Turning 50: Life is a Social Construct

~ kegarland ~ 38 Comments

Life is a social construct—marriage, raising kids, traveling, gender roles, and more—all of it is made up. And guess what that means? Anything that is constructed, can be deconstructed: it can be torn apart and reconstructed.

In my observations, though, it seems that we are rarely taught this. Instead, we are born into a set of social rules, shamed if we think about them otherwise, and then pushed back into what are portrayed as cemented ways of being. But this isn’t reality. Reality is we can make up life anyway we desire. Re-constructing life requires choosing a social construct, thinking about what you actually value, unlearning the social construct, and then re-creating life based on your values, instead of those you were born into.

This is no easy feat, but it is possible. Here’s how:

CHOOSE A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT: Celebrating Christmas.

When I was growing up, my grandmother had one rule about holidays. She said her children and grandchild could spend any holiday wherever they wanted, but Christmas was for her. That was feasible enough when I was nearby. But what happened when my family and I moved a thousand miles south? Nothing. Nothing changed. Dwight and I packed up our children, bought winter clothes, packed gifts, and eventually our dog, and we drove every other year to have the Christmas my grandmother desired.

THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU VALUE: Family time.

We did this for 17 years, until I thought about why I was doing it. One reason was because that’s what you do for the holidays…spend it with family. That’s what Hallmark says. That’s what commercials and Christmas movies show, and that’s what my grandmother had decreed. Another reason I spent my holiday on the road was because when I asked my grandmother if she would come to Florida for Christmas, she said I was being inconsiderate. Everyone in Chicago couldn’t come to my house, so I shouldn’t expect such a ridiculous thought.

UNLEARN THE SOCIAL CONSTRUCT AND RE-CREATE LIFE BASED ON YOUR VALUES.

So, I never asked again, but that 17th year, I decided I wasn’t driving there for Christmas until I felt like it. I decided to re-construct what Christmas meant for me. It didn’t mean driving up-and-down the interstate to appease others, while I grew ragged and overwhelmed. It meant creating new traditions with my family in our space. It was not easy. For the first few years, everyone in my family asked when I was coming home. No one ever asked when they could visit my family and me for a holiday. But that’s how social constructs work. When you break them, those steeped in the construct will try and push you back into the norm. However, it didn’t work. My family and I have celebrated at our home for a while now, and I feel much better because we have developed our own traditions, and as our daughters age, they will, too.

So, there’s a family example, but what happens when it’s a place that provides us with income, like work? Trust me, you can also re-create in your career.

When I began my current job, I received several pieces of advice. One person told me I should make my social media account private.

“How am I going to be a public writer, with a private social media?” I asked.

She didn’t have an answer, so I ignored this advice.

Another person told me I shouldn’t speak out about injustices, until I was tenured and had the security with which to do so.

That sounded hella silly, too, especially because I live with a keen awareness that we can die at any moment. I ignored this and published two essays in well-known anthologies about the ill feelings I had about being an affirmative-action hire in academia.

I almost talked myself out of starting this blog, due to the content. I wasn’t sure if my job would be jeopardized because I chose to write about the impact that childhood and adolescent trauma had on my adult life.

I ignored my own fears and so far, I’m still employed.

There are other lesser-known things that I’ve done, such as not being bogged down with what the education field likes to call “service” or attending superfluous meetings, simply to talk about things that could’ve been an email or digital presentation. Part of the reason I’ve been able to function this way is because I have a terminal degree in my field, and I’ve been in education for nearly three decades. I know the manipulative forces that are at play, and I know how to navigate them.

But the fact remains that even how a job is performed is a social construct that can be deconstructed and reconstructed, if only we’d think about what we value and how we can align that with the institution or company. I care about being an effective educator, so does my job. Everything else is negotiable.

Let me reiterate this point: Everything social is made up! And if you have the desire to deconstruct what you’ve learned, in hopes of re-creating something you value, then it can be done. You just have to make up your mind to do it.

