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Let’s talk about death, baby.

posted 30th November 2011    Written by: Laurenne    CATEGORY: All Posts, Laurenne, What I've Learned

Saturday was the International Day for Survivors of Suicide. You may not think ‘survivor’ is the right word for someone left behind after a suicide, but I think it’s pretty relevant. Every 40 seconds someone takes his own life. And every 41 seconds, someone is left to make sense of it. That one second is a war. Everything that follows is a tsunami. There can only be survivors (see the post I wrote about this on the Huffington Post!).

When you get the call that says your father or your sister or your daughter has chosen to leave the world and everything in it (including you), it’s a shock like no other. And it hurts. I think our first instinct is to make it about us. How could he leave me? Didn’t he love ME?  But after enough years go by, we learn that anyone’s death isn’t about us. It’s about despair and depression and a limited field of vision.

My dad thought he didn’t have any other options. He thought suicide was the only thing for him. Of course there were options. If he would have talked to me or any other of his friends, he would have seen a field of options open up before him. Some of those options would have been hard. He might have had to move in with other people or borrow money or get a job he thought he was overqualified for. His life might have been uncomfortable for a time. So, there were options. But they were difficult. So, he took the easy way out. And that has affected me in every single way.

I developed some patterns from that experience.  I learned that even if you love someone, it’s easy for them to suddenly disappear. This has kept me hesitant to commit. I’ve had problems with my self-worth, believing that I was so lame that even my dad didn’t want to stick around and watch me grow up. I’ve felt an emptiness at holidays. I fear my own wedding because there will be a hole, and it’s a hole that was purposely drilled into my life.

So that’s suicide.

And it’s hard to talk about it. People don’t usually respond well to “He killed himself.” when they ask me what my dad does for a living, which is an oddly common question. People feel strange. They apologize. They backpedal. I can see them thinking back to previous parts of our conversation, wondering if they’ve made any jokes about wanting to die.

Talking about suicide makes other people uncomfortable.

I get it. It’s okay. It’s not something accepted by society even though 80% of people know someone who’s done it. But it’s really a big part of me no matter how the years go by. I’m constantly learning lessons from that very experience. I’m often thinking about it even though it happened almost 16 years ago. It’s part of me. And it’s not okay to talk about it with the general public.

I walked into the auditorium at Cedars Sinai Medical Center on Saturday, and I felt at home. Fifty of us survivors sat in chairs and watched a panel discussion broadcast around the world. The panel shared their own suicide stories, their ways of coping, and what they’ve learned. One man had to cut down his 15-yr-old daughter after she hung herself from a tree. Another girl reminded me of myself. Her dad killed himself when she was 12. I was 16.

There we were, tears crowding our eyeballs as we listened. And then, at the bathroom break, I talked to an older woman. “Who?” “Dad. You?” “Dad too.” “Plastic bag over head. You?” “Rope.” “How old were you?” “23. You?” “16.” “Cool.” “Nice to meet you.”

A few words in a conversation, and I felt the relief of a thousand sighs. It was so nice to be in an environment where people understood. I didn’t have to skirt around the topic. I didn’t have to debate about whether or not I would tell anyone the whole story. We all knew. We all shared the same event. The same grief. The same knowing smile.

And it was beautiful. To be surrounded by people who understand you is such a comforting, beautiful thing. I have waited sixteen years to go to one of those events because I thought I didn’t need it. I didn’t want suicide to take up even more of my life. But, as I learned from all the people in there that day, it really never goes away. And that’s okay. And I might as well be with people who really get it while it’s still a part of me.

I’m usually leery of clubs or groups that offer solidarity. When I travel, I’m always confused by all the expats that stick together. I’ve always thought it a thing to ponder that people leave their countries to get away and then end up meeting up with others of their same country while in another country. But, now I get it. It’s nice to just spend a moment with others who know. I felt, as I sat there among the survivors on Saturday, like I was being cradled, hugged by one hundred loving, understanding arms.

Solidarity. Who knew?


[Photo credit : A photographer! That's me and my pops circa 1983.]

