Author: Jenny Roman

The idea of, and preparation before, a physical, bodily detox can be much scarier than the process and experience itself. What will I eat? When will I eat? How will I survive without morning coffee?! I love bread! I love beer! No chocolate?!

But once you begin – and especially after a few days when the initial withdrawal symptoms subside – the feeling of euphoria is likely to set in.

In these days, I compare myself to a rose on its way to blooming. At the onset, I was closed tightly, afraid to let go. I clung to the things that soothed me – that allowed me to remain somewhat numb. The roller coaster of this year had made its way into my habits, routine and daily life. I drank more coffee to become and stay alert. I expanded my drinking from the weekend only to nightly, hoping the hops and the taste would soften the sharpened edges. I ate more than necessary, again hoping the sugar would sweeten the sour spots.  I was in emotional pain without wanting to admit it because I had so much to be thankful for, as expressed in messages of daily gratitude.  More money in the bank.  An opportunity and ability to train to be a yoga teacher.  Travel plans and designer purses.  A beautiful little boy who adored me regardless of if I wanted only to sleep on the couch instead of throw a baseball in the backyard.   A cozy home where the rent was always paid, the utilities ran and the fridge was full.  In essence, I was so very full… but found myself at times feeling so very empty.

We think of Spring as the season of new growth and change.  The trees blossom and the grass turns from brown to green.  We open our windows and sometimes our hearts also come out of hibernation.  But Autumn is due belated credit for its opportunities and willingness to support us throughout equally dynamic change.  In yoga, I heard Autumn described as a blank canvas (after the trees are stripped of their leaves and the world becomes somewhat colorless in the process) and my heart clung to that description, especially as I was in the midst of completing two weeks of eliminating toxins and unnecessary additives from what I was eating and drinking to nourish my body.

With each day, the petals inevitably opened further and further.  Each day of losing things that were apparently no longer serving me gave way to bursts of blocked energy, enthusiasm for tasks that were usually burdens and a feeling of contentedness and fullness originating not from the outside, but from within.  I liken the experience to practicing non-attachment as taught in yoga and meditation.  And at several moments, I felt about as close to bliss as could be measured.  At the close of this two-week time, I woke up feeling like more of the me I have come to grow to love than I have in months.

I would be remiss if I credited this reintroduction to sense of self to just two weeks without caffeine, alcohol, gluten, soy and sugar.  I started October by removing an object from my body that was void of purpose and was likely causing problems and pain.  I left a workplace that was not the right fit and returned to one where thankfully, the shoe still fit and somehow, became even more comfortable despite not being worn for months – no blisters.  I spent mornings in the Arizona sun and dressed up for a party in Jamestown.  I finished my journey to become a yoga teacher and read a book by a woman vulnerable enough to share her own fears and insecurities all while being entrusted with counseling and supporting the fragility in others.  I indulged in new earrings and withheld self-criticism when one disappeared on an airplane.  I chose to appreciate new lines, wrinkles and gray hairs, remembering that they are gifts not all have the benefit of receiving.  I loved bolder, hugged tighter and readily admitted when I was wrong.  I got out of my own way.

Today, the petals are in full bloom.  They will eventually fall off and there will be rain in the midst of the sunshine.  But the flower will grow again.  Inevitably, I may find myself once again too full, numb and tired of feeling tired and closed up.  And maybe – hopefully – once again, I’ll choose change over stagnation… discomfort over complacency.  I’ll walk a path of thorns on the way to smooth surfaces where eventually, I’ll find myself ready to bloom once again.

I’ve spent hours searching for the obituary of someone I’ve never met.

When I heard the news that the woman who became my ex-boyfriend’s first wife had passed away, I felt an almost instant sense of reversal. My brain went back days, weeks, months and years to a time that I have programmed myself to very rarely think about. It’s my “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” time of life. While there was no hypnosis or medical procedure involved, there were gallons of tears collected by friends, thousands of dollars spent with therapists to de-program, as well as remaining in constant motion and never letting myself sit with anything long enough in order to erase the damage done.

