The cracks that make us beautiful

Before I start I'd like you to consider playing this song as you read (I played it as I wrote), and I'd also like to say that I chose these pictures on purpose, because my friend Morgan took them in January of 2015, right before Marty found the lump that changed everything. 

Wow, my friends, I'm so blown away. I've been resting my fingers on the keys for what feels like hours, trying to find the words to pass on the many overwhelming emotions I've felt since my last post. Mostly I just can't believe how much genuine excitement was shared, all the sweet congratulations and well wishes, and the amazing amount of understanding that was conveyed, even after only getting the first tiny sliver of explanation. I feel incredibly blessed that so many of you have such kind and beautiful hearts, and that you choose to share some of that with me and so many others here.

Publishing my last post felt a lot like I was jumping out of an airplane into the dark, not sure if my parachute was going to open, and not knowing how far I was from the ground. There was a lot of relief, but also a lot of nervous apprehension. I know how amazingly unique my situation is, and I knew many of you would have strong feelings about my choice, but I had to jump anyways and hope that those of you who have followed along with me long enough to know my heart (as much as one could across the internet) would continue to trust me and my choices for myself and my children. And you have! What a tribe of beautiful souls that have come together. I truly feel so lucky.

My heart has been so changed in the last year and a half. In every sense it's been broken, battered and crushed, and these days I really feel so much more deeply than I would've ever thought possible. Things like excitement, fear, wonder, sadness, anxiety, love, and gratitude all seem to rush through my body and completely overtake me. I tried to explain it to a friend that it's as if we each have a bubble for our emotions. The capacity of our joy matches the capacity of our sorrow, until something happens that expands that bubble in any direction. When our sadness is so great that our bubble expands (bear with me here), then also increased is our capacity for happiness. Like someone who has been so deep in the darkness, that the sunshine is all the brighter to them. I hope that makes sense:)

One thing that I can't get out of my head through this whole process is a powerful metaphor for life's journey. I first read about it a couple years ago, and lately hearing so many stories from you guys about moments in your life that have forever changed you has made me think about it constantly. It's about the Japanese art Kintsukuroi. I'm sure many of you have heard of it, but essentially when a piece of pottery is broken, it's repaired with a resin that's been laced with gold or sometimes silver. Great care and precision must be used in fitting the pieces back together, but the craftsmen sees the potential and the value of the object even in its damaged state. As well as obviously repairing the pottery and making it useful again, the procedure makes the piece completely unique as well as more beautiful than it was before, having gone through the process of being broken and then mended. The mended cracks become part of the objects design, part of it's character. The golden resin snakes along the sides of the item, symbols of the tragic event that happened in the life of the object, instead of how it was destroyed.

You can see where this is going:) Each of us have our own cracks that have been repaired already. Every time we are faced with a trial and have made it through (which so far has been 100% of the time if you think about it), we're left with another streak of golden resin. Whether it's a single thin crack or a shattering break, we all have them. Experiences with rejection, fear, betrayal, loss, abandonment, pain, abuse, failure, etc. They all leave their mark, and we're never the same. We can accept the damage and move forward towards repair, or we can wallow in our flaws and choose to hide away so no one will see how 'broken' or 'not good enough' we are. We can try to hide from the world by putting up a wall and not letting anyone in, or we can embrace our golden seams and walk out into the sunlight with our heads high. It's completely our choice.

I have chosen to move forward as best as I can. Broken seams and all.

I will never 'move on' from my sweetheart Martin, from what he and our family went through since he was diagnosed. There is no moving on from something like that. From loving and caring for and watching such a warrior-the father of my children slip away after so many many months of pain and suffering, but there is always, always forward. Our lives don't have to be defined by our chips and cracks and our broken moments, but instead, they can empower us if we let them. There is still so much life ahead for me and my five little children, and Richard is very much a part of the golden resin (along with all of you, friends, and kindnesses along the way) that is loving and helping repair me as we all move forward together.

I opened up with my dear friend Kirsten a couple weeks ago on the Marvelous Moms Podcast about some experiences from the last 18 months with Marty that I've not really talked about much, and I'd love to have you check it out here. I feel very honored to be another episode in the long list of moms that have shared their stories through the podcast, and I hope that by hearing some of those details that you are able to get to know me and our situation a little bit better.

I hope that you can think about your own golden seams, and how they play a part in holding you back or empowering you to move forward.

Thank you again, I can't thank you enough.
More coming soon,