This month’s guest post is from my friend and mentor, Michele Brown.

I’ve done life my way – choosing to see the possibilities in making changes and taking chances.

I will never forget the heavy fearful emotions that flooded my body when the pregnancy was confirmed. I’d gone alone to see a doctor and request the test. Deep inside I already knew it was true even though I had hoped it wasn’t.

Yes, I was pregnant at 16, while in my junior year of high school. 

What was going to happen to me? What would my parents do? What would my friends say? How would my life be forever changed because of this?

Months earlier I’d dreamed about going off to college the next year, moving away from home and traveling the world. Marriage and parenthood were supposed to be far off into the future.

Even though my boyfriend and I were crazy in love and talked of getting married someday – marriage in my junior year of high school was not ideal.

We found ourselves in a situation that could not be undone, we had to deal with it and move ahead somehow. We had several choices but could not imagine not having this baby.

We needed to believe we could make it work, especially when people said it was doomed to fail. Together, we took the giant leap into the unknown, determined to do our best despite the odds being against us.

Life is a compilation of choices made during major turning points. The decisions we make at these junctures will primarily determine how our lives unfold. There is no perfect painless path, even if we try to follow an ideal plan.

It’s been over 41 years since that decision to marry at age sixteen. We did the best we knew to make it work. Even though we haven’t been ‘together’ for 26 years now, we will always be connected because of the love we share for our children and grandchildren. 

My surroundings have changed often in these four decades but inside – I’m still me. Older and somewhat wiser from experience yet always enthusiastically focused in the pursuit of living and learning. Life usually doesn’t go as anticipated but I continue to take risks that contribute to many of my unpredictable circumstances. 

The unexpected offers me opportunities to choose who I will be and what I will create in each new moment. I take chances, shift direction and deeply believe things will work out. And they mostly do. Even when it’s surprisingly different than expected, I’m grateful for the unfolding journey. It hasn’t always been easy or without painful seasons but there have been exquisite highs too. I hope to focus more on the highs than the lows.

While we are young we anticipate some kind of reward in a future destination. Perhaps we once believed that love means, ‘happily ever after’ or a college degree equals ‘financial security’ and over time we begin to understand there are no guarantees. For me, the main message is that the sooner I learn to stop trying to control the outcome, the easier it will be to enjoy where and who I am. The outcome is the same for all of us – we don’t get out of here alive.

Accepting the idea that there is little certainty in life, I’ve begun to see great value in enjoying the small and simple things…

• Painting a scenic nature landscape on canvas.
• Watching a mother deer with her young fawn in the forest.
• Marveling at the dark midnight sky lit up by countless brilliant stars.
• Walking barefoot along a favorite Oregon beach on a warm, sunny day.
• The fresh scent of pine accentuated by light rain on a morning walk through the trees.
• Picking ripe homegrown vegetables in my own backyard.
• The sound of rushing water moving downstream as the high mountain snows melt in early summer.
• Free contagious smiles and belly laughter.
• Satisfying creative projects.
• Giving myself a fresh bouquet of flowers, just because.

I accept that my days are numbered. However, I do not know the exact number nor do I want to. My plan is to live and celebrate each day as it comes. And when my number’s up, I hope there are very few regrets of missed opportunities and countless memories of enjoying what brought me the most joy. I wish the same for you. Find your true north – the place that feels most like you and your path. Stick with that, no matter what anyone else believes about your choices. In the end, you are the only one who lives your life!

Michele Brown is the founder of Tell Me Your Story Now, Self-Discovery Story Circles, Your Path to Purpose and The Renewal Experience.

More information can be found on her website: https://tellmeyourstorynow.com

My parents, brother and I regularly made the trip from Vermont south through the eastern seaboard to visit family in Florida. The road trips seemed boring (“Are we there yet? How much longer?”) but there was the year we spent most the trip on backroads, looking for stations that actually had gas. There were the games Rich and I played to pass the time, punching each other when a Volkswagen bug entered our sight, or eagerly yelling out the letters of the license plates of passing cars to see who could get from A all the way to Z.

One year we even got caught in an ice storm. With our winter tires and Yankee attitudes, we didn’t exit the highway until all the hotel rooms were taken. Hitting the road again, we inched along with the other diehard travelers, watching as others spun into ditches or sat overheated on the side of the road. We did finally reach Florida.