I hated her. I can say that now being so far removed from that time, but at the same time, I feel bad saying that knowing she is no longer here to defend herself. To me, she will forever be “Eliza.” The girl whose name appeared on my ex-boyfriend’s flip phone back on a hot August night in 2005. To be fair, I was not in any way disillusioned by where my relationship with him stood when this occurred.  We had been living together for eight months in a place that neither one of us could really call home.  Prior to the move, our relationship had been a year of long distance and as those stories usually go, especially for two twenty-somethings, it was hot and heavy and intense, but definitely not deep.  From the time we met as partners in my good friend’s wedding, I was done for.  He was beautiful, smart and successful.  And I was at a place in my life where I felt as if I needed someone to guide me.  I needed someone whose presence would improve my life and increase its value, because I lacked seeing any of that in myself.  So when the opportunity came to join him in Florida after his move there from Pennsylvania, I jumped at the chance.  I was ready to leave behind the job I had held for eight years, not to mention my entire family and close circle of friends.  I felt that if I didn’t take the chance now, I would regret it later.

I did regret it, but not in the “I should have taken a chance!” kind of way.  Almost immediately after moving down south, Jekyll became Hyde and our relationship became uncomfortable.  He wanted control over my finances, where I went and what I wore.  He was happy to have me work in the banking industry like him making almost nothing because it was more dignified than working as a bartender.  I did supplement the banking job with waitressing and remember coming home and having him count out my tips and separating them into envelopes… rent… utilities… groceries… and giving me a couple of dollars for spending money.  A couple months after moving, we stopped sleeping together as he explained to me that it was now (all of a sudden) important to him that we remain abstinent until we were married (which was not happening anytime soon as he also explained to me that I would have to be debt-free before he would propose).  I should have realized at that time that something else was going on, but I was naive and still believing that he knew best.  The next few months were a mix of sadness and misery as I became more and more depressed.  Looking back, I believe he was trying to get me to pull the plug so he wouldn’t have to be the bad guy.  But I was too headstrong and stubborn and felt that if we had made such a big commitment to being together, that we would be okay.  In early August, I went home to Ohio for a glorious week of visiting family and friends and didn’t want to go back… and when I did return, he broke up with me that same day.  I can still picture that moment looking from the outside in… lying on our king sized bed in my bra and underwear, looking into his eyes and hearing the words I still can hear so clearly today… “I can’t give you what you want.”  I left our room and retreated to one of the guest rooms for a night without sleep.

For reasons unknown, I went downstairs at one point and looked at his phone.  I knew I was going to find something and this was all before texting was that big of a thing and even before Facebook existed.  And there she was… Eliza.  Her name accompanied by sentiments of a fond weekend together exploring real estate in another Florida town.  I went back upstairs and confronted him and the next hours were a blur… I was a terrible person for looking at his phone… the stress of the day made him forget a friend’s birthday… so many things thrown around, but never an apology.

I had big decisions to make after that night.  Was I going to move back to Ohio?  If not, where would I live?  What was I going to tell my parents and friends?  He convinced me to stay in the house another week because his parents and cousins were coming to visit and his mother wanted to spend time with me.  Like the people pleaser I tend to be, I obliged.  And during that week, was offered a room in the home of one of the girls I worked with.  After his family departed, he made it clear I needed to depart as well and with the help of friends, I gathered my limited belongings, procured a new bed and made my way to Vero Beach for where would be my home for the next eleven months.

For ten years, I never spoke to him  and never really tried to.   Other than him dropping off my mail at the restaurant where I worked, anonymously leaving it at the hostess stand (on Valentine’s Day of all days), I never heard from him either.  Today, I still have his cell phone number and email address burned into my brain, but other than an email I sent ten years ago expressing sympathy for the loss of his best friend in Afghanistan, I have had no communication with him.   I’ve heard bits and pieces about him from our mutual friend.  That he was engaged to Eliza within three months of breaking up with me and married less than a year after that… that they had bought a laundromat and moved to another part of Florida (Jesus, thank you for never allowing me to be a laundrywoman)… and that they had eventually divorced because they ended up wanting different things.  He remarried a few years later.

Sitting on the beach Sunday, I asked my friend the question I usually do… “does he have kids yet?”  I’m not sure why THAT is the question, but it is.  She responded that he didn’t… and I said something along the lines of, “well, at least he didn’t have kids with his first wife…” and she interjected, “she died.”  No details or information as to how or when… which is why I’ve feverishly tried to find her obituary.  To find out when, why or how.  And in the midst of that searching, I asked myself… why this is so important to me?  Is it closure?  Does it force me to review that time and what came of it?

