A Reality Check with Bret Michaels: Every Rose Has It’s Thorn

Posted on May 15, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

Last Saturday night Rick and I had the honor of attending the JDRF Rock the Cure Promise Ball. It was a fancy affair, and I enjoyed the opportunity to peel off the yoga pants and sport an actual gown. And see Rick in an tux. Yes. He is hawt.

Our new digs also inspired a lot of Rock the Cure group selfies and fun pictures with friends….

Photos above provided by Stefanie Marco, KINDSPIN DESIGN

As you can see, I had to practice the poses, as I had to impress Bret. He and are are true besties now. Rock on!

*Photo Provided by JDRF

We went to Rock the Cure in honor of some of our favorite people in Connecticut. The Christensen family and the Poulin family bonded last year at the humid indoor pool, where Jessica and I spent several hours a week on the butt-numbing bleachers while our older kids were at swim team practice. We both have little ones who sat with us… her son Jack, and my little Stella.

I remember the day Jess told me she was worried about Jack, who was suddenly mad-dog thirsty and peeing every ten minutes. It was totally justified worry, it turns out, as Jack ended up in the ER the next day, Valentines Day 2013. He was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes (T1D) and the Christensen’s life course was radically altered.

Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune disorder that attacks the pancreas, and halts the ability to produce insulin, the hormone that metabolizes fat and sugar in the body. T1D is a life threatening disease.

Suddenly, Scott and Jessica, Jack’s parents, were thrust into the unwelcome role of acting as their son’s pancreas. This includes regular finger pricks to test the blood, adjusting glucose levels by giving shots of insulin or consuming more sugar. They had to become experts in nursing, nutrition, endocrinology, and Worry. And through the past year, they have launched themselves into actively doing all they can to help find a cure for their little boy.

The Promise Ball was an incredible night. It was conference center full of men and women whose lives have been touched with T1D, and peppered with beautiful children. Many of them had ports taped to their arms, a badge of their courage and vulnerability. There was a palpable spirit of camaraderie and generosity that I have never witnessed at this magnitude, and it was deeply moving to be a part of it.

Photo Credit: Stefanie Marco, KINDSPIN DESIGN

After listening to various experts share the advances being made in the research, Bret Michaels spoke about his own challenges living with T1D since he was a six year old boy. We got our 80’s rock on with Bret as he performed for us, including Poison’s legendary “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn.”

Photo Credit: Stefanie Marco, KINDSPIN DESIGN

Later, our friends got up in the spotlight to share their story.

As they spoke, I remembered a conversation we had last summer, about six months after Jack was diagnosed. We were sitting around their fire pit chatting after a delicious meal. Despite the darkening summer night, our kids giggling in the yard, and good company, I was feeling heavy. Filled with a dark, syrupy worry that stuck to my insides and made it hard to match the lightness of the evening.

Every rose has it’s thorn.

We all have our sharp, thorny parts, the pricks that will make us bleed, along with the beauty. And that night, I felt overwhelmed by my thorns. Misophonia had been escalating in our house to sanity threatening levels, (which you can read more about here and here). I was lost in my own sorrows.

We began talking about misophonia and T1D with Scott and Jess. I had sought comfort by expressing how everyone has painful challenges. Everyone has the hills they must climb to bring their children to safety and health and sanity. Theirs was T1D. Ours, misophonia…. drawing comparison to our mutual struggles as parents.

I remember the look on their faces in the firelight. They kept quiet.

I had been so, so wrong.

Watching them bravely presenting themselves on the stage for JDRF, outlining their heartache and their hope last saturday, their love and passion for their son was powerful.

They presented this amazing short video, highlighting their journey:

WIth the birth of each baby, I went through a phase of utter exhaustion that made my body feel as if it became one with any solid surface if I remained still for a few moments. Despite the numbing fatigue, I felt the overwhelming compulsion to watch my baby sleep, driven by fear that the length of time I closed my eyes would directly correlated to the length of time my baby’s breathing would cease.

Thank God that passes.

But for Scott and Jessica, it has begun again, in one eternal phase. The fear is real… the fear that one night while they sleep, Jack will slip away from them.

This is their new normal.

There is the scary day parents face… when we must leave our child in the care of another, trusting someone else to love and protect our baby… It is a painful loss of control for any parent.

But for Scott and Jess, they must ask his teacher not just to educate their son, but to be Jack’s pancreas too.

And did you know that blood sugar is affected by all kinds of things… not just the food you eat?

Swimming lessons, a family hike, a hot summer day, a fever, a bout of the stomach bug, a stressful day at school…. these normal, everyday occurrences can tip Jack into unstable territory for hours…. they teeter on the razor edge of worry, phone at the ready to call 911 as they watch him sleep and wait for his numbers to improve.

It is true, every rose has it’s thorn. But not all provide a prick that can take your child’s life.

I thought about that night around the fire, and how I wasn’t able to see this family clearly. I was bound in my own despair.

I had been blind to the realities of their crisis.

At the JDRF event, I was awash with gratitude for my own challenges. I have not been required to become a vital organ for my child. I am not living with the real and present danger that T1D presents for Jack.

The night provided Rick and I with the conviction to stretch and do what we can to help JDRF find a cure. As a recognition of my gratitude. As an acknowledgement of their struggle. As a path around our own wounds and a means to feel empowered by sharing what we do have rather than focus on what we may lack.

If you can, please spread the word. And donate here… even a small amount makes a difference.

It may soften the thorns you carry, too.

Photo credit: Stefanie Marco, KINDSPIN DESIGN

Daring to Lose the Baggage We Carry

Posted on May 9, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

Photo Credit: Gardner Edmunds

When I was a kid, we had one of those monstrous hard shell luggage cases that could transport obscene amounts of luggage, effectively transforming our minivan into a giant, lumbering turtle. The first summer we owned it, we crammed it completely full of baggage and mom drove us out to Utah from Colorado to visit our family. When we got to Grandma’s, we unpacked the shell, completely emptying the vessel. And then we just snapped the empty case shut and left the giant shell trussed up on the van as we shuttled around Utah…my dad had so aggressively tied it to the roof, it wasn’t going anywhere.

One night, just before rush hour bloomed on the freeway, as we were zipping north on I-15, the case was thudding and banging on the roof, the hot summer wind was raging through the valley, and my mom white-knuckled the steering wheel to keep us from blowing into the next lane. Suddenly there was a loud ripping POP! and we watched in horror as our luggage case somersaulted across the median, miraculously through oncoming traffic of the southbound lanes, and down an embankment into a field of weeds. The case had been aggressively strapped to the luggage rack… my dad had made sure there was no chance of it coming loose. But without the weight of the luggage inside, the wind tore the luggage rack right off the roof of our van.

I find myself thinking so often of that luggage case blowing down the hill.

We are like moving vehicles on a grand adventure, and we each have a giant shell tied up to the roof to carry the baggage. In our childhoods, that case is packed full of experiences and ideas and grand moments and terrible, crushing loss of innocence. For the most part, we cannot determine what is packed inside, giving weight and heft to our lives. It is filled with the baggage we carry with us as we strike out on our own.

Most of us, at one point or another, stop to take out the baggage. And my first real stop was after the birth of my first two daughters.

They forced me to pull over and examine what I was carrying. I had two baby girls, and when began to unpack, I realized I didn’t want the bulk of it. It was full of fear and molds I had been trying to pour myself into.

And guilt.

It was filled with desperation and apathetic surrender. It was filled with hard and glittering notions about womanhood. It was brimming with hundreds of years of handed down expectation and servitude. And untold instruments to measure my worth and acceptability and faith. It was filled with boxes and boxes of unanswered questions that I had been told to put away and not worry about. Injustices and inconsistencies and confusion that was my own damn fault for ever acknowledging in the first place.

Photo Credit: Robert Faulkner

I unpacked all that I could. I knew I could not carry it any longer, and I would not be handing it to my daughters. It was an abandonment of my genealogical legacy, family history, the ideals and mantras and precious cargo of my tribe.

I drove away, my case more hollow than full, more light than heavy with burden.

We all do this, I am realizing. In various degrees, this is how we humans roll. Maybe not everyone. Some, I am sure, roll right along and do not dare open the case to investigate the cargo, to find out if it is weight we would still like to carry. But the way we create our own experience, forge our own path, and improve upon the journey for people we love is to look it over, and face what has been packed inside.

