to know the things about my friends that I’m curious about. I’ll learn their heritage when we’re in the middle of a conversation about our grandparents and they talk about their immigration process. I’ll figure out where they grew up when they tell me about their favorite baseball team. The reason they limp will become evident when they disclose their birth defect after a long night of chatting about god knows what. Eventually everything comes out, we just have to decide who sets the pace.

I usually find more out about people when I’m willing to talk about my scars. I expose some of mine, which makes them comfortable to do the same. Humans want to connect and we will unravel those complexities eventually. Let’s just find a pace that suits both of us.

I don’t always follow my own advice, and sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me, but I try to remind myself to work on letting others tell their own story. Allowing them the space to tell it, but also not asking the type of questions that will force them to. We always get there eventually.

I think the world is a little healthier if we let people lead their own stories.

Striving for Normalcy.

I’ve been thinking more and more lately about myself as an adolescent. There’s something about being 27 that makes my heart hurt for my teenage self. As the kids in my life are making their way into high school and college, I am realizing how young I was when my dad died. I wish I could time travel back to my thirteen year old self and just let her know that her ability to get through the day, however great or horrific it was, is admirable. That everything, indeed, wasn’t fair and there was going to be one hell of a road to come. That a single unfair death wouldn’t prevent losing others she loved prematurely. I’ve become increasingly interested in myself at that age and often try to remember every moment of those days.

Earlier today, a friend posted a status that made me think back to my teen years after my dad died. It reminded me about all of the ways I just wanted to be normal again. I think it’s fair to say that most teenagers just want to be “normal” – whatever that means to them. I wish I could go back and tell myself that I would never be normal again. That when there’s an earthquake nothing ever settles back into place. Instead pieces fall into a different pattern. It doesn’t mean that things won’t be be okay, it just means that you’ll always be defined by this life changing event.

The day after my dad died, my best friend and her family came over. After a long night of tears, denial and pure exhaustion, it was a relief to have them there for me. To be able to talk to someone my age, or not talk at all. She hung out with me in my room for awhile and we cried, talked about school and I’m pretty sure we napped. Eventually we made our way to my kitchen where her parents tried to get food in my family’s bellies, a large task when so much of the real estate is being filled with grief. After lunch, her dad mentioned that it was almost time to go to cheerleading practice. I assumed I was going, and asked if he was driving me as well. All the adults looked at each other until one finally broke it to me that it wouldn’t be the best idea to go today. I protested, saying that my squad needed me there, and I was told that they would understand me missing this practice.

All I wanted to do was go to cheerleading practice. I wanted to work out, be with my friends, and get the hell out of my apartment. I didn’t like the idea of my squad sitting there and finding out that my dad died. I wanted to show up like nothing happened. It was the first time I learned that things weren’t magically going to go on as planned. A few days later, I finally convinced my family to let me go to practice, but with the caveat of my aunt coming with me. I remember thinking it was weird as hell, but if it got me back in the gym I’d roll with it. I walked into my gym and had a pep talk in my head. I knew that I was going to have to set the tone for the rest of the season. As it was before the funeral, no one but my best friends had seen me yet, and I didn’t want to be treated differently. So I decided to go in as happy as I could. After a few good friends who knew my dad got the opportunity to tell me how sad they were, I changed the tone to focus on the practice on hand and had a normal practice. It felt so good to do something I knew how to do. Something that was in my everyday schedule. As I was out of school, and my small apartment was busting with family that lived far away and priests making plans and fruit baskets and cold cut trays and a freezer with so much food in it, we had to find creative ways to store it, I was so happy to be in my element.  A part of me that existed long before my dad died.

The second time I realized people were always going to perceive me as “different” was my first day back at school. I had already seen my friends and some of my teachers at this point, so I wasn’t too nervous to go back. Again, I gave myself a bit of a pep talk at my locker and told myself I can either be pitied or show everyone I was back to being the funny, charismatic little eighth grader I was at the time. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember cracking some sort of joke in my homeroom that felt like the weight of grief was lifted and I could let everyone know I was normal again.

The day I got back was the last day of presentations about the Salem Witch Trials, or something like that. Before my dad died, I finished my project. I wrote something on a piece of paper, and aged the paper over the flames of my stove and pasted it on a little piece of wood that I carved to make it really authentic. I was insanely proud of my creativity. It was actually a bit of a relief to have something to work on during the week I was away. It gave me a distraction and a chance to sneak away in such a crowded apartment. Throughout the day, my teachers would ask who didn’t get to present yet, and we would raise our hands. One by one, the students left to present got called on. Eight kids with their hands up went down to four then down to two. After the second to last person was selected, I figured they were having me go last because I was out for so long and it was only fair. After the last person went, I prepared myself to present, only to find my teacher offering closing remarks and dismissing us back to our normal classes.