The truth that I’ve found after thinking about this over and over again these last few days is that I’ve spent so much time blaming my adolescence for the difficulties I’ve experienced in my romantic relationships and for the constant work I must do to keep my self-esteem intact.  I don’t doubt what happened in those  developing and ultra-sensitive years was the catalyst, but spending two years with someone whose sole goal was to change me into anyone else but me and then being unceremoniously replaced by someone who was “so much more than me” and then avoiding any and all reflection of that time in order to remain self-preserved explains more than I was expecting to find when learning she was gone.

I no longer hate her and her death isn’t why.  I can imagine she shared similar experiences with him and can empathize with what that was like.  Maybe not to the degree I did because she was likely better suited for him from the get-go, but my guess is that people who are happily married do not get divorced.  I have been regularly told that I should be grateful to her because if not for her, I may have been that laundrywoman, but I don’t kid myself with that… had it not been her, it would have been someone else.  My gratitude lies with him, of all people, for setting me free and giving me a chance to have a better life.

We can take truths and do several things with them.  We can bury them.  We can carry them.  Or we can open them up and force ourselves to look into them and peel them back until we can get to a place where we can see them for what they are and what they have to offer us, no matter how ugly or painful.  And then we can take them and turn them into something beautiful.

My boss was in from out of town a couple of weeks ago and happened to walk into my office as Bill Medley & Jennifer Warnes’ classic (it’s over 30 years old now, so it’s a classic…) “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” came on and all of sudden, two women who were talking about clients and contracts were dancing, singing and almost attempting the Jennifer Grey/Patrick Swayze lift.  I think I listened to the song five times on the way home alone and couldn’t stop laughing and smiling at the complete spontaneity of that moment and how often, we don’t allow for such things because so much of life is planned and calculated, down to the very minute we wake each morning until we close our eyes at night.

My list of wishes, reflections and dreams changes from each year to the next because I change.  What I want changes.  What I value changes.  What I’ve grown accustomed to, tired of or desiring more of continues to change.  And as I step closer into this part of life we might call middle age, I think I’m growing more comfortable with the fact that change is not only inevitable, but healthy.  It’s okay to change your mind about something or someone as long as it fits you.  It’s okay to walk away from what no longer has the same purpose in your plan or to realize that someone you once loved is causing you pain and you need to distance yourself.  It’s okay to try things you maybe once mocked because you didn’t really understand them and it’s okay to accept that where you are right now is… okay.  Tomorrow, I start volume nine of my 30s and as of this moment, this is what matters to me most.