I changed my life, drastically. And it was agonizing to leave it behind. It always is, when we take a close and honest look at the things we choose to carry.

I had hoped that I was done. My act was radical and came from a dire place inside that would be crushed by the weight of unwanted ideology. And I naively believed I had accomplished what I had set out to do. I had improved my life, and brightened the future for my girls in untold ways.

It was The One, enormous, painful, transforming reach for more freedom, less guilt. More discovery, less propriety. More authenticity, less fear.

But it is not done. It wasn’t enough, I have known now for a while. In a slow, anxious, build it is becoming more painfully present. Just as the welcoming of my first two girls had forced me to pull over and examine the contents of my shell, this last child has done the same.

Last night, I put on a white dress, curled my hair, wore bright pink lipstick and heeled sandals that made me well over 6 ft tall. It didn’t feel like me. We are staying at a lovely resort in Orlando, and while Rick is working the day away, going to meetings and listening to lectures and schmoozing VIP’s on the golf course, I am at the pool. And in the evenings, we go to work functions to wander the outdoor gathering, shaking hands with strangers. I have done this many times before, at annual actuarial conferences ripe with mathematicians and insurance executives. I have enjoyed the lovely hotels and the chance to tour around various cities and the opportunity to sleep in late, wake when I wish, and leave the daily mothering grind to the grandparents.

But last night, with my heels and my lipstick, that haunting presence of the weight I carry made my bones ache with weariness.

I no longer want to be just a woman on his arm, his satellite.

I have known this for several years now. The feeling of growing out of your own skin is a slow, building pressure, and discomfort that grows into urgency. The imminence scares me, it is regrettably familiar.

The highlight of the evening was speaking briefly with his boss, whom I had not had the pleasure of meeting before. In a quick, private moment, she gave me a lovely gift, sharing with me that she had never known a man more openly proud of his wife. How he speaks about me with admiration and respect and greatly values my thoughts and ideas.

Such words, such affirmation of his love was a forceful moment of reckoning for me.

His love for me, his support, his patient and gentle reassurances that he believes in my ability to change my self, to honor who I am and wish to be without fear or apology, that has kept me moving forward.

And he knows, as I stand next to him in my heels and lipstick, that I want more.
I do not wish to be a woman, standing forever at the ready to support her man. I have done this for 12 years, as I was trained to do.

I am so afraid. It means pulling over once again. It means going through the baggage, and pulling out pieces of me that terrify. It seems so silly that the idea of digging out my ideas of what makes me a woman and what I have to offer the world have put me into such a state of terrified paralysis. Women everywhere have been vigorously doing this work. Throwing out the limiting patriarchal bullshit and becoming more.

These women were not admired and revered in my culture.

I am looking at hundreds of years of training and expectation and gender roles and patriarchy. Thousands of hours of prayers and talks and books and lessons on how motherhood and marriage are the pinnacle of a woman’s existence, the shining glory, the only aspiration that matters.

I remember the sound of the pop, the tearing of metal as that luggage case wrenched itself free and went somersaulting into the weeds. The sight of an empty vessel, no longer needed, being ripped away. It sounds violent and scary and ruinous. It horrifies us all. But perhaps, this is the sight we all need to witness. The carrier of our baggage, being torn away, is the very moment we want to achieve. When we finally unpack all the baggage that weighs us down… we examine it, we see it for what it was in our lives. We acknowledge how it got there, and our power to release it.

And when that case gets light enough, it will tear free and blow away. We will finally be free to drive away, without the weight… just the vehicle we came in.

Photo Credit: Gardner Edmunds

The Cocoon Was Hollow: Grieving the Absolute Loss of Self

Posted on May 2, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

-Lao Tzu

Once the decision was made to cut ourselves free from the religious life we had been woven into, Rick and I began the very delicate process of extrication.

Actually, it wasn’t that hard for Rick. He shed his mormon identity like an ill-fitting suit that he had worn out. He had put it on just six years before, after becoming a fully formed adult. He wore the coat well, but taking it off was not too hard. A temperature adjustment. A loosening of the tie, unclipping the “Brother Poulin” name tag, he went back to being Rick. He kicked off his dress shoes and pulled out his Birkenstocks, and found his old self waiting to welcome him back.

It was me that needed unwinding… the binding thoughts and ideas that had me tightly ensconced were thick and sinewy. At first, I believed that if I just worked at it, the fibers that had cocooned me would release a new and completely different, freed creature. The proverbial butterfly. But as time wore on, I began to wonder if there was a self, underneath it all. The discard pile grew, and with it I lost my shape. After years and years of unraveling, I am left with a huge pile of string, a hopeless tangled mass, and no sense of who I am.

Such work, to unravel one’s self.

I have been sifting through my pile, overcome with grief. For the form and structure of my self. For the loss of what I knew. For the comfort of having a home. For the rejection of my cast. For the familiarity of words and rules and rituals. For the loss of the tethers that gave definition to my family.

I did not know how to recreate myself from this rubble, and yet inside it, were all my pieces.

I have cried more tears in the last year than I have in my entire life. The grief when I first began this process was a rupture, and the tears spilled out in angry waves. Now, the grief is residual, it shimmers at the surface, ready to spill over at the slightest ripple. I cling to the necessity of the tears. The washing out of the vessel. The cleanse, as I ready myself to once again try to find a new woman in the old pile.

And then, as I was drying my tears the other day, something happened. I looked up.

It is only now, eight years into the undoing and the fingering of my scraps that I have found something that looks…hopeful.

In the very raw process of unraveling, there is a powerful sense of isolation and loneliness. I was selfishly consumed by my deconstruction and loss, and it made me blind to my surroundings. Not out of spite, but out of grief, the world outside of my own undoing became a vague and blurry mess. The only pieces of reality and the only choices before me seemed to be born out of the pile of scraps I had created in shedding my entire identity.

The hope came when I looked away from the tangled nonsense I had been stewing in… and I noticed. Instead of a presence of separateness that I had been feeling in my loss of structure, I saw others. They look like me. Some are crying, too. Everywhere, people are discovering their empty cocoon, and the task of recreation. And my story is not so special. We are all standing in our pile, trying to rebuild. I saw my uprooted, raw feelings reflecting back at me. And I saw their beauty. The work of creating something grand and strong, sifting through the rubble to find the shiny pieces… these people were doing it. All of them. I felt my unformed self crack open, and love rushed out. For all the people, for their loss and mine are the same.

And maybe, that is the Truth.

We are all in various stages of this moment… unwinding and rebuilding and whittling away. Anyone willing to break free from the shell that we begin in, to find renewal and movement and light, is going through this too. It has taken me a long time to blink away my grief and look around at the wealth of experience we are all standing in. The survivors of broken childhoods. The immigrant rebuilding in a foreign place. The lover, holding a shattered heart. The parent, reshuffling life after a death. The woman, peeling away her shame. We are all chipping away the armor, to reveal the truest version of our Self.

The truly freeing part? I am realizing that we are not limited to our own broken shells. That pile is our past. The things that have already been. The shape that has already formed and been undone. We are not limited to this material, to rebirth ourselves. There is only so much we can find within, before we must look for the beautiful pieces that others have to offer us.

The world is wide, and open, and full of breath-taking pieces that will feel like home when we find them… they are meant for us to discover. We find unity in the recognition that we are all busy with different versions of the same task. And then, we are less afraid to see the beautiful offerings of others… and perhaps the value of our own discarded pieces.

So, I will pick from my pile the material I want to keep, and then step away… to search out the new treasure that will define the woman I want to become.
Her shape is only for me.

Photo credit: Gardner Edmunds

I Spent Years Begging My Child to Scream… What I Found In Her Silence

Posted on April 29, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

The silent cry.

The open-mouthed, white lipped, frozen cry of a child.

It begins as a breathy, indignant screech, a shocked outcry that is sharp and quick, followed by silence. This is the cry that sends any parent running, heart pounding, to scoop up their hurting child and assess the damage.… we look them over, and hold them tight, waiting for the scream to come, when the tightness in their lungs relaxes just enough to release the pain in an ear-piercing shriek.

My little girl never, ever screamed.