I’m turning 50 on May 23rd, and I’m processing and documenting it here. Being on the earth for half a century, interacting with people, has taught me a few things, and I’ll be sharing them with you through June. Here are the first two:

Turning 50: Advice I’m No Longer Taking

Turning 50: The Relationship You Have with Yourself Matters Most

Monday Notes: Boredom

~ kegarland ~ 78 Comments

The days are long with repetition as I heal my rotator cuff. It doesn’t matter what time the alarm screams, each morning is the same—an amalgamation of waking, walking, and stretching, so I’ve turned it off. The time I awake to face the world is irrelevant.

I’ve been here before. I was raised as an only child, who couldn’t leave the house to play with others. It was up to me to entertain myself in a room full of adults, or in a room by myself, so I learned to fill the day with made-up activities. And when I exhausted the list of events: “playing school” with dolls and teddy bears or reading books two years above my age level, I’d sigh heavily and proclaim to my mother, “I’m bored.”

“If you’re bored, then you must be a boring person,” she’d reply, turning the situation on its head. For decades, I’d perceived her response as a comment on my flawed personality. But now, I get it. It was a call to be creative.

However, I’m no longer nine; I’m 49. Throughout the years, I’ve learned how not to be a boring person. Yet, today, I. am. bored. My mother’s words reverberate. It’s funny how an interpretation of a parental lesson can echo in one’s brain, well after the parent ceases to exist. But this is different. I have plenty of ideas and few ways to execute them. No one ever outlined the appropriate protocol for a person who has an overactive mind but no access to manifest her ideas. What should a writer, who doesn’t have full functioning of her dominant hand do with an abundance of time?

Boredom is the uncomfortable state of wanting to engage in satisfying activity, but being able to do it.

Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart

It is 8:30 in the morning, and the day will be long with routine. I venture downstairs where my husband has prepared a berry smoothie. I’m grateful, but I miss the anticipation of making it myself. I slowly sip its purpleness, savoring separate flavors: the tanginess of the berries lingers on the back of my tongue; the sweetness of the protein powder hits the tip. These are the things I notice now that I have time. It sounds poetic, but it is not. It is boredom expressed as imagery.

Dwight laces my green and gold sneakers. It’s time for my walk. There is the dog with the hazel brown eyes; they peer at me like a sad girl. There is the guy who jogs every day. I wonder if he’s met his goal. Here is a neighbor with a mustard yellow pick-up truck; he backs into his driveway and gives me the proverbial head nod that Black people know well. There is the green bag of poo that has sat next to the bushes for the last two weeks. Someone’s footprint has dented its side.

When I return home, I’m glad I didn’t choose to receive short-term disability. Working gives me something to do. Part of my day is filled with grading student assignments. I hope dictation accurately interprets my feedback. The other day, a comment with the word titties almost sneaked away into the ethers. Simply. Simply. Simply, I said, trying to correct it, before using my left hand to delete the inappropriateness and to peck out the correct letters.

My amygdala begs me to fly, to find an adventure. We don’t have to be here, it whispers. But I cannot drive, so I rely on dreams. I fade away to last summer’s European trip. I tuck away the corn-maze of a city that was Piazzale Roma; in my mind’s eye, there is no confusion; I ignore Venice’s overpriced taxi rides. I romanticize memories and wish myself there again, aimlessly searching for our gondola ride. I find it and float, as an Italian man in a striped black-and-white shirt sings, while rocking me back-and-forth over the dark black water that lulls me to sleep.

An ache in my shoulder awakens me.

Convalescing is boring, but it is necessary. I convince myself this will be over before I know it, just like childhood memories of teaching teddy bears and adult experiences with European excursions. One day, I’ll be back to manifesting my wildest desires. But until then, I scroll social media and watch a stranger dance to Beyoncé’s “Cuff It.” I roll my eyes at their pedestrian attempts, slightly envious that today, I cannot replicate their movements.