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How I Am Going To Prove Myself Wrong

posted 29th November 2011    Written by: Ashley    CATEGORY: All Posts, Ashley, Life Lesson, Season 5, What I've Learned

Today I ran 3 miles in 36 minutes. Yesterday I ran 3 miles in 39 minutes. The day before that I ran 3 miles in41 minutes. And before that? Well, there’s no record of that because I didn’t run.

In elementary and middle school I hated gym class, specifically anything that involved running. I have never been the “sporty” type, but I stayed active through dance classes and gymnastics. I guess that’s why I feel so drawn to yoga. I love finding new poses and positioning my body to create art, but running has never been my thing. Okay, to be completely honest, I ran/walked a 5k once and I usually run a mile once or twice a week at the gym. That’s it.

I’m not a runner. Or at least, I wasn’t.

Then I spent a weekend in Boston with my friends and they were talking about running a half-marathon in February and I couldn’t stop myself from saying “I want to run it too!”

You know how everyone has those “30 Before 30″ and  ”Life Lists”? I have one of those too, in my head. And one of my goals is to complete a half-marathon. So, now I’m going to actually do it.

I’m only one week into the training program, but I can already feel the changes. My quads are sore and feel like they are trying to rip apart every time I sit down, but besides that? I feel healthier. I feel stronger. My time has improved each day and I love the extra motivation to try harder during the following workout. Also, it might be my imagination, but I can kind of already see more definition in my legs which is awesome.

It’s also challenging. Obviously. My breathing is pretty awful because I haven’t quite figured out how to  keep breathing while running. And I’m still learning how to pace myself. I’m learning that on a treadmill it’s much easier to run slower and therefore, run further. But outside, even with the running app on my phone, I run much faster than I do inside. And the weather! Did you know there isn’t air conditioning on the trails in the park? It’s just windy and humid (and a high of 83 degrees today!), so that make it a bit more difficult.

It’s like any big accomplishment, though. I mean, when I applied to college, and later, graduate school, I knew what I was getting myself in to. I knew I would have to read thousands of pages, spend countless hours writing papers, and work my butt off. When I decided to become a counselor, I knew it would be a process. I knew it wouldn’t happen overnight. I would have to work for it. Just like anything else in life. Just like this half-marathon.

There are going to be times when I want to stop, I’m sure. But I won’t.

I know what I want.

I want to finish. I want to push myself further than I ever have before. I might get a few blisters along the way, but that’s okay. I will run through the pain. I want to prove myself wrong. I want to prove that I can do this. I also want to have fun. I want to walk away feeling proud of myself and feeling accomplished. I want to feel encouraged and unstoppable.

The race is February 19th. I have an intention. I have several weeks to train. I have accountability partners. I have a schedule. And I have the cutest pair of new running shoes.

I’m ready.

[photo credit: Me; my cute new running shoes!]

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No Pain, No Gain

posted 28th November 2011    Written by: Hannah    CATEGORY: All Posts, Hannah, Job/Career/Work, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5

I am three weeks into a 4-week pre-holiday bootcamp class.  We meet at 5:50am.  I’m a night owl, and all I know is that sane people do not wake up at 5:10 to go work out.  It’s pitch black outside when the alarm goes off and I, in a panic, sweep almost everything off the night stand trying to figure out what is making that horrifying sound.

I shove a half piece of toast with peanut butter in my mouth and run out the door.  It takes me about 20 minutes to drive to our outdoor location, and the full warm-up to even realize I’m awake (and wonder how the heck I got there, with all of the right clothes on!)

The class itself is great.  Women only, all working hard and pushing themselves.  It’s cold out, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  We do pushups, squats, sprints, weird ab exercises with even weirder names.  Sometimes we even skip, arms linked, like a bunch of six year old girls.  There’s giggling and high-fiving (I hate high-fiving, but I make an exception).  Real camaraderie among a group of women and very little competition or cattiness.

It is interval training, which means we bring our heart rates up really high and then let them come back down again while we’re working on another part of our bodies, then heart rate up, then something else.  It might look something like: sprints, deep squats, side shuffle, pushups…or something along those lines (give me a break, I’m not a trainer for a reason).  We do those up and down intervals for a full hour and then most of us head off to work…I mean, really, why else would you choose 5:50 as a work out time?