The pain from her injury would be frozen on her face when I gathered her up… she would turn red, then purple, the scream shimmered in her eyes, visceral and bright.

I tried to get her to breathe. To release her scream.

I would press her tightly to my body, squeezing desperately, wanting to wring it from her.

I would curl her up in my lap, and kiss her frozen face a hundred times in a moment, wanting to wash it out of her.

I would hold her face in my two hands, and blow in her face, wanting my own released breath on her skin to emancipate her pain.

I would look right into her eyes where I could see it trapped, and beg.

“Breathe, baby, breathe. You are o.k. Please, breathe. Breathe.”

She didn’t.

The scream wouldn’t come, and she would pass out. The loss of consciousness would make her fall momentarily limp, and what should have been the howling scream of a hurt child whooshed out of her in a complacent sigh.

And then she would have a seizure.

Her whole body would stiffen impossibly tight, her hands would ball up into white knuckled fists, and her wrists would curl in on themselves. There was no scream in her eyes… the light in them vanished.

Her eyes were the worst part. For a moment, she was gone.

Doctors all assured us that this just happened to some kids. The seizure was a result of the lack of oxygen, but did not damage her brain. There was nothing we could do.

For six years, we waited for her to scream.

Of course, she was our child that ate danger and speed for breakfast. She ran everywhere at a wild, 60 degree angle. She had the uncanny ability to consistently find a shard of glass, a razor blade, a broken balloon, hiding in the playground mulch. She climbed to the tippy top of anything stationary. We caught her swinging from the chandelier. Literally. She has no fear.

It was a dangerous time for her. When she got hurt, without that release, the exhalation of anguish, there would not be a breath of renewal. She would lose consciousness and fall if we did not find her fast enough.

Today I am left with the terror I felt as a parent, watching her fall down the stairs just before I was able to grab her shirt, or the countless times I managed to catch her mid-tumble before she hit the last step. The crazy leaps off the front porch and down the driveway in one giant lunge to catch her before she face planted into the sidewalk, or off the top of the slide at the park.

She has outgrown it. Finally. She had her last seizure about a year and a half ago.

But every time I watched the light go out of her eyes, it burned an indelible impression in my memory. It left a mark.

I remember begging her to scream. Wanting to hear her wail. The need for release is intrinsic, innate. I think of her frozen face, unable to give in to the hurt, and I see myself. Maybe it was the years of holding my little girl as she suffered the consequences of being unable to exhale. …. for I can see it now in my own face when I look in the mirror, and in the tightened faces of others.

We need to let it go, before we can breathe in again.

My sweet child, stiff in my arms, was a constant lesson in the real consequences of repression… of stifling your voice. Being authentic about who you are…allowing true self-expression… these are real human needs, not fluffy, frivolous dreams. There is always a consequence for repressing and silencing who you are. Holding inside the thunderous release of expression does not make it disappear, and the release of that energy will find a different pathway.

The trouble is, it works. The breath holding, the refusal to release. We do it, and the alternative reactions feel more controlled and private.

So we do it. We hold it back, we keep it inside, try not to be seen. We hide.

She never screamed and wailed hysterically like other children. It was quiet and private and gentle-looking to anyone who was not cradling her, watching her eyes go dead, holding her stiff hands.

But she taught me that sometimes the quiet is much scarier than the scream. And the dangers of refusing to exhale are much more present than in the moments that we allow ourselves to be heard and seen.

We get used to hiding, and holding it in. We think that if we do it quietly, and no one notices our hurts, we are…. Brave? Meek? Faithful? Strong? Gentle? Peaceful?

I don’t think so. Not anymore. Being seen. Being heard. Speaking up. Releasing. Letting Go. Getting real. These are the healing ways we reach for peace. And we find our Self, free.

Sometimes, out of habit, it is hard to recognize the things we are still not exhaling. But the signs are there. They were with my daughter, too. I see them in me… in everyone as we are all reaching for a cleansing breath.

The days when I realize I have been holding my breath, tight and shallow in my throat. The moments I notice the little half-moon impressions in my palms because I have been holding my hands in fists of tension. The curling of my toes in my shoes. The lack of awareness in my lower half, being so wound up in my thoughts that I lose my grounding. And the absence of joy makes my eyes look dull with exhaustion.

When we notice these symptoms, it is time to locate the tension within. Find the hurt, the fear, the unmet need, the truth…

What is it within that you fear being expressed?….

… and exhale.

Disney is Ruining My Kid.

Posted on March 28, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

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Disney has been ruining my kid…. a job I can do quite well on my own, thank you.

I know, it sounds drastic. Don’t worry, I am not going to launch into a ridiculous diatribe about how Frozen has a hidden gay agenda (huge eye roll) or is turning my girls in to glittery, sparkly princesses who need a prince to save them, (we are over that stage, thank god) or that Miley Cyrus grew up and dared to climb out of her Hannah Montana box.

In the interest of being a pretty laid back mom, who fights against my extremely conservative upbringing, I have tried to adopt a more moderate view of the world and it’s evils. With my girls, I am trying a more balanced approach, believing that they should not be sheltered constantly from American culture, taught to fear and judge and overreact to everything they see. My general philosophy has been to allow them to take part in age-appropriate music, movies and t.v.

That said, I may have gone too far…

Its been a brutal winter and I confess, my kids watched too much T.V. School was cancelled. ALL THE TIME. There was only so much hot chocolate and board games I could muster before I would hand them the remote and rock quietly in a dark corner of my kitchen with a bottle of wine.

Now, I did check in with them, shouting “whatcha watching?” and they would yell, “A.N.T. Farm!” or “Kickin’ It!” or “Good Luck Charlie!” I investigated, and these shows are all listed as appropriate for 8+. Fine. Every once in a while, they would call me in to watch some joke they thought was “Soooo hilarious, mom!” and I would try not to think about how they should be watching something on the History channel instead. Kids deserve some mindless, silly comedy with no educational purpose, just like I deserve to watch Sister Wives and Grey’s Anatomy. No big.

Until.

A few months ago, my husband and I started noticing some differences in one of our daughter’s behavior. She wasn’t acting like herself, she seemed to be putting on a show. She would fling her hair about and act like a sassy teenager and use lingo that sounded inauthentic and contrived coming from her. In these moods she was extra silly, always looking for a laugh.

When this would happen, I tried to talk to her about it. I pointed out that it did not feel like her “real” personality, and that people can sense when someone is not being authentic. We talked about crossing the line between silly and obnoxious. I stepped up my emphasis on important qualities like kindness, generosity, creativity. I asked her if she was acting like people on tv, and after much pressure, she would admit that she was getting a her sayings and jokes from the Disney channel.

At this point, no real alarm bells were going off. She was experimenting, and we were talking about it. It opened lines of communication for me. A little hair tossing and Disney “lingo” was not going to ruin her.

But then, this dear daughter got into some trouble with friends at school. I met with her teachers and spoke to the parents of the other girls involved, and was shocked to hear of some of the social things going on with my child at school. She is a sensitive, loving, girl who is usually fiercely loyal and empathetic… the reports of her behavior did not match what I knew of my girl. She was saying hurtful and judgemental things about other girls’, throwing around conceited declarations, among other shocking things.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am all for personal responsibility and I am in no way interested in making lame excuses for my child. We dealt with the situation and helped her learn painful but necessary lessons about jealousy, friendship, self-control, and hurtful words.

While she was at school during this week, I spent a good amount of time in quiet reflection. The week’s events had been extremely trying as a parent, I found myself in new territory. Acting on instinct, I spent a day watching some of her favorite Disney shows, from start to finish…looking for answers.

I COULD NOT BE MORE HORRIFIED.

Parents. Are you watching this garbage?

I certainly had not been. Beyond the quick minute or two, I had never sat and watched an episode of A.N.T Farm with the girls. Because it is Disney. How the hell do you go from Doc McStuffins, a show that SAVED ME countless tears at the pediatrician’s office, to this absolute trash? I so very wrongly figured that a company like Disney would not be promoting cruelty, bullying and sexism in their shows for young, impressionable children. I was completely mortified as I watched.