One day, I will. One day, I’ll be back doing what I want. In the meantime, I stare out the window at the same squirrel chasing the same nuts under the same tree.

Post-script: I wrote this two weeks after my surgery on February 6, 2023. I’ve started physical therapy and have entered a new type of boredom, one that comes with doing 30 minutes of PT three times a day 🙃

Monday Notes: My Big Black Sling

~ kegarland ~ 52 Comments

“I hate to see you like this,” my friend said seemingly uncomfortable with the idea of seeing me in pain.

It had been a week since I’d had surgery on a torn rotator cuff and bicep tendon. I understood his concern. The sling is a lot. It’s big. It’s black. Its thick straps wrap around my waist and around my left shoulder to hold my healing appendage and bicep in place.

Arthritis cripples him. He, too, hurts. But he has to announce it. Invisibility obscures his pain behind pearly whites and a sunny disposition. Unlike his sore, veiled and out of sight, friends and family cannot avoid seeing my big black sling. Its sole job to hold one part of my body in place, close to my chest.

“Man, I hate to see my friend like this,” he said after dinner and after he noticed the side effects of narcotics snaking through my veins—my eyelids growing heavy, my head hanging lower.

I admired his fortitude to face his emotions out loud. That’s something a lot of people don’t know how to do. In the midst of well-wishes, I’ve received strange responses. Jokes shroud people’s intent. Comments about push-ups intermingle with words like worry and sleep at night.

Many of us don’t know what to do with visible pain or the thought of our loved one being hurt. The discomfort of another’s distress is…uncomfortable. And so, we ignore it—we sloppily shuffle around it. We hold our emotions close like my big black sling, hoping not to re-injure.

But even if I stand strategically against a wall, people wiggle and bump into me, while uttering unapologetic sorrys. They stare intrigued with the background story. This representation of pain is unavoidable. This sling is big.

“I just hate to see you like this,” he said once more. This time, we stood in the parking lot of a liquor store. He’d insisted on “buying me a bottle for my big birthday.”

I accepted. And I wondered if he spoke to me or himself. His pain is visible only through X-ray. He can smile and no one would be the wiser. If I smile, people can focus on the symbolism of the sling.

“Next time, maybe you can visit when I’m not hemmed up,” I said.

“For sho’,” he agreed, describing a return trip in a couple of months.

I reassured him my recovery would be speedy. “April will be here in no time. We can celebrate life for real then,” I say.

For real means sipping handcrafted drinks in short gold-rimmed glasses and copper tin mugs, shutting down restaurants, and complaining about the privilege we’ve designed for our young adult daughters. We did little of that on this night. That night, was reserved for facing pain: his and mine. His invisible, mine observable.

Post-script: I wrote this one week after my surgery on January 27, 2023. I’ve started physical therapy and feel fine 😉

Turning 50: The Relationship You Have with Yourself Matters Most

~ kegarland ~ 62 Comments

Do you like yourself? Do you love yourself? Do you accept yourself as is? I hope so, because just like any relationship, liking, loving, and accepting yourself are foundational for developing a relationship with yourself. If you’re having issues with either of these three, there are plenty of self-help books, gurus, and of course, therapists, who can lead the way. I suggest starting there, before reading about my version of developing a relationship with yourself:

Years ago, I wrote a book called The Unhappy Wife. In it, I’d interviewed 12 women, one being myself. As I listened to each woman’s story, it became clear to me that we didn’t love ourselves. It was also apparent that we were detached from our bodies and emotions, and subsequently…ourselves. Yet we had bent over backwards in immeasurable ways to figure out how to be in relationship with men. I remember wondering what it would look like to give yourself as much attention as you did another human being? What would it be like to pour into a relationship with yourself? I think this is important, because withstanding mental illness, no one can really care about you more than you care for yourself.

So, that’s what I did.