Mostly what I remember about our trips was not being able to take much luggage. It wasn’t that we didn’t have a trunk – we certainly did! But that space was reserved for our trip home, and the stop in South Carolina.

If you ever saw the billboards you might have already identified our return trip’s bounty – fireworks. In those days you couldn’t buy them in most states, but oh! – at South of the Border you sure could. And my father loved his fireworks.

When packing every suitcase was considered against how many bottle rockets it could potentially displace. We would leave the tourist site with the rear end of our car hanging low and smaller luggage on the floor under our feet, bringing our technically illegal loot up north where it was destined to be used in a display to rival our town’s official fireworks.

My father could never actually wait until the Fourth of July. If he wasn’t in the garden or mowing the lawn, his disappearances were suspect. Sure enough, watching Saturday morning cartoons I would jump to attention when he’d sneak up behind the living room window and set off a string of firecrackers.

He could be a brutal man, and I saw his firecracker obsession as further evidence of his character. The man prone to violent eruptions liked literal explosions, and it was fitting.

Time has changed some part of this memory. I’ve found myself intrigued by an unexpected guest, who seems to be related to forgiveness. While I don’t exactly fondly remember the brute I knew, I no longer think of his firecracker escapades as evidence of his mean streak. While I never embraced his love of fireworks, today it reminds me of his unappreciated playful side.

In fact, it was my father who taught me to ride a bike and shoot an arrow. It was my father from who I inherited my love of reading. It was my father who taught me how to fish for Northern pike and who bought me a pogo stick. In his own way that mean old man loved me.

And for that, maybe this year I’ll light a sparkler.

My senior year in high school was tough – I was gravely ill from kidney problems, attempted suicide multiple times, had to provide a victim’s impact statement in court when my uncle was sentenced, and was briefly removed from my home due to my father’s violence.

My last suicide attempt had been in March. When I awoke – alive – I cursed God but decided if I couldn’t die then I needed to start living differently. I became serious about addressing my drinking problem – as long as it didn’t involve fully stopping or getting help. I managed to control my intake for a few months and stayed out of trouble. That is, until the day of my graduation.

That afternoon I’d dropped a TV dinner on the floor, and then went on a destructive rampage. I kicked a hole in the wall and punched the microwave. I grabbed a fifth of gin from my parents’ liquor cabinet and retreated to my room, where I drank the whole thing.

I showed up drunk at my graduation.

My friends had been so proud of me for cleaning up my act for a little while, but now Nancy landed a left hook on my jaw, bloodying my lip. “What do you think you’re doing?” she screamed, as I laid on the bandroom floor looking up at her. While I graduated that night with honors, and even received the teacher’s association scholarship, I didn’t feel like a successful teenager. I was deeply ashamed and full of self-loathing.

That bender lasted a couple of weeks, of which I remember very little. I would come out of a blackout just long enough to get back in it. After a few fits and starts and some serious consequences, I found myself physically drunk but unable to shut off my racing thoughts. I made a phone call that changed my life. I asked for help. From that phone call, I have not had a drink. I went to rehab, and became involved with 12-step recovery. This week I celebrate 32 years of being clean and sober.

Graduations are an ending, but even more so a beginning.

My high school graduation was an ugly time of my life, and yet, just two weeks later I took a major step in a whole new direction. Did sobriety reap on me immediate and unlimited rewards? No. In fact, even sober I had more ugliness in front of me. I am a stubborn Yankee who would prefer to do things all my myself, thank you. Yet the day I accepted help for my alcoholism, something miraculous was born. It was called, a glimmer of hope.

Whether it’s substance abuse, mental illness, physical illness, learning disabilities, or simply bringing in the groceries – it is ok to ask for help. And even though I sometimes get around it to it grudgingly, I do get there. For me, invincible hope cannot be found alone.

TW – This post contains material about childhood abuse and suicide.

“Trauma happens and harms us. But I often wonder if the worst trauma is the second wave – when your story is misbelieved, mistrusted, and maligned.” – KJ Ramsey

When I was sixteen I realized that the uncle who had been molesting me was also abusing my younger brother. I knew if I told I would be assumed a liar; after all, my uncle was “somebody” in the community and had drilled into my head that no one would ever believe me over him. I was enraged about what happened to my brother, but lost in what to do. After a few weeks of brutal indecision, I told my school counselor the story of what had happened to me. I knew he had to report it, whether he believed me or not, and hoped the police would launch an investigation which might scare my uncle into leaving my brother alone.