These shows are laced with terrible social behavior. Like the scene in one, where a “nerdy” boy walks up to a pretty “popular” girl and asks her out… she threw her bowling ball and ran away screaming. *Cue audience laughter*

There were so many examples of rude, mean responses to difficult social situations for kids, followed by the character shrugging it off, recorded laughter, and the characters moving on without showing any realistic emotions. No anger, no hurt feelings. Comedy.

I was disgusted. How in the world will we teach our children to be kind and put a stop to cruel behavior in schools when THE DISNEY CHANNEL is showing these bullying behaviors followed by laughter and no emotional response??? It was clear where my daughter had gotten the impression that these kinds of conceited one liners and arrogant vanity was playful and a harmless way to get a laugh.

Just when I thought I had seen the worst, there was a scene that made blood shoot from my eyeballs. A pretentious girl, conspiring to create a room-sized walk in closet for all her makeup! and clothes! and shoes! was asked by two boys to help them with a math problem. She does.

To which they exclaim, “Thank you, you are a genius!”

The girl is offended.

The boys hurriedly fix their ghastly mistake with, “Oh! I mean you are SO beautiful!”

….and she prances away, satisfied.

Excuse me while I heave.

Shame on me for exposing my daughter to this kind of garbage.

SHAME ON DISNEY.

What talented person working over there in the Disney CO. believes this is an appropriate message for 8 + girls in 2014?

REALLY???

They are out to make conceit and rejection funny. They are sending intentional messages to girls about how they should value their looks and their walk-in closets over their brains! Now, I realize that not all children are going to be as susceptible as my daughter was to copying the abhorrent behavior on these shows. But I have more than one daughter. And who knows how they have been internalizing this bullshit. It’s outrageous.

After picking up the kids from school, my girls and I sat and re-watched these shows. I wanted to gouge my eyes out. As we watched, I paused it every single time someone said something cruel, every time the fake audience laughed inappropriately at what in real life would be someone’s serious emotional pain. We talked about what would actually happen if you acted like that with your friends, and how you can’t repair things by declaring “Just KIDDING!” I showed them the “genius” scene and we had a long talk about the awful and unacceptable message it sends to girls about dumbing down, caring only about appearance, objectification… my daughters got more than they bargained for that afternoon.

As a parent, when the kids are watching t.v., it’s mostly because I need a moment. To make dinner. To help someone else with homework. To gather my sanity. These few examples permanently damaged my trust in the Disney Channel and the trash they are producing for our kids.

It’s hard enough to raise kids who will have the moral fortitude to stand up for themselves and for each other. It’s hard enough to teach my little girls to be proud and brave and own their bodies and their brains without apology. To recognize and condemn cruelty and sexism. It’s hard enough to get a moment to catch my breath and feel like my kids are safe and entertained for 30 minutes under the DISNEY umbrella without unwittingly downloading vain, cruel, and damaging sexist garbage into their impressionable brains.

Shame on my naiveté and trust in the Disney name.

Believe me… lesson learned.

My Hysterecto-versary: Lessons I Learned While Losing My Lady Parts

Posted on March 24, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

Photo Credit: Gardner Edmunds

At times you have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself.

– Alan Alda

It’s my hysterectoversary.

A year ago, I had major surgery. They opened me, took my womb.

Let them open me, I had thought. Let them take a piece of me out. It will heal all that is wrong in my world, the pain will be physical. And then it will finally be healed. I will be healed. Not whole ever again, but free from the persistent sensation that my parts and pieces were scrambled up inside. I had been feeling this way for years, diagnosed with a disease of the uterus called adenomyosis. It creates a heaviness. A fullness. Pressure. The options were to have surgery, or wait till menopause. I jumped into surgery, desperate to make things feel light. In order. Pressure free.

The surgery did not go well. It was supposed to be simple. Heal internally. There would be no knowing of the scars, no way so see the damage. Just the emptiness. They went through my vagina, to reach the uterus, the offending woman part. They took it out, and repaired the damage, and my body still bled. Not a dangerous, life threatening pace, but a slow, persistent trickle. I laid on the operating table for two more hours. They stitched and cauterised with no avail. Finally, they felt they must take a more drastic step. The bleeding was not threatening my life, but could not be ignored.

They opened my belly, exposing the tiny bleeding wound they could not find without light. And stopped the bleeding. I woke up with the internal wounds and a big, long, ugly cut. Visible. A constant reminder of my missing pieces. A permanent talisman of the persistent trickling damage.

Once at home to heal, I burrowed deep into the dark of my room, wallowing in the cushy leather recliner. I tried to hide from the funnel cloud of emotions that had moved into my space with me. The pain of recovery and healing was a place to focus. But I felt so… betrayed. Visible scars were not what I had bargained for. I did not want a sign, written on my flesh that stated,

“Someone took out your womb. You gave them this power, and you knew it would not heal you.”

It is true. I ran towards surgery at a determined speed. I made the appointments, I talked to the doctors. “There is more,” she whispered. My intuition. I did not want to hear her. So I locked it away. I carried that intuitive knowledge around, smothered under a thick blanket of denial and simplicity as I slipped on paper gowns. Endured ultrasounds. Vaginal exams. Blood work. I met with the surgeon, and walked out, turning the music up loud in the car to drown out the doubt, the voice that began speaking louder, “get another opinion. She is not experienced enough. This will not heal you. It is more.”

I clung to the diagnosis. It felt good to have something with letters and sounds to define my experience. A name. Adenomyosis. Simple. There is a physical discomfort. There is a name for it. We will surgically remove the offending part. We will sew you back together. You will experience great pain. And then you will heal and it will be over. I loved this idea. It needed to be true. I would make it true by going through with it.

Wounds heal. I wanted healing. If I had to give away a piece of me to do it, so be it.

In my desperation for wholeness, I willingly ignored my screaming intuition…the deeper pain, the slow bleed that surrounded womanhood, hurts that needed much more than the scalpel of a surgeon.

For weeks after the surgery, I laid in a recliner, listening to the sounds of my family downstairs, their lives marching on as my layers of skin grew back together. I slept. And my dreams were filled with holes. I woke and thought about what my body must do to shift and sift and fill the hole within me. What my surgeon had to do to stop the slow, persistent bleed. The belief that it would all be worth it, the pressure would be gone, the pain would heal, and it would be a distant memory was like holding water in my cupped palms.

Eventually it all ran out.

It’s been a year. My parts have shifted, the hole filled, the bright purple line has faded from an angry purple to a more relaxed violet. I have spent every day of this year healing. From the hysterectomy.

From the betrayal of my inner voice.

I was taught as a young child, that this inner voice was a gift from God. A women must receive this gift from the priesthood powers of men. I was taught that I must earn my worthiness, and that worthiness would be determined by men in the church. There were definitive measurements of my worthiness as a girl, before I could have this gift of the Holy Ghost within me, the still small voice. And I was taught to use this gift as my most precious possession to guide me throughout my life. I was also taught with great fear that I would lose this cherished gift if I did not receive guidance that matched those of my church leaders. I could ask within myself, and their answers would always come to me.

I have always been aware of this pulse inside me. The throbbing, persistent boom-boom-boom-boom of my heartbeat in my eyelids, my fingertips, the base of my throat, the top of my scalp. The sensation is a drum beat, calling me to my truth.

My intuition is not a sleeping beast, needing poking and prodding to come alive. It is a roaring beast, tantruming inside me, fighting to be heard.

My intuitive voice has never been hard for me to hear, but almost always terrifying to acknowledge. Because the whispers, and persistent shouts of my inner voice have been in opposition to the voices of those that claimed to bestow me with this great spiritual gift.

Herein lies the bleed. The tremendous heaviness. The healing process is long and repetitive. I am learning, ever so slowly, and not without pain, that ignoring my own intuition has brought me into my darkest moments, and finally being brave enough to do what I feel called to do inside has been the light to guide me out of those dark times.

I signed the consent forms, I put on the paper gown, I laid my head on the hospital gurney, and I allowed a surgeon I did not fully trust take out my womb. In the end, the adenomyosis was confirmed, and the offending part, the center of my womanhood, was taken out. But in the process, I ignored the loud, intuitive voice that begged me to find a more experienced surgeon. So I could avoid the myriad of complications that have arisen since. And I denied the voice that was begging me to stop denying the knowledge that there was already a slow, trickling bleed inside me. A wound that no surgeon could heal. There are emotional and spiritual wounds that I was tired of addressing, so I chose to ignore them.