One year, I began a self-love campaign. I asked 30 women, who I knew personally, what it meant to love yourself. I’m not going to debate about if pedicures or therapy is the “real” self-love approach, because guess what? There is no argument. For some women, it will be imperative to go to the spa. For others, it will be important to schedule a breast exam. And some may just need to sit down somewhere and be quiet, without distraction. We have to stop being so binary about this. All it does is cloud and confuse the overarching issue, which is simple: Cultivate a relationship with yourself that matters to you.

Another year, I thought about what I’d do if I was dating someone. What would that look like? I would want to find out what that person liked and disliked to see if we vibe or not. I’m married, so on some level, the point was moot, but I decided to change “someone” to me. I began trying different activities. We may think we know what we like, but a lot of times it’s based on tradition and repetition. It’s easy to get into a rut and believe that you only like to watch Netflix on Sundays from 12p-12a; however, there are other things you may enjoy that you haven’t even entertained.

Here are a few other ways to develop a relationship with yourself:

  • Go somewhere by yourself! This isn’t just about “dating yourself,” which is a thing. This is more like thinking about if someone said they wanted to take you on a date, where would you tell them to take you? Now, do it for yourself. Try that new restaurant. Go on a day trip. Take yourself on a picnic. Whatever you can conjure up is what you should do, without any qualms or fears. One time, I took myself on a weekend trip to Panama City Beach. I had a blast…all…by…my…self.
  • Write a list of 10 things you’d do if you had time, space, or money. Now, choose one, and find the time, space, or money. To get to know who you are today, in this moment, you have to be intentional. You think you don’t have time, space, or money, but that’s probably not true. For example, I was invited to a two-hour networking event. When the day came, I felt as if I didn’t have the time. The reality was I didn’t want to make the time. That Saturday, instead of reading or writing blogs, I attended the event, and it was beneficial.
  • Check your city’s Groupon list. One way to learn what you may or may not like to do is to check Groupon. A couple Christmases ago, I saw an offer for viewing Christmas lights in St. Augustine, which is about 20 minutes from me. In that city, vacationers ride on a trolley, with strings of lights, while singing Christmas carols! That sounded really cool to me. Full disclosure…I didn’t do that activity, but my husband planned something similar for us on a small boat around the same city. Remember, learning what you like to do doesn’t always mean you have to do it alone, just that you honor the idea.

Finally, I know I’ve emphasized the importance of women doing this. That’s because I’m a woman, and I know sometimes, women end up acquiescing to other people’s whims, leaving us in a whirlwind of resentment of the consequences of our unconscious choices. However, no matter our gender, we should all learn to develop a relationship with ourselves, because it’s the most important relationship we’ll ever have.

I’m turning 50 on May 23rd, and in true kegarland form, I need to process and document it. Being on the earth for half a century, interacting with people, has taught me a few things, and I’ll be sharing them with you through June. Here is the first one:

Turning 50: Advice I’m no Longer Taking

Monday Notes: *23

~ kegarland ~ 56 Comments

Initially, the number 23 used to frequently appear on digital clocks, not just at home, but also abroad or at other people’s houses. Sometimes when I happened to glance at the time, it would read 5:23. The number urged me to pay attention. To what, I was never sure. The purpose wasn’t readily clear. It’s not like a bag of money would fall from the sky or a genie would appear asking for my three wishes. There was just an overwhelming sense that I should be mindful.

So, when I moved from Middle Georgia back to Florida, with little confidence in that decision, I looked for a sign. One day, while driving on the major street adjacent to our townhome, I noticed the bus was number 23. And that did it for me. The same way people find solace in praying to an all-knowing presence that they believe exists, is the way I learned to find comfort when seeing the number 23. Recognizing the number 23 bus right outside of my home helped me to feel as if I had made the proper decision. I was in the “right” place.

Similarly, when I began my job at a community college, I was unsure the institution was right for me, that this was the “right” place for my skillset. Once again on my way to work, I noticed the bus that dropped students off right in front of the college was bus 23. When I noticed the number this time, it wasn’t comforting. It was confirming. At that moment, I had to trust, have faith, and believe I was where I was supposed to be. The reason would be revealed later.