Today after class I went home and showered and zipped to work as quickly as I could.  And then, a few minutes later I did a (seriously amazing) dance all around the bathroom while my two year-old friend shouted “I do it! I do it! I do it!”  Yes, it’s that time.  Potty training.  I have perfected the “potty dance” (and not that stupid one you see on the commercials).  I’ve got moves, let me tell you.  I’ve also got some potty training tricks that Supernanny would be jealous of.  As I twirled across the tile this morning I thought to myself, “I have potty trained WAY too many kids to not have a diaper-less kid of my own.”   And I started thinking about being challenged.

In bootcamp it is expected that we push ourselves to the point of not being able to breathe quite right.  Sometimes I’m scared I’ll never get a full breath of air again!  We’re sucking wind, faces bright red, and muscles screaming at us.  We push and push because we know that the discomfort of the moment is making us better and pushing us further than we could go by taking it easy.  Sure we could walk around the lake and burn a few calories, but instead we push our muscles to failure.  We force our lungs and hearts to work overtime.  It hurts, and it’s scary, but it feels so good!  No pain, no gain, right?  And it improves our cardiovascular systems immensely.  And it visibly changes our muscle tone.  And it makes us feel so strong!  What are a few little growing pains when you get results like that?

At work, nothing pushes me.  Potty training is supposed to be a challenge.  It’s hard!  My 2 year old little lady is challenged by it, and gets so excited when she’s successful (and I get excited for her!).  But potty training her is no longer a challenge for me.  Neither is discipline or teaching her manners and to play nicely with her friends.  I have a million and a half projects, activities, songs and games to entertain her with.  I have a word or phrase for every situation.  Even an answer to every, “but whyyyyy?”  Watching her face her challenges is so much fun.  Watching her excitement as she learns something new is fantastic.  It’s something new every week: learning to put her own coat on last week, putting her dishes in the sink after meals this week.  She is growing every minute.  And it’s awesome!

But I’m not.

Not at this job anyway.  Three days a week, despite the love I feel for this little girl, I feel like I’m taking a slow stroll around the lake, burning a couple of calories, but not really making any progress.  On my non-nanny days it’s a different story.

Some days I get feeling down about how hard it is to start and run a business.  I wonder how I’ll wedge myself into the niche I have fallen in love with.  I wonder about finding more clients.  I am terrified that if I quit the nanny gig, the clients won’t come and I’ll be broke.  I worry every day that someone is going to realize I’m not a “real photographer” and call my bluff.  My “to do” list is 8 miles long (probably literally).  Sometimes I feel like I can’t keep up.  I’m working myself so hard, pushing every day.  I’m learning new things and building my business slowly but surely.  I keep reminding myself that the discomfort I’m feeling right now is making me better.  I keep reminding myself that without challenges, I’m stuck exactly where I am right now.

I just keep wondering at what point, I will have to suck up the fear, and just go for it.  I’m going to have to work my muscles to failure and force my heart and lungs to work overtime.  It’s the only way I’ll grow.  Yes, it hurts, and it’s scary, but it feels so good!  God knows, I don’t want to be doing the potty dance forever!  When the day comes that I can quit this job and move forward, accept the growing pains and ignore the fear…when that day comes I expect giggling and high-fives and skipping like a bunch of six year old girls.  And you’d better get your skipping legs ready, because that day is coming soon.

I am choosing not to be more loyal to my fear than to my dreams.

[Photo Credit: Obviously I am not in the state of mind to take a picture of myself at 5 in the morning, so here's one of right after the first time I ran 8 miles during 1/2 marathon training last year! Taken by Mister]

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Introducing: Team Stratejoy

posted 28th November 2011    Written by: Katie    CATEGORY: Katie, Stratejoy the Biz

Team StratejoyThis post is long overdue, but it’s no less important now than it was a week ago when I wanted to post it. For those of you who don’t know, I’m Katie, and I’m the Communications *slash* Community Manager of Stratejoy. Although, I’m researching new cute titles like “Happiness Advocate” and things of the like.