And now, I have the outer scar to remind me. And maybe, that is what needed to be. A tattoo, calling me to this healing:

We all have the tremendous, powerful gift of intuition.

-I am a woman, and women are powerful.

We are all worthy of this gift. Always. Worthiness is an inherent birthright.

-I am worthy. I have always been worthy.

The ability to connect with one’s inner knowledge gets stronger with consistent practice.

-No one can give or take away this ability from me.

No other person can provide you with answers. If you are seeking to only confirm what others have found to be their truth, you are denying yourself access to your own inner wisdom.

-I can trust myself. The answers are within me.

One must be open. It is easy to be blinded by desire, or the need to be safe, or the need to please others. There are many ways to be dishonest with one’s self.

-Living in defiance of my inner compass will leave me lost in the dark.

My 180 on Gay Marriage

Posted on March 13, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

Photo Credit: Gardner Edmunds

“An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.”

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

We were sitting at a small table near the window of a bustling indian restaurant, my mother, my brother and I. It had been just over a year since I had told my parents that my brother was gay. The revelation was like approaching the edge of an enormous waterfall… desperate attempts to paddle backward, away from the edge, the mounting fear of what would happen… and the fall. It had been a year of resistance, free-falling, drowning, and fighting. I looked at my brother, a person I have loved ferociously since he was born, a boy I felt inexplicably bonded to by unseen strings. I saw a young man I adored for his humor, his gorgeous smile, his great dance moves, his peaceful wisdom, his creative spirit, his enormous generosity, his ability to make every person he is with feel truly seen. I felt there was nothing I would not do for my brother. Sitting there, with our mother, whose love and pride for her son emanated from her in almost palpable waves, we ate our navrattan korma and samosas. The subject of marriage and family somehow invaded our pleasant bubble.

And then I bravely told my brother.

My belief came thickly wrapped with true regret and remorse, as if it could insulate him from receiving the cold, hard center. I did not believe gay people should be allowed to marry. I saw the sharp, focused pain in his eyes, but he remained still in his seat, his eyes luminous with my rejection. I looked away, unable to bear his sadness. I looked at my mother, who sat quietly, not quite ready to voice her agreement with me, but not disagreeing either.

I felt sad for him, and I felt the loss for him… the loss of his future spouse, the loss of the family life I was in the midst of building with the love of my life.

I remembered him as a baby…his sparkling, joyful eyes, his dimpled knees, his fat cheeks. It was a sharp undoing… a death. The knowing that he would never have a son or daughter with his tenderness and infectious smile. The situation was terribly painful, and I gulped back some ice water, trying to swallow my need to weep for our family situation. Disbelief that this was really happening… that we were really being asked to deal with such an awful dilemma, crept up my throat. It often did, when we talked about my brother being gay. A sort of disconnect, that kind of out-of-body feeling that comes from true desperation, the need to escape even being.

I tried to let my love for him radiate through my presence, I wanted him to feel it. I tried to gather it up in a huge, tight ball and coat him in it. I wanted him to feel my love with same aching presence as I did. To know that I would give my life for him, my love was that great. I wanted him to understand that this one, small difference of opinion would not affect our relationship. We were stronger than that. It would not influence our ability to be a support for each other. We would overcome it, transcend it.

It need not define us.

The trouble was, my sense of morality, my belief…was bigger than just one sister and one brother. I knew that one must not allow the pain of our situation cloud the greater picture of what is right and what is wrong. My belief was Global. Natural. Social. And in support of God. My love for Gardner was bigger than I was. But I must stand in protection of the greater good.

Tradition and family and children and GOD HIMSELF must be held in protection.

If I were to falter, to waver in my faith and love of Jesus Christ himself, to acquiesce to this painful moment, I would crumble into a million pieces and blow away. If I conceded on this moral stance, if I overlooked the fact that God created MAN and WOMAN, if I turned a blind eye to scripture, if I denied the reality that sex was ultimately designed for procreation and homosexual sex is therefore not supportive of a natural order…

I may as well dissolve all of my beliefs. I may as well set fire to all that I knew to be true, and in turn, my very identity would turn to ash.

It was for these very good reasons that I sat at that table in 2005 and admitted to a brother that I adored that I could not support his right to marry another man. Or have children. I had to take a stand. For God. For my children. For my faith.

For my SELF.

My identity was 100% invested as a person who was strong enough to suffer any amount of pressure and pain from outside sources, as long as I was being true to my God, and therefore honoring my own values.

I left this agonizing night throbbing in pain. I was completely absorbed by the ache in my heart. Despite carefully avoiding his eyes, I could still feel the grief radiating from my brother. From my mother. We were drowning at the bottom of the waterfall, unable to find the surface, take a breath. Back at the house, I cradled my sweet infant daughter and wept. She fed, and I could no longer hold in the flood of emotion. The toll on my spirit was undefinable. Taking a stand for what I believe in was at great cost to my mental, emotional, and physical body.

I did it not because I was cruel or flippant or uncaring. I did it not because I was incapable of love. I did it because it was the only way I felt I could maintain my moral integrity.

My moral integrity defines me. There is no characteristic, no action, no feeling more important. I have been driven by this one identifying principle my entire life. I could not sacrifice that sense of integrity, it makes me whole and gives meaning to each breath I take .

in·teg·ri·ty

[in-teg-ri-tee]

noun

1. adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.

2. the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished

3. a sound, unimpaired, or perfect condition

I was consumed by my desire for him to validate my love for him, feel my intent, and understand my inability to offer him more. I truly did believe that if he had as much love and respect for me as I did for him, he would not ask this of me. He would not ask me to sacrifice my moral integrity for him.

I could see his pain. I could feel his pain.

Could he see mine?

Could he tell how much it hurt me, to see him suffering?

Could he see how this wasn’t easy for me?

The only way out of the mess was to simply agree to disagree. Agree to share a relationship of love and respect and kindness. I would support him in every way that I could, but he would not ask me to compromise myself. Because that is not what love is. Mutual love requires that we both offer up what we can, and respect the places that we can’t. I wanted him to love me as much as I loved him.

And he did.

As pure as I believed my offering of love was for my brother, as impossible as the situation seemed to me, as visceral and real as it pained me to maintain my integrity, there was one element that prevailed. An element that spoiled the whole exchange. Unbeknownst to me, it tainted my offering of love.

I was being selfish. Self-centered. Self-protective.

I was blinded by my very real need to preserve my sense of self. I was demanding that my brother see my dilemma, my pain, my guilt, my intent. And in all that, I did not see him.

My, my, my.

I was failing to recognize this selfishness, because I was so consumed by the threatening request to examine my beliefs. It is not an easy or comfortable undertaking, and I clearly spent a good amount of time insulating myself from the true discomfort that comes from doing an autopsy on my own moral character. What I was failing to recognize, in my fear, is the fallibility of some moral choices. I was so caught up in my own fear and hurt, I was unable to clearly see that some moral choices can safely evolve.

These evolutions end up magnifying the principles that I care most about. Love, charity, generosity, forgiveness, respect. There are countless examples in history of decisions and choices made with moral intent that have soften and changed and evolved for the greater good over time. While the intent may not be filled with malice, some moral choices are driven by fear rather than love.

The result is that instead of building upon the good and magnificent in human nature, creating more unity and peace in the world, highlighting beauty and divinity that exists in every person, these moral stands disintegrate and divide. They cause undue pain and anguish in our fellow human beings. The kinds of choices in the name of God and morality that result in families disowning their children, cruelty and bullying… they need to be examined. When children are taking their own life at the hands of our moral integrity, it is time that we ask ourselves if this is not unlike other dark points in history that we now look upon with regret and shame.

People against gay marriage take enormous offense to the comparison of gay rights to the civil rights movement. They can’t stand the correlation that is made between the discrimination and bigotry imposed on black people and the treatment of gay people today. I was one of those people. In that restaurant, with the sting of my morality shining bright in his eyes, by brother calmly and lovingly tried to make these associations for me.

They fell on deaf ears.