1. It’s time to stop negotiating with terrorists.  You will never be able to afford the ransom.
2. You may never understand why you’re terrified of fictional horror films but can watch 16 straight hours of documentaries about real people who’ve killed real people.
3. You don’t really need another pair of jeans.
4. Someone labeling you as insecure does not make you insecure.  Reading into their description of you does.
5. It’s okay to embrace the present, be excited about the future, but still miss part of the past.
6. Please stop using your credit cards so much and start paying off more of your college debt.
7. Call your Grandmother more often.
8. At least try to stop laughing when your son swears and give a little more effort to not swear in front of him.
9. Tupac is probably not acceptable car music for him either.
10. It is okay that you feel that some of the self-help books you read feel like regurgitated volumes of other people’s work.
11. You may never write that novel, but you can write bits of pieces.
12. When people ask you what you’re going to do after you finish yoga teacher training, you’re allowed to say… “I don’t know.”
13. Sending texts that are not answered does not make you less worthy of people’s love.
14. When you are trying too hard to fit in, you know it.  Listen and breathe.
15. Holy crap, you are sick!  Yes, you!  You who does not believe you can get sick.  Go to the doctor.  Wrap your throat.  Take a hot shower.  Go to bed.
16. There is no competition for best mother.  The only competition is best mother for your kid and guess what… winner winner chicken dinner.  Every day.
17. Stop sucking in your stomach when you’re in a bathing suit and breathe in that warm, salty air.
18. You are quirky and goofy and at your best, this is exactly who you were born to be.  Embrace her and love every single piece of her.  Those who really love you (and there are many) do.
19. You have truly been given the most amazing friendships and honoring them is both your privilege and your responsibility.
20. Your son may not be an athlete.  He may not be an artist or a musician.  He may just be a kid… if you want to be accepted for who you are, continue to accept him for exactly who he is.
21. It might be time to find a good therapist again.
22. Being replaced by someone “more important” does not diminish your effort, your accomplishments or the amount of work that went into them.
23. Sometimes friendships end.  Not because anyone did anything wrong.  Not because anyone hurt anyone.  But because it was time.
24. You may never really be able to afford to buy a home here on your own.  Renting does not make you less than and it doesn’t mean your child doesn’t have a home of his own.
25. You have TWO cars!  How freaking cool is that?!
26. So you invite someone to do something with you and they say no.  Again, this is not a reflection of you, your self-worth or your value.  Life is busy.
27. Your gift is remembering everything about everyone.  This is not everyone’s gift, so don’t expect that it should be.
28. Wash your face at night and if you forget, let the little bumps that appear on your forehead remind you why you should.
29. You’re doing a great job, kid.
30. There is no such thing as a mom-appropriate bathing suit.  There are only bathing suits.
31. If looking at something online makes you feel like crap for whatever reason – whether it’s inadequacy, jealousy or even superiority, stop looking at it.
32. This really should be #1, but put more effort into putting God at the forefront of your existence.  If you’re struggling, ask Him.  If you’re happy, praise Him.  If you need an answer, ask Him.  If you are lonely, pray to Him and read with Him.  He is your oxygen mask and should be put on first before you are out there trying to save the world.
33. Fight like hell for that little boy and don’t back down when you believe he is not being loved and treated the way he deserves.
34. In a year, you’ll have more gray and wrinkles than you do now, so appreciate that beautiful face every day.
35. You’ve loved the wrong, weak men for years.  Find a strong one.
36. Ask the people at work if they’re okay.  Ask what makes them smile and what makes them happy.  Be curious about their lives and their families.  People love to be cared about and usually want to share.
37. Stop feeling guilty about the things you’ve done to improve your life.
38. Have more moments of spontaneity.  Jump in the car and drive somewhere new.  Fly home and surprise your parents.  Take a random day off of work and lay by the pool with nothing more than a book to read and a good playlist (and a bathing suit… ahem).
39. Love yourself, continue to be grateful, and listen to only your heart.

May you allow yourself to grow, evolve, change and experience moments of pure, spontaneous joy.

Two weeks into a new adventure may be a bit premature to sit and write out thoughts and feelings about how my life has changed in that time, but I’ve decided I’m going to do it anyways…

Two weeks ago today, I signed off as the Compliance & Legal Services Manager of my longtime employer for the last time.  For years, I truly thought I would spend the rest of my career there, especially after making the decision to move and begin working from home full-time.  The freedom!  The flexibility!  Lunch hours by the pool!  Being at home when my little one gets off the bus!  What could be better?  So far, the last two weeks has taught me that a lot can be better…

1. These shoes were made for walking outside of my condo.  Giving more of a s&*t about getting ready each morning has led to a euphoria I didn’t really expect.  I do love clothes and fashion and I love it for more than the vanity aspect.  I love how I physically feel when I put effort into my appearance and I know my energy changes.  Feeling better about myself can only be a positive thing.

2. People are people.  And I am a person who feels better around people.  When I first started working from home three and a half years ago, it was for my boss of many years and with a team who felt more like family than co-workers.  Case in point, my work BFF and my former boss are my son’s godparents.  But things change… companies are acquired and people leave and soon, I felt isolated and lonely in my day-to-day work dealings.  I didn’t realize until I was back in an office environment again just how much that feeling of isolation and loneliness was hurting my spirit.  And now that I have time with people at work combined with alone time on the nights my little one is with his dad, I feel more balanced than I have in years.

3. This cook is back in the kitchen.  Chocolate chip raspberry bars… vanilla cupcakes with buttercream frosting… hash brown casserole.  Marriage and a bunch of (or more than one) kids did not happen for me (at least, not yet), but I am in heaven when I am in a kitchen throwing stuff together and making food for people to enjoy.  I’m pretty sure everyone at work is convinced I’m brownnosing and doing it for the accolades and the love (which may have some merit), but the truth is I just love feeding people.  A good friend of mine (who I met because she was feeding me at a yoga retreat) once so perfectly stated, “my favorite moment after I cook for people is when they’re eating and it’s completely silent as they enjoy what I made for them.”