And so, I came to rely on these two numbers as guidance.

On January 20th, I had surgery on my rotator cuff and bicep tendon. The weeks before were filled with nausea and heart palpitations; otherwise known as panic attacks. I’d never had surgery before. The days before were filled with rumination of the unknown; otherwise known as anxiety. I’d never had surgery before. Was I making the right decision? How would I know? The night before, I asked for a sign that everything would be okay, that this was the right decision. I’ve learned to trust that if I ask for a sign, then I will be given a sign, and that my job is to believe that it really is a sign.

The morning of my surgery, Dwight and I sat side-by-side on a hard hospital loveseat. We waited for my eight-digit patient number to appear on the monitor, signaling it was my turn. One-by-one, we watched as nurses called each patient to their fate. Name, the nurse would say, confirming that what the person said matched what was listed on the wristband. What are you here for? the nurse asked, validating that the patient could adequately describe their procedure. Then, the two would walk away toward an unknown place, beyond two double doors, making my stomach twist into knots. I’d never had surgery before. I sat in the crook of Dwight’s arm, trying to hide the tears that crept down my cheek, betraying any sense of internal strength.

Then, it was my turn.

I told her my name and described why I was there. I followed her toward the double doors.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” she asked.

I hadn’t eaten anything since nine o’clock the night before, so there was no need.

“We’re going right over there to that room,” she said. “Number 23.”

I wanted to wrap my arms around her taut, stocky body. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew this nurse who had just met me two minutes prior wouldn’t understand how much seeing those two digits meant to me. But still I tried.

“That’s my birth day,” I said, with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

The nurse looked at my file, as if to verify, that my birthdate did, indeed, include the numbers two and three, and then she said, “Hmmmph.”

That’s when I knew I was in the right place, and that no matter what happened, everything was going to be okay.

~ February 3, 2023

*Post-script: I started to title this “Why I don’t feel the need to name the unknown,” but I didn’t want to get into a religious debate 😉

Monday Notes: AI

~ kegarland ~ 76 Comments

Recently, I used Lensa to generate some artificial intelligence (AI) photos. I’d seen a couple of celebrities do it and thought why not?

So, I uploaded 15 photos, and two hours later these appeared.

They’re beautiful, right? I was amazed. It was mystifying to see how the app captured my spirit. How these photos look is how I feel on the inside. I perceive myself as a powerful being who can do anything to which I set my mind, and these computer-generated images illustrated it.

That’s scary.

I was so amazed with these photos that I almost cancelled my photoshoot. Why do I need to pay someone hundreds of dollars if AI can create a perfect looking me? I wondered. Don’t worry. I didn’t cancel. But I did consider it.

“These are stunning,” a blogger friend commented after seeing this set in my IG stories. “Did you have someone commission them for you?”

This person, who I admire as an intelligent being thought an artist had drawn these, that I’d paid thousands of dollars to have someone draw these! That’s how perfect they appear.

That’s scary, and I think we need to be more aware of what AI can do and how it will change our lives.

For example, I read an article on The Atlantic about ChatGPT, a type of AI that not only writes essays, but also synthesizes information. That first part isn’t a big deal. That last part…is the beginning of the end for a lot of things, namely, English teachers and the types of assignments they create. The author interviewed Derek Thompson, another staff writer, about ChatGPT.  

Thompson explained how life changing this app is, and as a former English teacher, I agree with his points. In the past, it was obvious when a student plagiarized essays. There were tells, like using a larger vocabulary or writing phrases that didn’t sound like them; the tone was off. Well, ChatGPT mirrors the person’s writing style, which thus far has been challenging for other programs.

As an editor, this part is a bit scary, too. Will my business be threatened because scholars can upload their work to ChatGPT, which will write a flawless thesis that sounds just like them? Maybe not today, but eventually in the near future, I’m confident in the possibilities.