Words like “discriminate” and “bigot” and “prejudice” are words filled with hate and a long history of cruelty. It was unbearable for me to hear him say these words, when I was defending my integrity. And I loved him. There is no room for love and prejudice in the same sentence. In the same room. So, there was no way that he deserved to be using those words with me.

The fact that it was intolerable to me did not make it less true.

The similarity lies in how it makes people feel, and in turn the climate of acceptance and love it creates for people.

Black people had a seat on the bus. They were allowed to ride… so why did they care where we made them sit? (Why can’t they be happy with civil unions?)

Black children had schools. So why did they want to go to the same school as the white children? (It’s not like we don’t love you. We just can’t have your family visible to my family.)

Black people were provided a place to go to the bathroom. What was the big deal in making them go somewhere outside the home they worked in? (Fine. Get married. But not in my state!)

They were loved and trusted and cared for and provided for. I am sure that they were genuinely loved by some of the white people in their lives, their employers, their fellow christians.

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing at all mattered, when they were still being treated as second class citizens. Drinking out of the same drinking fountain is not a matter of law, it’s a matter of love. Of equality. The similarity lies in the message,

“There is something about you that is not as deserving.”

When we are willing to treat a whole group of our fellow citizens with this mindset, we are not only withholding something precious and respectful from them, we are creating a social climate where people feel more justified in participating in unjustifiable acts.

I am a loving sister, a person so sensitive I would never, ever dream of saying terrible, hateful things to anyone. But I was standing with a group of people, who to this day are innocently defending their position with things like:

“I have never, ever had feelings of hate, bigotry or discrimination against anyone homosexual, and I honestly don’t know many people that do. Although I’m sure they are out there, which is really sad,”

or

“ I don’t condone bullying ever, on either side of this issue. Love and understanding is the best in all cases.”

Just like me in that restaurant, these well-meaning people are simply not examining reality. We condone hate, bigotry, and discrimination when we are willing to participate in the creation of second class citizens in our country. It matters not what your intent is. Your love. What matters, is your participation in creating a superior class, ranking people’s worthiness, placing your self above others in the eyes of the law.

There are some things that we can not agree to disagree upon. And basic human rights should be one of those. We do not “agree to disagree” on matters of justice, of equality, of freedom, of safety, of dignity and respect for every human being born on this earth.

To me, at that restaraunt, marriage was the final piece of my conviction I would not allow my brother to take. I had come so far, but I had to draw the line. And I wanted him to respect that. But I had it backwards. To achieve mutual respect, there must be equality first. Always. There are not enough loving acts to overcome the indignity of unequal human rights.

It is the first and most crucial piece we must hand over.

I know that most of the people that oppose gay marriage are kind, caring people. They wouldn’t dream of hurting someone. They wouldn’t dream of using hate speech or violence. They are the people that would give the shirt off their backs, offer a hug when it was warranted, be the first in line to volunteer help when it was needed … gay or straight. I know this, because I was that person.

My moral integrity was in fact, in grave danger. Because I was willing to look my brother in the eye and communicate to him that he was a second class citizen. A person undeserving of something I held sacred and precious.

Marriage was a right I would afford to anyone at all, with any motive, as long as it were two people with the proper body parts.

I was willing to condone the mistreatment of gay people, by drawing a clear, bright line between us, that seperated us as dignified, and undignified, and in the name of Jesus Christ …whom would never do such a thing. I did it for selfish reasons. Because I was too scared to dissect my own moral character, and find that there were cancerous pieces that needed discarding.

In the end, I left my religion. As did my mother, father and married brother. This looks like an awesome step in solidarity. This looks like we were willing to toss our moral integrity into a blender, and flip the switch. But I can assure you, walking away from one’s religious beliefs, culture, and family security is not that simple.

It is also entirely possible to support the LBGT community and maintain your faith within your religious practice. It will not shatter you, it is a step toward a true practice of Christ-like acceptance. Our moral integrity is compromised when we confiscate from others that which is not ours to take. We can practice our religions, apply our moral standards, draw firm lines around what is acceptable, and unacceptable. Each of us can decide if homosexuality is a sin, a choice, an abomination. We can preach it to our children, our neighbors, from the pulpit of our churches. But we can not and should not willingly create a country that does not serve the rights of all. The LGBT community deserves dignity, respect, and equality because they are human beings, created equal.

The rest is a matter of opinion, and we can agree to disagree.

Finding Understanding Amidst the Storm

Posted on March 9, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

“If we would know true love and understanding one for another, we must realize that communication is more than a sharing of words. It is the wise sharing of emotions, feelings, and concerns. It is the sharing of oneself totally.”

-Marvin J. Ashton

It’s been a wild week. My last post about my brother coming out, and my journey to discover true love and support has kicked up a lot of intensity. So many people have contacted me with loving messages and thank yous and sad stories. I have learned so much in this week as I have been totally immersed in phone conversations, emails, Facebook discussions, blog comments… It has been highly emotional. Despite the enormous outpouring of love that has been carrying me through the week, I also have been really, really angry. Writing about this issue stirs it all up. Now that I find myself in fierce support of my brother, it is hard to hold onto my patience. It is so easy to become swept up in defensive anger and I find myself throbbing with frustration and fury over the stubborn, deaf ears and hardness that still exists. I have read so many messages from gay people, thanking me for sharing my story. It has been shocking to me, the recognition that there are still so many people experiencing such personal rejection and anguish. I read these messages, and their pain moves into my chest. It settles into my lungs, heavy and toxic. It makes the tips of my fingers pulse and my toes curl. I hurt for them. The injustice of it. And many times this week, that hurt has spilled over into furious exchanges and hot tears.

In a whirlwind of emotion, there is a anchored truth at the center. The truth is, we must find a way to communicate with each other. Still the tornado of emotion. Let the anger and hurt and fear and indignation and self-righteousness begin to lose momentum and fall to the earth, so we can see each other, instead of a funnel cloud filled with debris.

We are not listening to each other. We are not seeing each other. We are screaming when we need to be whispering. We are throwing punches when we need to be sitting on our hands. We are frenetic when we need to be still.

My desire here is not to shout in angry protest. We need dialogue. We need to find common ground. Things we can agree upon. Things we can understand about each other. So I am making an effort to take a seat, on my hands, mouth shut, eyes open.

To try to calm the storm.

Peeling Back Layers of Ugly: The Gay Reality

Posted on February 28, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

199

This was it.

The expectant tension was building in our awkward phone conversation to an almost unbearable degree. I felt myself struggling to regulate my breath and appear nonchalant. He struggled for words, a way to open the door, for the very first time to anyone.

His fear became so present, it felt like we may shatter when he finally found the words.

My brother is gay.

When he finally told me, a few months from graduating high school in the spring of 2004, every single bad, derogatory, judgemental comment I had ever heard about gay people played out in my memory. We did not grow up in a home where bigotry and hateful speech was ever uttered. But we grew up mormon. A place where they talked about the sin of homosexuality. A place where t.v. shows like Ellen, or Will and Grace were considered immoral and inappropriate. Where traditional marriage was considered vital in protecting society and moral character. Where being gay was being a sexual deviant by choice. Where in 2008, the mormon church would rally tremendous money and forces in to support Prop 8 in California.

It was not a safe place for my brother.

I remembered every single off-hand remark or gesture he must have been exposed to. The jokes that were just not funny. The gossip that had been circulating in our ward in Colorado about a girl my age, who had “decided” to be a lesbian, cut her hair, and ran off with another girl after high school. The head shaking and tsk-tsking and whispers of how painful that must be for the family, how disgraceful.

Shame and horror over those flashes burned in me, a small taste of how it must have burned in him for years. I wanted to crawl through the phone and wrap my arms around him. I wanted to look him in the eye and tell him how I loved him. How it changed absolutely nothing about how I felt about him. How it was going to be fine. But I was thousands of miles away, and he was hiding in his basement bedroom in my parents house, filled with fear at being fully seen for the first time.

We went from rarely ever speaking on the phone, to talking for many hours every day for several months. If more than a day would pass, he would call, filled with fear of what I must be thinking of him, the judgement I was making, the disgust that must have been percolating for him. His vulnerability made me throb with empathy. My mother and father called too… begging for me to tell them what was going on. What was wrong. Demanding that I let them in on the reasons for our daily contact. Their fears were an endless ticker tape of threatening possibilities in their minds. It was the only time in my life I lied consistently to my parents.