The counselor did believe me, and soon I was meeting with police investigators, social services workers and more counselors. The investigation resulted in my uncle’s arrest, and uncovered an interstate child pornography and trafficking ring.

Victory, right?

I know many victims who were not believed when they told their stories, and I am deeply grateful my school counselor acted to protect my brother and me. I told my story many more times – to my parents, to other counselors, to doctors, and to the court. I was believed.

Except for me, this is where my story started, not ended.

I was believed, but my mother was furious with me for telling family secrets – until she learned that my brother was abused as well. Suddenly I became a hero for saving my brother. It seemed that what happened to me was expected and not a big deal. I felt unimportant.

I was believed, but my father was going to shoot my uncle, which was more drama than I could handle. I felt scared.

I was believed, but had to tell stories to strangers that weren’t meant to be told. People meant kindly but I wasn’t ready to talk to them. I felt confused.

I was believed, but the doctors poked and prodded while asking their questions, which only dredged up more memories of other things I continued to keep secret. I felt deeply ashamed.

I was believed, but had to stand up in court in front of an audience and describe not just what he had done, but how it had impacted my life. I felt embarrassed.

I was believed, but I had a lifetime of hearing “What happens at home, stays at home.” Now our story was in the news. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

When I talk about recovering from what happened to me, I don’t just mean the abuse I endured. I usually am referring to the second wave – the tsunami of emotions and experiences I went through after our story was in the open. I sobbed myself to sleep and attempted suicide several times, the first just weeks after reporting my uncle. The abuse itself was traumatizing, but so was going public. To some degree those emotions still live inside of me.

So where is the hope?

The hope is, I’m still here. The hope is, I got help. The hope is, as awful as all that was, I learned to tell my story. As I healed, I learned that there were stories like mine and that I wasn’t as alone as I felt. When women – and men – shared similar stories with me, I learned that my feelings weren’t odd or broken. In fact, they made sense.

Storytelling is powerful. That is where hope, belonging, and healing come together. I honor the sharing of our scariest secrets – whether they be about events or our deepest emotions. When we are brave enough to share these things, we inspire others to have their own courage. When we receive these compassionately – truly hearing what others have to say – we encourage even more honest sharing. Our stories are the biggest asset we have.

When I learned to walk I toddled around on tiptoe, like I was afraid if I made any noise I’d attract attention I didn’t want. Some of us first learn to walk that way but then literally put their foot down. I carried the tiptoe thing throughout my toddlerhood. My Achilles tendons grew tight, further inhibiting my adoption of a normal gait.

The pediatrician told my parents that to avoid surgery, I would need to start putting my heel down, but I stubbornly refused. Dr. Wolk suggested tap dancing lessons. Miss Lorraine taught me to shuffle, shuffle, toe, HEEL when I was four years old – and a little dancer was born. Dance stayed with me about six years, until during a recital in front of THOUSANDS of people my tutu fell off. Embarrassed, I never returned to that stage, or Miss Lorraine’s dance studio.

My niece had no issue with her Achilles tendons, but was born with a love of dance. From the age of 2, a change has come over her whenever someone turns on music. As she moves there is no awkwardness in her, and she exudes confidence. She is in high school now and spends almost more time at the dance studio than in school, between tap, jazz, modern dance, hip hop and her newest love – teaching other little girls to dance.

As I took in the scenes of her most recent recital (on an outdoor stage due to COVID), I was struck by what these kids (mostly girls) were learning, other than just their dance moves. They were learning confidence, in their bodies and in their persons. They were learning to be comfortable in their bodies, and to express themselves with movement. Perhaps most importantly, they were learning to support one another and cheer each other on.

I reflected back on my dancing days. I learned the dance moves (and stretched those tendons), but what else did I learn? At first, I could only remember the dreaded tutu incident, and the bullies who made fun of me.  But then, I remembered when I learned to flip (I had branched out to acrobatics too) and discovered that I could make people ooh and ahh. I too learned confidence. I wasn’t comfortable in my body – being abused as a kid had wrecked that – but there was freedom in being able to learn new moves and tricks. I also learned a little about socializing – I was mostly mute, but in class I could dance with the other kids and be part of a group. And yes – I even learned to walk.