So, here’s my concern. We’ve gotten ourselves into a bit of pickle over the past century or so because we innovate, without considering the unintended consequences of technology. For example, computers make things a lot easier, but many Americans are more sedentary due to sitting for long periods of time. Social media is a tool used for connection, but depending on how you use it, you may feel less connected to friends and family.

As a member of Gen X, I’ve watched technology evolve, and I understand how an initial fascination with these types of things can leave us awe-struck. In the past, all we had were sci-fi novels to warn us about some futuristic made-up consequence. Now, though, we have wisdom and experience. We don’t have to wait for the next George Orwell or Octavia Butler to warn us about the ills of fake, dystopian societies. We can see what’s happening in real time. Because we can see what’s happening, we can change what’s happening. We can do something now, even if it’s as small as weighing the possibilities and considering ethics. AI creators don’t have to be in control; we can be in control.

Here’s one last story. One of my former colleagues used ChatGPT to create a course syllabus as a test, just to see what would happen. Guess what? It was perfect. She shared on social media how the app developed an ideal syllabus for a young adult literature class, with a course objective, appropriate readings, and assignments with a grading scale.

That’s nutz, and I think we should all be a bit worried about how our futures could look if we allow AI to take the wheel.

Turning 50: Advice I’m No Longer Taking

~ kegarland ~ 106 Comments

I’m turning 50 on May 23rd, and in true kegarland form, I need to process and document it. Being on the earth for half a century, interacting with people, has taught me a few things, and I’ll be sharing them with you through June.

The first thing I’ve been thinking about is advice I was given in my youth.

When I was a child, my mother used to say, “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it,” and I totally understand the sentiment behind the suggestion. If you want someone to listen to what you have to say, then you should maybe consider your tone and choice of words. When I’m writing, I do think about those things. And for about ten years, beginning in my 30s, I also tried very hard to take a beat before I opened my mouth to communicate.

But this didn’t serve me well. A lot of times, I ended up sugar-coating what I really wanted to say to appease the person and suppressing my tone and intent, which physically affected me. So, no more.

If I see that there is information that would benefit you because you may be headed down a difficult path (in my opinion), then I don’t worry about my tone or choice of words. I’ve learned that two things can happen: either the person will receive my message as intended, which is typically to be helpful, or they will focus on how I communicated, which leads to the use of negative adjectives (i.e., rude, mean, arrogant, know-it-all).

But at 50? I’m not worrying about that anymore.

In addition to my mother, my grandmother, who was born in 1926, used to also provide advice. Many times, she told me to simply talk about the weather in social situations, so as not to get into arguments with people. I mean, you can’t argue about if it’s raining or not. Again, I understand why this is. Most people at your job, at the grocery store, or in the parent pick-up line, don’t want to really hear about how you’re doing, even though they asked. We’ve become accustomed to using hello, how are you? as a greeting, as opposed to an expression of care.

But I want you to consider this: How hard would it be to answer honestly? You don’t have to tell someone your life story, but you could say something like, I’m having a rough day. And maybe we can learn to respond in kind. You don’t have to go into fix-it, therapist-mode. You could just say, I hope you feel better.

See how easy that is?

Another thing we could do is re-vision how we interact in situations that are supposed to be more intimate. If I spend hours driving to your home for a holiday, then I don’t want to talk about how awful your job is. I want to hear about why you’re at a job you hate, with a boss you dislike…after all these years. Again, I don’t want to fix it for you. I just want to discuss something that matters…to you, something that helps me to understand who you are as a person.

So, I’m leaning into engaging in more thoughtful ways with people. If I ever ask you how you’re doing, then I want to know. And if we’re spending time together, then I’m probably going to ask a deeper question that goes beyond surface-level descriptions. If you choose not to respond, then that’s fine, too. Everyone doesn’t have to be like me. I’ve lived long enough to know that my intent will always prevail, and as a result, bring likeminded individuals into my space so that we can commune.