4. The desire for positive feedback does not make you greedy.  I’ve spent hours, days, months these past few years being my number one fan and I’ve gotten really good at it.  I am not nearly as hard on myself as I used to be and I’m the first person to recognize my strengths and victories while being mindful of areas where I need to improve.  Regardless, when you work with a team that is supportive of each other and you hear the words, “we’re happy you’re here,” (and it’s not only in reference to your hash brown casserole), it’s meaningful and it’s okay to feel good about that.

5. Always, always, always trust your gut.  I was not looking for a job change.  I’ve responded to a few recruiters the last few years, submitted a couple of resumes and even went on an interview.  But I never had THAT feeling.  I remember going on an interview in the summer and sitting in the quietest office with a woman I couldn’t imagine working for, leaving there and thinking – no.  I remember feeling so peaceful that I was able to walk away from an opportunity that didn’t suit me and not think for a second that I wasn’t good enough for that job.  I also remember feeling grateful that I wasn’t in a dire financial situation where I had to take a job I may not want.

This time was different.  When I responded to the initial email, updated and forwarded my resume and a summary of my experience and then started the interview process, it felt different from the get-go.  I wanted this job.  I wanted to work for this company.  And even when I gave notice at my old job and they tried to negotiate to get me to stay, I knew where I wanted to be.  That knowing made me feel so strong and yes, even a little powerful.  But above  that, it made me feel thrilled that I was so in touch with my intuition.

So here’s to the first two weeks of a new adventure.  Two weeks of meeting new people, learning new things, and baking and dressing up.  Two weeks of my son incredibly enjoying his new afterschool caretaker and the big hugs I get from him when I get home at night.  Two weeks of waking up each morning excited about what I’m doing and where I’m going.

Two weeks of feeling like I’m the best Jenny I’ve been in awhile.  May it last at least another two weeks.

What was it for you?  Or who was it?  Who did you think about being when thinking about being was more acceptable than maybe trying to (re)invent yourself in your 20s, 30s, beyond?  What did others see you becoming?  Did you want to be rich?  Did you want to be a mom?  Did you want to write stories and be published?  Did you see yourself on stage or did you see yourself backstage as a roadie?

Did your dreams come from what made your heart beat or were they based on the suggestions of others?  Did the popularity contest of junior high school or high school shape who you wanted to be?

I think back to my younger days, especially the days when my great uncle was still coaching football.  I was obsessed with football.  Whenever the media guide arrived at the end of summer, I’m telling you I memorized page after page.  I knew stats, collegiate history, each player’s position and number.  I could tell you what day they were born (maybe this is why I still have a pretty uncanny ability to remember birthdays, anniversaries, etc.) and where they grew up.  It’s a bit creepy, but I also knew their wives’ and kids’ names.  But I pored over that data with gusto that has only re-revealed itself in few other things in the years since that time.  Maybe song lyrics.  Maybe baseball now.  Maybe cataloging my son’s experiences and events in a calendar.

But back to younger days.  That girl who studied media guides and watched football every Sunday wanted to be an NFL commentator.  She wanted to stand on the sidelines and talk to players.  Then she wanted to go into the studio of ESPN and interview players and coaches.  Can you believe I forgot all about this want and this love until recently when I read Barbara Walters’ 2008 memoir Audition?  Barbara Walters didn’t interview athletes on sidelines, but she was the queen of the interview until she retired.  She had an unforgettable voice and dialect, sure, but she also had a knack for getting people to talk about themselves and be comfortable.

So where did this dream get lost?  I think I know and without saying too much, I think it got lost in those junior high and high school years.  I don’t have much fondness when I recall those years.  I remember a perpetual sense of feeling awkward and out of place.  I remember how much the rumor mill and others’ opinions of you can change your status, your lunch table or your Friday night invitations.  I remember worrying about the wrong clothes or the wrong hair.  I remember forgetting about dreaming and instead, doing whatever I could to not be different or stand out.