It is easy for me to think about the darkness I experienced as a child – the abuse, the difficulty making friends, the hopelessness I felt from a very young age – but the truth is, there was more light than not. As I watched dancers at this weekend’s recital I found myself reflecting on some of the light from my childhood.

Once a month I’ll be featuring a guest who will share about hope. I’m very grateful writer and activist Aime Hutton agreed to launch this feature for Pride Month. Here are her words:

I like boys, boys are cute.  They are funny.  I like them.  I have dated boys in high school, and here in Calgary.  I even dated a boy in university who was abusive, controlling, and stalking.

A few years ago, now back in 2018, I started having weird dreams.  Dreams with lots of colour and symbols.  I went to my friend who is a shaman.  She specializes in dreamwork and shadow work.  After telling her these dreams.  She asked me coming from a place of love did I think I was attracted to both men and women?

“No!  I cannot be!  I’m not allowed to be!” was my response.  There is history of my parents and sister not showing support to the LGBTQ+ community.  One day many years ago now I found an e-mail that was not addressed to me, yet my name was in the subject line.  It was back in the day when a family had one e-mail address.  I accidentally opened it.  The subject of the e-mail was me though.  A friend who had just come out as gay was responding to my sister’s e-mail.  My sister had asked if he thought I was lesbian or something.  His response was he did not know.  More important though was could they all still love me if I were?  The e-mail continued and I read the answer “no”.  Now I do not know if that no was from my sister, or my family as a whole.  So, I was so afraid to even think about this idea of being a part of the LGBTQ+ community.

A week or so later, I went walking to the river.  I sat under my favourite tree.  The wind was a soft breeze, and the sun felt nice on my face.  I opened my journal and looked up to the heavens and asked.  “Okay Goddess, who was I attracted to growing up?”  Then I sat silent.  I placed my hand on my heart.  Then one by one names came flooding out onto my paper.  So many girl’s names from way back when to now today.  I dropped the pen and cried.

I held onto this secret for a year.  I only told a few close friends in secret, asking for their promise they would not say anything.  In April 2019 I was in a women’s only 6-week course all about overcoming fear.  In the middle of the course in a Zoom group video chat, I blurted out loud for the first time to a group that I am bisexual with a lean to the feminine.  I was shocked.  I started crying.  The other women in the group stopped.  My coach who was leading the Zoom group said I am safe, that I am loved by all in the Zoom group room.  My coach also asked when was I going to tell my parents? 

I had not yet. I was so afraid.  Yet with my coach’s help and guidance, I wrote a letter to my parents.  Stating that I was completely okay if they did not want to accept me or support me.  I remember hitting the send button on my e-mail at 10 pm here in Calgary.  It was already midnight in Ontario.  I cried myself to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I was so scared again to open the e-mail I received from my parents.  Yet I did.  I can remember shaking as I opened it.  And I am so grateful that the response I received was positive. 

I am who I am.  I can not change.  If you are a part of the LGBTQ+ community and you are out loud and proud I celebrate you.  If you are a part of the LGBTQW+ community and are still in the ‘rainbow’ closet, scared about living your real brave self in public I know that feeling 100%.  I am you.  I see you, and I support you. 

Thank you to those of you who are also an ally of the LGBTQ+ community.  It is not just a thought of changing your social media to have a rainbow on.  It is a 365 commitment to support your friends and family. 

Aime Hutton is a true miracle survivor.  Being born 3 months early was just the start of the challenges Aime has overcome in her lifetime.  Hailing from Calgary, Alberta Canada, as a Youth Diversity Advisor, Aime helps educators facilitate safe spaces for young female students so they can instill connection, inclusion, and courage in themselves.  As a 5-time international best-selling author/compiler Aime shares hope, healing, and inspiration through her writing.  She was a finalist for the International Femtor Awards 2015 for eWomenNetwork in the category of Business Matchmaker from Dallas, Texas, USA.  Being 1 of 6 in North America, and the only Canadian.   In 2017 Aime was awarded the Peace & Friendship Award by Diversity Magazine in Alberta for being one who celebrates, accepts, and learns from the Indigenous people of Canada.  Currently Aime sits on the Gender and Sexual Diversity Advisory Board with the Calgary Police Service, as well as she represents Alberta on the National Network for Mental Health Alliance Board.