I was confused as hell. I had my project – I even made sure she knew I had it by raising my hand. I went up to her after and she explained to me that I was excused from the project due to the circumstances. That I wouldn’t have to worry about the grade because the teachers discussed it and I was good to go. While that may bring some relief to one kid, I was devastated. I tried to hide my disappointment but my chest burned and my eyes were welling. At the time, I couldn’t comprehend why I was so upset. I probably attributed it to how hard I worked on my project only to be deprived of the opportunity to show it off. But I think I realized the last shred of normalcy, the last bit of my life before my dad died, was gone.

With that project, I could have proved to my entire class that I was fine. Nothing was different about me just because my dad died in a car crash. Look – here’s a witch’s poem (or whatever shit I wrote) to prove it! This was made by me before my dad died, and it’ll carry me into the aftermath and prove to everyone that I’m just fine! The first day back at school, and look at Annie presenting in front of the ENTIRE class! But instead I was raising my hand until I was the last kid left and never called on.

I tried to keep my life as normal as possible and looking back, I see that pattern seep into every element. I hated going to the school psychologist, and literally ran away after two sessions. I hated being in her room. Normal kids didn’t have to step foot in it, normal kids didn’t even know who she was. Walking out of her office was a visual representation to anyone who was around that I was different. Instead, I responded much better to hanging out with one of my teachers during lunch and talking about everything (to which I’m in lifelong debt for). While a lot of it had to do with how much I loved her and she cared for me, part of it was also that it was a familiar setting. I knew her before my dad died, I spent plenty of time during the day in her room so it was comfortable to me, and the worst anyone could think was that I was a teacher’s pet. I wasn’t seeing a specialist who was only there for special kids. She was my teacher.

I didn’t respond to any child psychologist. Instead of working one on one, I very much preferred being part of a teen grief group. Instead of having to tell a stranger about my life, I was able to sit in a room of peers and talk about anything from boys to our dead dads, or not talk at all. It made me feel less alone, less like a sad story, and more like a typical teen.

In high school, I hated the inevitable day where a teacher found out about my past. I didn’t like the way people looked at me when they found out that my dad died. I absolutely hated telling them how. I didn’t like people trying to fix me, or break down my walls. At that point, I was still close to my former teacher and already had the people I needed to go to. I wanted to just be like any other student – I didn’t want to be anyone’s Ellen submission tape.

While I went to college in Chicago because I wanted to pursue comedy, I think a large part of my ability to move so far away was because I thought it would be a fresh start. After a teenage life of being defined by the worst moment of my life, I was eager to get the hell away and start new. And while it worked for awhile, I got to the point where I was just shoving every bad part of my past to the side until it eventually blew up in my face. My desire to be normal, in each stage of my life, meant keeping a tight lid on every emotion I had until I was in a situation that I deemed safe enough to spill out a bit – my teacher’s room, my grief group, or in my own room. This caused me to have panic attacks, insomnia and insane bits of anxiety.

I wish I could tell myself that “normal”, as I knew it, didn’t exist anymore. The harder I worked at getting there, the harder it was when I had my moments of clarity where I realized I wasn’t really normal. I wish I could tell myself that the best I can do is pick up the pieces and figure out a different way to put them together. A way that wasn’t quite the same, but still worked for me. I probably wouldn’t listen to myself, knowing myself back then, but I wish I just let shit crash all around me then figure out how to get through it instead of trying so damn hard to hold everything in place.

A few years ago, after suffering the loss of three friends, I got to the point where I couldn’t handle it anymore. I felt like I couldn’t catch a break, and it became impossible to try and pretend that I was normal. Everyone in my Chicago life knew about my friends, so I opened up more about my dad as well. I started writing and talking to my family about my grief. Since I was older, more friends could relate to me and I felt less alone. I realized that living in a new normal, where I acknowledged there was a line in the sand – the life I had before my dad died, and the life that was given to me at 2am on November 11, 2003. I was too far into my new life to ever think there was a chance to jump back. That brought relief to me. As I got older, grief started touching more people I knew and I no longer felt alone. I realized there wasn’t any such thing as normal, rather a set of circumstances we find ourselves constantly trying to navigate. While it sounds sad in theory, knowing that life could never go back was relieving. It’s much easier than striving for something that never really existed, only to come up short.

Everyone you know is just trying to get through the day with the hand they’ve been dealt.  Even the most normal looking person lost someone they loved and is just trying to navigate their new normal. Once we realize we can never go back, I think it’s much easier to move forward.

To the girls in my life.

Girls,

We usually communicate through snapchat and dance parties, cards and sleepovers and many, many jokes and laughs. I think about you more than you may realize and try to live a lifestyle that does right by you. I’ve watched you grow up into young girls, preteens and teenagers and I am so proud of who you are.