But I have stopped sitting here thinking  that my dreams have passed me by and that I’m too old to reinvent myself or start something new.  I may never be on an NFL sideline, but why can’t I explore more opportunities to meet people, interview and learn about them, even if it’s just by making new friends or chatting up a stranger in a line at the grocery store?  It’s why I write, it’s why I am going to start yoga teacher training in the winter and it’s why I may just try to do a podcast with a friend of mine, even though there are currently 525k podcasts (and counting).

Take a moment this weekend and ask yourself to remember your “Who I Want to Be When I Grow Up.”  It may not have been something chosen from a popularity contest at school.  Remember YOUR most likely.  Ask yourself if you are living the life you would have most likely wanted to live all those years ago.  If not, ask yourself what you can do to get closer to it. (Disclaimer – this is not advice to leave your family, quit your job or sell your house and start living in a tent.  Unless…)  When you see your kids or friends get some excited about something going on in their lives, soak it in and use it to determine what brings you that joy.  If you’re lucky enough, you’re there, even if it’s just a little.  You’re living joyfully and purposefully, or you’re close to it.  But I know so many who can’t even see a glimpse of that joy and fulfillment and I’m not sure why or where we get lost in life.  I know taking on the responsibilities of adulthood is no joke.  Adulting is a full-fledged affliction and while it has its privileges, it has its challenges too.

The cliches are there to remind us (YOLO, FOMO, IDUNNO), so what can be done to remove our blocks to living a life we love living?  What can we do in order to lay down at the end of the night and have the ability to quote Ice Cube and say, “Today was a good day,” or at the very least Brooks & Dunn’s “It’s Getting Better All the Time.”

Mindfulness teaches us to live in the present moment, but I also think you have to visit your past to improve your present and your future.  I’ll leave you with lyrics to Darlingside’s “Go Back”… may you remember who you were in order to be who you want to be.   May it be of benefit.

We were always on our way
Rolling up our sleeves
Ever moving forward
In the tracks where we lived our simple lives
Kept our blinders on
Eyes to the horizon

And return to who we were
Before we disappeared
Into the thick of big ideas
Now we can see the sweeping view
But we’re waiting out the storm
Stuck under the awning
Into everglades
Greener yesterdays
Skip the stones away
Go back to the start
Photos in the darkroom before they fade
So we hold to who we are
Even into the arc
Beyond our furthest edges

To a world full of strange and towering skies
And a chance to choose in time
To set out on our own way

I know I’m no doctor but I know
You can’t live in the past
But the only way to go is to go back

Or…

I have had a million ideas running through my head since March and haven’t taken a moment to write any of them down.  I have this tendency to think of an idea – believe it’s something someone else will want to read about – draft it in my head while I’m walking around doing mundane tasks – and then scrap it.  I feel that when you do something that others recognize as a talent – whether you’re a good writer or cook, or an unforgettable teacher – there will come an inevitable moment where you have such a hard time believing the praise and you start to question your gift more than before you were ever recognized for it.  It’s like when you get a promotion at work.  At first, you’re so excited and you know how much you deserve it.  But after you go home from that celebratory happy hour,  you might lay in bed and think… “Oh, crap.  Now I actually have to show that I am worthy of this.  I have to live up to that potential that others feel I have and I’ve been commended for and I can’t let anyone down.”

This doesn’t mean I sit here and think that people care enough about my writing that they’re judging it.  This is all perception.  And the more people I open up to about perception, the more I learn that most of us fall victim to worrying about other people’s perceptions of us. I try to remember a quote I’ve read, allegedly contributed to Eleanor Roosevelt: “You wouldn’t worry so much about what people really thought of you if you knew just how seldom they do.”  Nothing about this idea is self-deprecating or full of self-pity or self-loathing.  It’s the exact opposite.  It’s the most liberating thought in this world.

But I digress.  I was talking about those working titles and why I left them behind…

Some examples…

“What Do We Owe Our Children?”

This came to me after taking my child on vacation and realizing that at 5 years-old, he’s had more experiences than my 92 year-old grandmother and sometimes acts entitled and I’m not sure if all these things I give him are the best way to raise him.  I felt preachy and like it would come off to others like I knew exactly what I was doing.  Pretty much clueless about being a parent since January 12, 2013.

“How I Defeated My Laziness.”