Here is the part where I have to be brutally honest. and own the course I had to take. It’s not easy to write now, but it is real.

I had no idea what to think. Like anything else, if it isn’t happening TO you, it is easy to dismiss.

I never considered that my brother had chosen to be gay. That was ridiculous. I heard the pain in his voice. I could feel his fear. I knew that an alarming number of gay kids take their own life. There was no issue of choice.

But the first thing I wanted to know was… why?

I did research. I read about sexual abuse. Or having a broken and damaged relationship with a father. There wasn’t a lot more to read about the subject, in 2004.

I confronted Gardner, asking questions without malice, but honest innocence and a desire to understand. He was not abused. Nor did he blame my father.

Eventually, I realized, it simply doesn’t matter. If he is not choosing to be gay, it matters not what the origins are. The result is the same.

Then… HOW? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. How could he possibly be attracted to… MEN??? He was so patient, calmly explaining things to me over and over. He asked me to tell him why I loved Rick. Why I was attracted to him. And when I did, he said, “me too.” And I understood a bit more. I never made a conscious choice to like men instead of women… It just IS. And the things that I loved about my husband and reasons for my attraction were all basically things that my brother was also wanting in a relationship. I am not interested in having a romantic relationship with a female, and neither was he.

It was the first time I had ever really pondered love, attraction, relationships, sex, so comprehensively, and from such a distance. I realized that my perception of being gay was just about the sex. What a ridiculous, simplistic view. Love is love. Sexual attraction is important, but certainly not the most important part of a romantic relationship. DUH. It seems unnecessary to even write about this, but it was a revelation to me. An idea that had never presented itself in my community, in my upbringing, in my religion.

Then… what can be done? I read and researched ways to “cure” being gay. He could go to terrible places that teach inauthenticity, repression, shame, and impossible expectations. When those don’t work, they hook you up to electrodes and physically “shock” those deviant gay feelings right out of your body.

Erm, NO.

Several months in to these discussions and as my understanding unfolded, I remember telling my brother that after careful consideration, I felt that if it meant fitting into mainstream society, avoiding painful rejection and ridicule, and being able to have a traditional family, I would give it a go… and have a relationship with another woman, despite it not being my preference. So… maybe he should go try to date women first.

In that conversation, my ability to empathize with desperate gay people who marry, have four kids, and are caught cheating on their wives with other men was born. These horrifying, naive suggestions… this ill-formed advice was rampant in mormon culture at the time. Marry! Have kids! Find out that you were wrong about who you are all along, and we were right! Jesus will change you!

Thank God my brother weathered these inane conversations with me. He watched my understanding unfurl from a tightly folded, tiny piece of closed-minded ignorance into a greater understanding. With the understanding came more real support and love.

Eventually, we made plans to tell my parents. It was truly a scary time for me, knowing it would change my family in drastic ways. I didn’t know if my parents would be able to handle it, to be honest. I felt fiercely protective of him… the idea of him witnessing their shock, the potential of hurtful words and tears… I could barely stand the idea of it. If it was scary for me, it must have been a time of blinding, paralyzing terror for my brother.

We knew the long road we would be going to down to redefine expectation and the story of how everything has to be. What it means to support and what it means to be honorable and authentic.

What it means to really LOVE someone.

It’s crazy what happens when you are willing to take a step outside of your judgement and examine what you have been standing on. The foundation of your ideas about something that seems so foreign and threatening…. is really just irrational fear. It is dishonorable enmity born out of ignorance.

Once armed with my newly developed understanding, and countless hours of conversation, once my brother had moved out of my parents’ home and lived a comfortable distance away, I told my parents for him, as we had planned. Their initial reactions, their shock, their questions were first absorbed by me.

Even then, I did not support gay marriage….because what about society? and the children?!!?! what about the children!!! Every single message I had ever heard in my life surrounding gay marriage was about how it would destroy the very fabric of society, and children would suffer. It sounds real. And scary. Who wants the fabric of society shredded? And poor little children to suffer?

I remember a specific, terrible night when my brother and mother and I went out to dinner and my brother was left to defend himself on this issue.

I loved him. I supported him. I did not think he chose to be gay. But should he be allowed to destroy traditional marriage? Bring kids into a home without a mother?

I had two little girls at the time. How would I explain their uncle to them? Will I allow him and a boyfriend to come visit? Display affection?

It all seemed so scary…. so scary because it had been presented that way to me by my culture and my religious leaders, and the politics I subscribed to. It takes a lot of de-programming to see the underbelly of this particular bigoted beast.

Fear.

Fear unfounded.

Gay Love is simply LOVE.

Love is love, people.

It turns out, it was really not that hard to explain to my kids. One day, they asked me if my brother had a girlfriend. I told them he did not, but he actually wants to date boys, so he would have a boyfriend someday. They nodded, shrugged, and asked for a snack.

One day, my brother had a boyfriend. I showed my kids pictures of them together. They thought he was really cute, and their uncle looked really happy.

One day, they came for Thanksgiving. And they held hands, and kissed after the Thanksgiving toast. They played games and made the kids laugh and made memories.

One, big, happy family. It was normal because it was normal.

We are complicated beings. Emotionally. Sexually. Intellectually.

Being in love can be complicated, as most of us know.

But supporting love is not complicated.

The other day, my husband and I were visiting my brother in New York. His roommate asked how it was, when we found out my brother was gay. And I wanted to say it was great. I was the loving, supportive sister who made him feel totally safe and secure and loved. While that was always my intent, that is not what happened. Most of that journey is a great embarrassment to me now. Peeling back layers of judgement and fear can expose some pretty ugly pieces. Under all that, is the glorious recognition that none of the differences that keep us separate and critical are there.

I felt the need to outline this story because I recognize there is a huge leap in understanding that must happen to help people out of their locked-in beliefs about the LGBT community. I try to exercise patience with others as my brother did for me, while I found my way out of that trap of intolerance. In fact, it is not a leap, but a shedding of skin, the callous layers that we keep to protect us from people that are simply wanting all the same things everyone wants.

Love. Acceptance. Safety. Affection. Respect.

Surprise findings: Giving another human being these things is not going to shred the very fabric of society, or ruin your children.

Your children will benefit from your willingness to get rid of those callouses and be open to more LOVE in the world. They may be one of those tender souls that the anti-gay movement is so visciously attacking. It may be your vulnerable child you are burning painful scars into with your bigoted remarks and support of anti-gay rhetoric. It might be your child that will sit at the lunch counter and be refused service because of who they are.

Enormous, painful, angry, wrenching rejection… that is what has been happening in my family since my brother came out.

But thankfully, my brother was not the target. My parents refused to be a part of their culture, an organization that they had previously devoted their entire lives to. My other brother and his wife refused as well. We have all marched out of the mormon church.

We reject the notion that my parents should reject their son. We reject the ridiculous stand that suggests that my brother should live his life void of the most basic human need… the need to love and be loved. We reject the idea that being gay is like be an alcoholic. For holding hands with someone, feeling love and affection and connection found in romantic love is not the same as having a beer. We reject the preposterous suggestion that only a married mother and father can raise a healthy child. We reject the idea that being openly bigoted toward the LGBT community is in anyway associated with being Christ-like. We reject the theory that eliminating more judgement, bigotry and hate in our society by allowing gay people to get married and yes, buy a wedding cake, will threaten others’ ability to carry out their religious freedoms.

It is not “hate the sin, love the sinner.” That is not love.

The fact that you watch Ellen, are friends with a gay person, tolerate them at your dinner table or let them give you a hair cut does not translate into real love and acceptance.

It is not possible to “love gay people” and stand against their ability to be a normal, everyday, respected members of the community. That is not love.

Love thy neighbor as thyself. Do unto others. Magnify joy. Celebrate love. This will not shred us, it will make us whole.

9 Things I Want My Daughters To Know About Motherhood

Posted on February 10, 2014 by megpoulinindeed

The Prophet

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, and yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward, not tarries with yesterday.

-Kahlil Gibran

I was raised to believe that my sole purpose, my divine reason for being, was to be a mother. I was to marry, and have babies. Stay home, and raise them right. Advance the kingdom of heaven. Motherhood was my reason for existing. It was how I must serve the Lord. And I wanted children, so much. It was my mission, to grow up, and have babies of my own.