I’m usually the comic relief. The cousin coming home from Chicago for a party or celebration. The babysitter who lets you mix sour punch straws with popcorn because I’m just as curious as to how it tastes. The bridge between my generation and your generation… in return for me making sure that you don’t set the house on fire, you serve as as a distraction from the bleakness of adulthood.

I was looking forward to you seeing a female president so early in your lifetime. When I was your age, I didn’t think women could be president. I don’t mean that I didn’t think they’d be able to be elected, I mean that I genuinely thought there was a rule that women were not allowed to be president. I’m happy you won’t be as ill-informed. I was elated at the prospect that for some of you, you would only know a black president and female president in your lifetime, and ready for the task of helping you understand the historical significance of that feat.

Instead you have a president that does not respect your body or mind. One that is racist, islamophobic, xenophobic, homophobic and sexist. I hope you learn what those words mean and then how to fight them. I hope you get bossy and fight back for any of your friends that may fall victim to the bullying or violence that your president elect’s words have incited. I hope you understand the privilege you have and stick up for those who don’t. I hope you are taught history as it happened instead of a PG, whitewashed version.

The adults in this country elected a man that says it is okay to grab your bodies. That criticizes women who do their homework and show up prepared. That has been accused over ten times of assault. That has bullied women for the way they look and harassed them on tape. Who sees us as sex objects or nasty women. And you weren’t able to have a say in it, and for that I’m sorry.

Because someone is an authority figure does not mean that you have to accept their behavior. If a man on the street were to say these things to you, I would have you run as far away as you can from them. Just because the president elect is saying them doesn’t mean you have to support it.

The president elect won’t be the first, nor the last, man to say or do these things to you. I’m not naive enough to think that you will never experience them at school, work or in the world around you. If and when you do, I hope you are bossy. I hope you learn how to say no and that no is the final answer. I hope you scream and yell and seek help when needed. I hope you speak up for other women instead of putting them down. I hope that if you are ever violated, you know that it is not your fault and that those who love you will help you fight back. I hope you never accept limitations and that you promote intersectional feminism. I hope you know that you can love whoever you want to love. I hope you fight like hell to be treated equally, and I hope you win. I hope your generation can be even nastier than mine. You have a lot of fighting to do.

Fight back with intelligence. He’s afraid of your potential. Reclaim the names he calls you. Own being a nasty woman, a bossy kid, an angry feminist. Speak up and work hard. That’s what scares him the most.

Know that there will be a female president. Personally, I hope that our next elect will be a lesbian woman of color. While I’m not sure if it’ll happen in our next election, I know that it eventually will. We just have to work at it.

Work hard, study hard, and don’t let anyone tell you what you should or should not do. Women are not limited. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

my father moved through harm of laughter

I used to write a lot of poetry. It was my main way of coping with my dad’s death. This evening, I happened upon my old portfolio. I found hundreds of poems… from when I was ten to when I stopped writing at about nineteen. Poems about depression, happiness, hope and anxiety. It was such a wonderful look back on my emotions & everything that I’ve been through. But my absolute favorite poem was one that I wrote when I was fifteen about my dad. It was inspired by E.E. Cummings’ my father moved through dooms of love. One thing that I didn’t even realize, until tonight, was that E.E. Cummings wrote this after his own father’s death. Mind blown. This poem is my favorite because I felt like I was able to describe my father in the most vivid way possible. Enjoy.

my father moved through harm of laughter

my father moved through harm of laughter

through duty of charity through need of release,

laughing as we woke as we fell asleep

my father moved through cheer of sadness

 

this strength he bared

though apparent and hidden

would break the sturdy tree in half

a glance of his eye would tear its roots

 

fresh and new though older than most

was the person who, since late october

planted feet in air firmly on ground

raised feet on ground to touch the air

 

and should a child start to weep

my father could sing her gently to sleep

but he kept his wisdom at a hush

though he knew how a rainbow could cry

 

Tearing the grass from a desert

my father moved through victories of defeat;

praising the day each sunset promised

preaching one’s dream into life

 

humor was his song and humor so raw

billy crystal would bow at the presence of a joke

and humorous so now and now so humorous

belushi would cry from one word

 

quick as a shooting start more quick

smart though not bearing a degree

so strictly(and rather apparent

to both of us) stood my father’s words

 

his skin was skin his breath was breath:

no unhappy man but one wished him happiness;

no mute frog wouldn’t croak

endless hours to hear one joke

 

a man just like any man

but a smile that put pearls to shame

his sweat smelled no glory in it

yet the work he put in was idolized

 

his parents were irish and damn proud

yet he was jamaican puerto rican italian

he had but four children to his name

yet a handful came with the new sports season

 

very careful, never foolish in risks

since he was grateful for being forgetful once

his care was not enough to save

for it was another who killed him

 

i am now moved through guilt of innocence

through a life of death

through failure of success

yet through humor i feel alive

 

and nothing quite so least as truth

–i say though carelessness is why i hate–

because my Father lived and entertained

the world will laugh once more.