Years ago my husband Ed and I took my stepsons for a small hike. Noah was 11 and Matt was 4. Matt kept wandering off the trail off into the woods, and I would stumble off into the pine needles and brush to retrieve him. In a creative moment Ed told Matt, “You better watch out! The Wrong-Way Monster is out in the woods just waiting to eat little boys who leave the trail!” Poor little Matt collapsed right there, in terror. He cried inconsolably and not only would he not continue on the hike, he refused to even stand up no matter how badly his dad wanted him to. After several failed attempts at calming him, including lots of cuddles, we were at a loss of what to do. Then it struck me. I sat on the ground in front of him. 

“You know what? I think if we see the Wrong-Way Monster, you should just run up and give him a big old hug!” I had his attention now, but he was looking at me like I was crazy. “I mean, I bet he doesn’t ever get hugs from anyone, that’s why he’s so mean! Don’t you like hugs?” 

Matt’s sobbing had stopped, and he nodded. 

“Can you imagine what it would be like to never have been hugged?” I asked. He slowly shook his head. I continued, “If no one ever loved the Wrong-Way Monster, then how would he know how to be nice? I bet if we just hugged him and loved him we could all be friends!” 

I think of my emotions – particularly sadness and fear – as my own personal Wrong-Way Monster. Feelings scare the living daylights out of me. Yet, when I can be brave enough to love them anyway I grow in leaps and bounds and step into an even brighter light. They just need some loving – a big hug and some attention – and turn out not to be the big bad monsters I thought they were.

My ghosts are hidden from you

Lurking in the shadows

Invisible to eyes other than ones

Trained by history to see them.

–

I try to blind myself to their presence

Yet their darkness penetrates my eyelids

Intent on stealing whatever peace

I’ve managed to wrap around myself.

–

Their voices soundlessly fall

Upon unknowing companions

Yet their silence screams into my head

Showering me with hateful words.

–

Worthless. Stupid. Loser.

You deserved what you got.

You are destroyed – why even try?

Even God hates you.

–

I cover my ears with my hands and

Like a child I repeat meaningless chants

Trying to quiet the brutality

These ghosts drive into my head.

–

I look away from their ugliness

And ignore their vicious words

I tell myself to focus on the joy of today

I can convince the ghosts to leave.

–

I am delusional with wishful thoughts

These ghosts stubbornly won’t go away

Clamoring to be seen and heard

They are squatters in my soul.

–

I too wave my hands when I am unseen

I raise my voice when I am unheard

I need to be recognized

Demanding my rightful presence in the world.

–

What do these ghosts know of friendship?

Have they ever heard words of encouragement?

Surely they are deeply wounded beings

Carrying the burden of my past.

–

These ghosts only know the worst of the world

How would they react to kindness?

I could bake them some cookies and

Introduce them to the taste of sweet comfort.

–

If I could look at them without being blinded

And hear them without going deaf

We might walk under the shelter of trees

And share our stories with each other.

–

Maybe if I gently and carefully introduce them

To the same kind of love and tenderness

The Universe has bestowed upon me

My ghosts might relax into a sense of safety.

–

It is time to welcome them home.

© Karen Privé, 2019

Originally spoken in This Is My Brave, Concord NH

I stand outside in the grass, barefoot, trying to remember my connection to the Earth, rooted and strong like my beloved trees. I feel excited, powerful and determined. I also feel sad, scared and overwhelmed. The emotions of the last few days have caught up to me, with memories and flashbacks and old feelings. I imagine myself on the riverbank, watching my emotions and thoughts carried downstream on fallen leaves, but likely the exercise would work better if I left my yard and drove to an actual river. Franklin, New Hampshire is also known as Three Rivers, so clearly I don’t have to go far. In fact if I listen carefully I can hear the white waters of one of those three rivers from my yard. I will go after lunch.

I have been working on designing my new website and blog, called Invincible Hope. I’m delighted you have found me. This is where my excitement and joy are found today – feeling proud of my writing, and a desire to spread hope. I feel powerful, but at the same time fear sneaks in disguised as perfectionism. The name changed three times but it is right now. I am sure of that.

My emotional goal is to feel whole. I am there right in this moment but it is uncomfortable and I am having a hard time embracing it. It feels so odd. The power feels good but scary; the pain hurts but feels true. I put the blog stuff aside to just try and sit with how this all feels. It’s like my bones itch – a discomfort I can’t touch – but at the same time an awakening joy too. The temptation is to shut down again. Even joy is scary.

There is pain, and there is hope too, because hope is real. Join me.