I have confronted most laziness in my life by using a timer.  Anything that I avoid doing (vacuuming, dishes, unloading the dishwasher, etc.), I started timing so I could get a better idea and appreciation for how much time it actually took me to do something.  It was usually mere minutes, which proved to me that I spent more time thinking about how long it took me to do something than it did to actually DO it.   I wasn’t sure this concept would actually help someone, so I shelved it.

“The Living Eulogy.”

After Kate Spade’s suicide, I read article after article about how lovely and wonderful she was.  How her impact on the fashion industry changed the way women chose their handbags and how her name is synonymous with style.  I also read articles about how lost she felt after she sold her company because she sold her name with it and was never able to develop anything under Kate Spade ever again.  I read the articles with a sad heart and wondered if she was told and actually knew the weight of that impact she was described as having.  Not only that, was she appreciated for her apparent generosity and talent?  After reading so many good things about this woman after she died, it made me want to write living eulogies for all the people I love because I want no one to question how much I care about them.  I couldn’t write it eloquently and I was so concerned about offending anyone with mental illness by suggesting that depression can be healed by kindness, that I couldn’t finish what I started.

“The Intervention.”

I have a friend whose health is in so much jeopardy that I feel he walks this earth as a ticking time bomb.  I’m not the only one in his inner circle who feels this way, but our concerns go on deaf ears, if and when we choose to voice them.  Writing an article about it felt like the passive aggressive way to confront a subject that at this point in a 15-year friendship, I should have the balls to do in person.  I probably just failed at that whole not being passive aggressive thing, didn’t I.

“I Want to Retire In a Home With My Friends.”

I wanted to write about a concept of not ending up in assisted living or long-term care.  I want my friends and I to buy a big house and have a doctor on call and a chef and a manicurist and a yoga instructor and I want to wear Lilly Pulitzer and maybe smoke a Virginia Slim every once in awhile.  Doesn’t that sound like the best way to end your days?  No?  I know… that’s why I didn’t write about it.

“Staying in my Catholic Faith Even After Seeing Investigation After Investigation About How the Church’s Most Powerful People Took Advantage of Small, Vulnerable Children.”

Oh boy.

______________________________________________________________

I hope I can pick up the pen (or tap the keys) enough in the not so distant future to complete a thought.  I hope I can let the insecure thoughts simmer and evaporate and just let myself write.  I think about Erma Bombeck and Dave Berry and even Dear Abby and how they just wrote about whatever they wanted to, or wrote in whatever way suited them best.  Especially Dear Abby.  Someone asks her a question and she does not hold back and does not care if you like what she has to say.  That woman will tell you if your mother-in-law is trying to steal your children or your best friend is trying to steal your husband.  I think about Dr. Phil and Steve Harvey and their bluntness and lack of apology for who they are and what they have to say.  I am not comparing myself to these people.  But I am hoping to stoke a little of their spunk.

I want to just write.  And be okay with me even if others don’t agree.  To harvest this love I have for scripting my thoughts and believing that even if one person gets something from it – and even if that person is only ME – it is worthwhile.

I hope that whatever talent you have… whatever makes your heart happy and regardless of whether or not others see it or recognize it… that you don’t put it on a shelf.  That you don’t hit delete and that you believe in yourself enough to hit “post” or that you take the stage at karaoke and rock your best ever rendition of “Copacabana.”  That you paint that sunset you see outside your window or maybe you start a business helping people with their bookkeeping because you rock at helping people.

Let’s be free together and publish our working titles, in whatever form they are written.

As published in Elephant Journal on March 21, 2018.

“You must love yourself before you can truly love anyone else.”

We’ve all probably heard this many times by now whether it’s in a quote, an article, a book, or a song—and with good reason, as there is evidence that without true, authentic love of self, it’s significantly harder to thrive in relationships with others.

But what happens for those going through prolonged periods of loneliness in life who may feel that this lesson is pointless because there’s no one around to love, anyway?

I never sought to be the mom who referred to her child as her best friend. But as I sit here on yet another night that I’ve spent by myself while he’s with his dad, I’ve realized that from the physical perspective, my five-year-old son is my best friend right now. He’s who I spend the most time with, and who I go out on dates with. I ask him if my shirt looks nice or which earrings I should wear. On the days and nights he’s not with me, I might go grocery shopping or to the yoga studio, but I am otherwise staring at a blank calendar with zero plans.