Anyway, this is totally not about me, but I do have the wonderful privilege to introduce you to a special group of gorgeous girls who have been doing extreme behind-the-scene magic for Stratejoy. Not only are they working to make current products and designs more functional and fun, but they’re diving head first with Molly, creating new products too.

Something I’ve learned over the last year of working with Molly is that running a business isn’t easy. While Molly has done a spectacular job running the ship herself, sometimes you need someone to be your lookout while you take the wheel and steer. Or, in this case, five someones.

Those lovely faces up there are  Nicole, Michelle, Kahea, Morgan and Whitney. They are Team Stratejoy. They’ve been “officially” on the Team for a few months now, but we’ve all been busy little bees trying to get some super cool stuff ready to go for your guys.

You can learn tons more about these ladies right here.  

 

Sidenote: Today is the. last. day. to sign up for the Council: Holiday Edition. It’s officially LIVE right now,  but if you really quick signup, we’ll get you access to the Facebook group immediately and you can dive right on in and join us as we wave goodbye to 2011, and welcome 2012 with a new outlook and kick-ass attitude. This is it – This is your year, love. Let’s make sure of it. 

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The Kindness of Strangers

posted 27th November 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

The day that my friend Emily and I left Morocco, we were on a very tight schedule. We had 3:05 p.m. train tickets from Algeciras in southern Spain to Madrid, so we had to plan the Morocco end of our travel around that. Missing that train wasn’t an option: if we weren’t on it, Emily wouldn’t make it back to Madrid in time for her flight the following day. We opted to depart from Rabat at 6:42 a.m. on a train that would put us in Tangier around 10:30 a.m., leaving us with merely half an hour to catch our 11:00 a.m. ferry to Spain. (Is this starting to feel like a strange math problem to anyone else?)

We had settled on this plan simply because the alternative was a 2:00 a.m. train from Rabat, and arriving in Tangier at 6:30 a.m. seemed…unappealing. We already knew that the train station there was far from welcoming, and getting a bit of sleep seemed like a good idea. Perhaps our initial priority of maximizing our time in Morocco hadn’t been the best one, but there was no way to change that now. We needed to make the best of this new, rigid schedule.

When we boarded our train in Rabat, our assigned carriage had the lights off and a man sleeping, so we decided to sit in the next carriage that had open seats. We passed the first few hours of the ride napping and chatting with each other. About an hour before our arrival, the older Moroccan woman sitting across from us asked us about the henna designs on our hands. So began a conversation with her – in French – about our time in Morocco, her experiences in France, and politics. With the help of the other girl in our carriage, who spoke both French and English, we carried on a lovely and lively multilingual dialogue.

As our train pulled into the station in Tangier, Emily and I nervously eyed the time on our cell phones. We had under 30 minutes to get to the port, purchase our tickets, and board the ferry. Things didn’t seem promising, and if we missed that boat, there was no way we could make our train. Our new Moroccan friend saw our concerned looks and asked about our ferry. As we climbed down the stairs of the train, she signaled for us to follow her. My hopeful assumption was that she was going to help us get a taxi, and I knew that transaction would go much more smoothly – and be less expensive – with her assistance.

When we exited the station, she led us through the hoard of taxi drivers trying to get fares and found us one off to the side. She told us to get in the back, and she hopped into the front seat. I heard a flurry of Darija (Moroccan Arabic), and we were off. She asked which ferry company we were using, and we told her the name – and also that we still needed to buy tickets. More conversation in Darija followed.

Ten minutes before our ferry’s departure time, we pulled up to the ticket seller, thanked her profusely, and hurried up to the counter. She watched until we were in the process of purchasing our tickets before the cab drove off.

Every day of this trip, I am thankful for the kindness of strangers. Without this woman’s help, we never would have managed to find the ticket counter and make it to our ferry in time. I wake up every day full of gratitude for the life I’m leading right now, for the amazing people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had. I hope that someday, I’ll be able to offer the same generosity to others that I’ve received: the places to stay, the rides, the shared meals, the companionship.

For now, I’ll continue giving thanks and not taking all of this for granted.

[photo credit: me!]

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