Post-script: To be clear, I have no intention on spitting venom toward others, but I’m also not worrying about how I say things. Folks either get me or they won’t 😉

Monday Notes: I Don’t Want your Child (or Dog)!

~ kegarland ~ 61 Comments

I vibe with dogs and kids. That’s the way I’ve always been. If you have a dog and 24 hours, then we’ll probably be besties. The same applies if you have a child under 12. He, she, or they will be my best friend by the time I leave your home. I’ve accepted this about myself; however, those outside of my immediate circle don’t know this information, and thus, problems arise. Sometimes, people think I want their kid and dog, or at least that’s how they act.

When I visited my in-laws, my youngest niece attached herself to me as soon as I arrived. We’d never met, yet she stuck by my side and offered me a snaggle-tooth grin every time I looked her way. She followed me around the house and said she wanted to come home with me. She sat beside me at church and whispered jokes.

“Does anyone want to give their life to Christ?” the pastor asked.

“She does,” she shouted, pointing at me and trying to raise my hand.

“Oh yeaaaah?” the pastor’s eyes brightened.

“No. No,” I assured him, and then to my niece, “you trying to get me in trouble…at church???” I teased, giving her a side-eye.

She returned a gapped-tooth smile.

She insisted on sitting next to me at dinner, her mother on the opposite side of the table. “You like your Aunt Kathy?” she asked, through a tight grin.

When we returned home, she began calling me “Mama,” instead of Aunt Kathy.

“You don’t even know her name,” her father said, clearly bothered by her instant affinity.

I remained quiet as insecurity filled the air. Children don’t have to know your name. All they have to feel is safe and seen. It’s a vibe. I don’t want your child I wanted to holler. She’s clearly starving for attention. Instead, I lay on the couch and pretended to be sleepy, in hopes that she’d leave me alone and perhaps spare her parents the sound of her eight-year-old voice calling me mama.

The next day, she cried and hid under the table because she didn’t want me to leave.

Fast forward years later, and I met a three-year-old cousin, who hadn’t seen me since she was born. At first, she was shy, as many tots are, but eventually, after I began asking her questions, in Spanish and English, and wiping her runny nose, she warmed up, so did her parents’ ten-year-old dog.

Her parents and I went to a store, where I asked, “Do you like toys?”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“Good. Let’s go look at some,” I suggested. “You wanna go look at toys?” I asked with my hand outstretched.

More head bobbing.

“We’re gonna go look at toys,” I announced to her mother, and then she put her tiny hand in mine and we traipsed away toward Barbie and them.

We picked over Pepa the Pig trinkets and a box of Marvel bowling pins. “You like those?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A skate…”

“Issa skateboard,” her mother said. “You know how to use a skateboard?” she had found us and decided she’d show her child around the toy aisle. As her mother showed her how to kick and push, I slowly slipped away because it started to feel a lot like my niece and her mother years ago. It felt like insecurity, as if she didn’t really want her daughter to be with or like me, even though she was and did.

I thought I was tripping, projecting even, until we returned to the house where the mother’s dog greeted me at the door as if we were old friends. He barked for me to pick him up, and feed him the attention he, too, craved and lacked since his doggy parents had had a baby and become mommy and daddy to a human.

He sat on my lap and we played a game where my fingers came close enough to his mouth for him to snap at them, but not really catch them. He barked and snarled and wagged his tail with happiness. Like the toy aisle, where she skated her way back into her child’s view, the mother made cute clicking noises to distract her pet from my lap and from the fun, but it didn’t work. Instead, he settled down right next to my thigh, licked my hand, and then fell into a deep sleep with a slight snore.

My cousin, the mother’s husband, laughed at the sight, and said, “You gotta new Mama now, huh,” while his wife looked on fuming.

Again, I wanted to yell, I don’t want your child (or your dog). I just don’t mind offering a little attention.

But of course, I didn’t say this. Again, I shied away from the dog and the child and made as little eye contact with both.