I have been actively trying to untangle these ideas about womanhood and motherhood and expand the definition of what my life can be. I am discovering the shadow side of making motherhood my whole sense of identity, and tying all of my self worth to this role. I have three beautiful girls. Girls that I hope will grow up knowing they are loved and respected and safe in being exactly who they are. They do not need to earn their worthiness. To earn their femaleness. They are worthy inherently. Worthy of love, of happiness, of joy, of belonging. I want them to grow up and not seek a man or motherhood to make them whole.

They are whole.

So just as I am talking to them as they grow about healthy romantic relationships, I also want to talk to them about motherhood. In our society there is a lack of honest, open discussion about what parenting is really like. How it changes you. People love to talk about it being hard… but not about the real reasons why. I want to open that door with my girls. Talk to them about motherhood and parenting with more detail and depth. I am in the thick of it right now, and I am sure this list will grow and change as I evolve as a mother. But here is what I know, one decade in.

Nine things I want to teach my daughters about motherhood:

1. Every single person in the world used to be a screaming baby. A mother carried them in their womb. A mother labored and gave birth to that person. Every person. But do not let the ordinariness of motherhood fool you. There will be many, many moments as a mother when you will marvel at the idea that so many women have accomplished this seemingly impossible task, of bearing and raising children. While motherhood historically is commonplace and unremarkable, it will feel anything but ordinary inside of your life. It will be the greatest challenge, the most consequential undertaking of your life. Do not underestimate it’s enormity.

2. Once that baby comes into the world, and into your arms, you will lose complete control of the most precious pieces of your soul. Parenting is coming to terms with that loss of control. Living in it. Swimming in uncertainty. And wading in the knowledge that all the pieces you truly love, truly need, truly value, are packaged in independent people who don’t belong to you. We declare ourselves as parents. We claim our children. We take responsibility. But they are not OURS. They come through us, and become.

3. You will love so deeply, it will scare you. You will feel so vulnerable in that love, it can make you crazy. You will feel wild with the need to make things safe. Control what happens. There is no place to hide from this love. So be in it. Embrace the vulnerability, and in that embrace will come the recognition of just how much I love you. Let the recognition that you are loved as completely as you love your own child carry you on the days you feel too vulnerable to move through the day.

4. With the first breath that baby takes, you are not suddenly filled with knowledge and light and glorious understanding on how to be a mother. Or an adult. When you walk out of the hospital with that baby, it will shock you. The hospital staff will just let you leave! And people you used to rely on for the answers will suddenly be asking the questions and expect you to know what the next step should be.

There is no gentle transition into this enormous responsibility.

One moment, you will be working to bring the baby into your arms. And the next, you will be a mommy. Forever. There will be millions and millions of questions to be answered, decisions to be made about the best thing to do. It can be paralyzing, the amount of choices that will bombard you. There will be moments and days and weeks and maybe years of time in which you feel like you have no idea what you are doing. How to proceed. Which way is best. Just when you get the hang of things, and you feel like you have hit your stride, your child will enter a different stage of development, and you will have to begin again.

Remember this: no one knows what they are doing. You are not alone in these feelings. Even the most confident looking mothers out there: the ones that have a designer bag over their shoulder, a smile on their face, a perfectly styled baby on their hip… they are harboring the same fears, crying the same tears. Holding the same insecurities. When people say parenting is the hardest thing you will ever do… this is what they are talking about. The secret insecurities and the fears of falling short. No one wants to name it for you, so they list the dirty diapers, the sleepless nights, the public tantrums. Because it’s too scary to talk about vulnerability and self-doubt. There is no magic to make this less uncomfortable. So learn to carry your insecurities lightly, and every time you have an opportunity, set them down.
5. If you want to know how real karma works, make a list of all the things you will vow to never do or say as a parent. Tape it to your fridge next to your ultrasound pics. You know, things like “my kid will never watch hours of t.v. at a time,” or “I will not let my kids become picky eaters” or “I would never send my kid to school with banana in their hair” or “I will never lock my kids in their room just to get another 20 minutes of sleep,” or “I would never let my kid wear the same dress to school for three months in a row!”

And then see what happens.

6. Motherhood is staring into a mirror, inspecting the truest reflection of yourself. One true difficulty in parenting is the requirement to face your darkest demons. The inadequacies and flaws and dangerous parts of you can be hidden from friends and family. You can hide them from your spouse. And even from yourself. But becoming a mother will crack you open. Your children will see you. They will look into your eyes, before they can form words, and their spirit will know you. They force you to look at the parts of yourself you don’t want to deal with, you never wanted to admit to. The intensity of your emotions and the enormity of control you will need is going to shock you. No one in the world but your own child will have you swing from the deepest rage to the brightest joy in one afternoon.

You will have to sit in profound disquiet, sometimes for long periods of time, as you struggle to control your shadows.

During this intense personal unveiling, there is no place to hide. Motherhood does not pause, it will not give you a rest while you find a way to heal. You must do this personal healing and searching and while remaining constantly available for your children. Because of the extreme intensity this situation creates, it is very, very important that you prepare. Before you bring another life into this world, know yourself. Know where your strengths lie, and your weaknesses too. Own the light and the dark parts of yourself, and understand them…do not be afraid to look at these flaws. They will boil to the surface in surprising moments. Be prepared to look into your child’s eyes, and see yourself.

They are the mirror.

7. Guilt. The guilt will destroy you if you let it. Because motherhood will highlight your dark demons and deep insecurities, there will be guilt. When you feel guilty, it is easy to leave it unexamined, to fester. Sometimes, the guilt is thick and syrupy and leaves a sticky film over every experience. Sometimes the guilt is heavy, and holding it requires every muscle, tendon, and bone. And sometimes, the guilt takes on a life of it’s own, and will chase you right out the door. You must address these guilty feelings. Guilt is simply a course-correction tool. The GPS system. When you feel guilt, sometimes it is for valid reasons. You lost your temper. You gave an inappropriate consequence. You reacted without listening. Recognize the problem, resolve to try again, and then…

Let it go.

This purposeful act of self-forgiveness will be crucial in moving forward, unburdened. Many times, you may find that the guilt is not helping you stay the course… you are marinating in it. Assigning guilt and feelings of failure to every move you make as a mother. It is important to recognize this too. Because unaddressed guilt turns to shame… a dark and debilitating poison that can eat away your joy. It is an easy trap to fall into, the ritual of self-criticism that turns to guilt and then to shame. Work to release this pattern at every opportunity. Recognize the difference between a learning moment and a toxic burden. You will be actively teaching your child to learn from their mistakes, forgive others and forgive themselves. You must be actively practicing this in your mothering.

If you want to hold the joy, you must put down the shame.

8. Refuse to believe and affirm

“My children are my life.”

“I am nothing without my kids.”

“I live for my kids.”

Unfortunately, these declarations are often revered as the most powerful kind of love, owned by the real mothers that love more. My sweet girls, your life as a woman is meaningful. It matters. Your choices and passions and pursuits are important and worthwhile. You can be a complete, whole human being. Filled with love and joy and warmth and ambition and creativity and spirit and service.

Sacrifice is inherent in motherhood. We sacrifice our bodies, our freedoms, our finances, our time… we give over our hearts to our children. But it is so easy to pour out too much, and lose our Selves. Empty our vessels, and leave nothing but a shell behind. My dear daughters, you should not sacrifice your self. Children do not want that sacrifice. You get to still exist, outside your role as mommy. You get to pursue other things that matter to you. You must be a top priority in your own life. And this is the healthy way to parent. Because your child is not YOU.

They want to carry your love in their hearts.

They want to know that they will always belong in your inner circle.

They want to know you truly see them for who they are.

They want to breathe in your strength, and see you stand tall in your own body.

They are individual people, and do not wish to carry your life upon their shoulders. That kind of love is a burden, not a gift.

9. Cling to one single truth: Love.

The one thing you can do absolutely right, is love. Love that child with a wholeness that requires you to stay open to that vulnerable place. Love them so they know that nothing is required of them to earn that love. They will feel that love from you the most when you practice loving yourself.

IndeedIAm

Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love. ~Rumi

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