I hope you hear the empathy in between these narratives: I’m a mother, and I wouldn’t want one of my daughters calling someone else mother. I’ve owned a dog, and I wouldn’t want my dog sidling up to someone else as if he didn’t have an owner. However, I also understand children and dogs. They both need constant attention, something that is oftentimes impossible in today’s busy world. And if I happen to be around for a couple days, I’m happy to offer it.

At the same time, I understand the careful balance of human beingness that has to be in place. I’ll only indulge if everyone is comfortable in the situation, but sometimes, ego makes that impossible.

Monday Notes: A Reflection on Last Year’s Goals

~ kegarland ~ 90 Comments

In 2022, I had three goals:

  1. I would no longer persuade people to see my point of view.
  2. I would no longer chase people for reciprocity.
  3. I would no longer ignore my gut, figuratively or literally.

Here’s how I did:

Not persuading people to see my point of view was hard. A healer friend of mine shared a post on Instagram that said you don’t have to always let people know how you feel before you release them. You can just stop talking, interacting, etc. I told him that I knew I needed to balance this behavior because “I be having all the words.”

“You want them to hurt like you? Or do you have a deep-seated need to be understood?” he asked.

I knew it was the latter. I hate for people to not understand what I’m saying, to not consider what I’m saying to be truth, and to ignore what I’ve shared without thinking about how an experience could have affected me. As a result, I usually end up saying a whole bunch of stuff, when I really should’ve just released them from my life. This year, I only felt as if I had to persuade one person to see my point of view, but a back-and-forth conversation lingered much of the year.

I didn’t do well with this goal, but after our chat, my healer friend sent me a homework assignment and a bible verse so that I could learn to heal what’s at the root of this need. I know I’ll be doing better in 2023.

I did really well with not chasing people for reciprocity, mainly because I’m tired of what my friend, Dr. D. calls one-way, transactional relationships. There were a few situations where I felt as if I was doing much more calling, texting, or planning. But once I slowed down or stopped altogether, people noticed. When those friends said something (I considered) passive, like oh, we haven’t talked in a while, then I brought the reason why to their attention, which was usually because if I don’t reach out, we don’t talk. Friends and family either accepted this and changed their behavior, or they didn’t. Either way, the result was I no longer had to chase anyone for reciprocity. This behavioral change worked.

Literally paying attention to my gut was easy. Two years ago, I accepted the idea that my parasympathetic system had been disrupted long ago when I experienced several subsequent traumatic events in childhood and adolescence. (That’s a mouthful). Anywho, as a result, I learned that I have to not only eat differently, but also keep my stress levels low; otherwise, there’s a physical and mental breakdown. In 2022, I focused quite a bit on these two things. For example, I knew when Dwight and I were out of the country and I didn’t feel right, I had to return to strategies that kept my anxiety at bay. My step-mother coming to visit was also a reminder of how important listening to my gut is, so this was successful.

Figuratively listening to my gut was also easier this year. To be clear, I mean following my intuition. One time, I could sense that my cousin’s wife seemed bothered for some reason. I could feel my belly swirling, and it almost seemed as if our spirits were fighting, even though we hadn’t engaged in an argument. I decided to leave her alone for the remainder of the day. The next day, without my prompting, my cousin revealed this was true. His wife was, indeed, angry because of something I said. In these situations, following my gut doesn’t mean confronting the person. I’ve learned that’s rarely necessary. What it does mean is paying attention to what I feel and then focusing on what I can do on my part to dissolve the situation.

This year, I’m focusing on the following:

  • Prioritize my artistry/writing.
  • Heal the part of me that wasn’t heard as a child.
  • Flow with the elements.

See what I did there? That second one is a re-frame of the first goal from last year. It’s not about not persuading others to see my point of view. It’s about why I feel the need to persuade others to see my point of view. Once I heal this, then the need will cease to exist 😉

How’d you do last year? Did you commit to doing something in order to strengthen your human beingness? Are you doing something this year to be a better person?