This is not at all what I expected upon moving here two and a half years ago. Finding and having friends has never been difficult for me. My closest friends are still the girls I met when I was in junior high and high school. I continued to make other friends in my 20s and early 30s who are still my soul sisters.

But here, in this place I now call home, I haven’t a single true friend to spend quality time with—and I’m realizing for the first time how much this state of physical loneliness is impacting the person I want to be. Someone who sees each day as a blessing. Someone who is open to challenges. Someone who smiles and laughs freely without wondering if my amusement is causing me to look silly or out of place.

I never thought I would see a week where I could say I cried every day and rarely laughed, but I can say it now.

I fear the isolation is turning me into an embittered and angry person. Someone I don’t recognize. I’m sometimes scared to leave the house these days because I may just be looking at another situation where I feel rejected.

Don’t be mistaken, I have tried here. I’ve dated. I attempted to start a book club. I joined a yoga studio. I talk to the other moms when my son is at soccer or swimming practice. I can’t tell you how many times the words, “We should get together,” have fallen from my lips, only for those invitations to not be accepted or even acknowledged. I get it: people are busy, and to be a single mom in her late (yikes) 30s, hailing from a different place and just trying to integrate herself into already established circles, is a hard hand to be dealt.

I ask God at times why this is happening. I’m here on my own free will, so I won’t blame anyone for my circumstances. I’ve gone to therapy to work on my self-image and self-esteem and self-compassion. But I’ve become tired of talking about it. I’ve likely exhausted my friends who have their own lives and problems going on. I’ve worried my parents.

It’s left me to wonder—where are the self-love books about loving yourself when you feel so incredibly alone in your life that you worry with each day if all the doors you see will close in your face? How do you love a you that you think others find unlovable? How are you supposed to be your own number one fan as you sit in leggings on your couch binge-watching “The Mindy Project,” eating frozen pizza while scrolling through Instagram, double-tapping the photos of your friends living a fun, happy life?

How do you find that place of inner love and acceptance when the jeans feel tighter and the grey hair is beginning to show? When you feel left out of the very place where you live, and when you can’t remember the last time a man told you that you looked beautiful, and it’s been over a year and half since you’ve been kissed?

I don’t think you’re going to find it in a book. I don’t think it’s in a quote or in an article. Or rather, you may find it there, but you’re sure as sh*t going to lose it if you temporarily rely on those words and ideas but don’t use the teachings to cultivate your own garden within.

It may feel that self-acceptance is easier to attain when you’re in the presence of others and radiating in their love for you. I can’t deny that I feel my best when I’m around people who bring out the best in me.

But why is it that I am not one of those people? I know the love I give to others, and can honestly admit that I’m more likely to be focused on loving others than I am on taking care of myself. If I likened myself to a garden, I’m the patch that has gone untended for far too long.

I need to remember that gardens grow regardless of who else may stop to admire the sight or scent of the blossoms.

They grow when they are watered, tended to, pruned, and exposed to light. And it truly only takes one pair of capable hands—my own—to help a garden grow.

When I think more of what is currently going on in my life, I wonder if the most painful times come because we are so convinced that outside forces—and even other people—will make things better or hurt less. And you know what? Sometimes they do.

But when we don’t have something or someone real to come home to, nothing outside of ourselves will matter. Or when we find ourselves in a situation where we have to move and start all over again. Or when the time in our life comes that physically strips us of what we believe makes up our identity—our homes, our friends, our romances. Our jobs, our wealth, or our social status.

But if those kinds of conditions must always be present in order for us to feel worthy and lovable, what happens when the inevitable life storm hits and wipes them away from our grip? Where are we when we’re just us?

If you feel alone in life right now, by all means read the books. Listen to the songs and watch the TED Talks. Let others inspire you, and let others into your struggles and your fears and your worries. Work through the loneliness, but not by drowning it in that which is outside of you. Let it become an opportunity to love yourself more deeply than ever before, without outside distractions and without any other acceptance than your own.

Take what you learn and pour it inward to create the you that is so lovable to you that regardless of the weather, regardless of the storms, you are still your greatest caretaker.

Because once that seed is really and truly planted, you’ll find that life begins to bloom.

Author: Jenny Roman
Editor: Callie Rushton

As posted in Elephant Journal on 08.19.17

I once listed my rocker and ottoman for sale online.

I wrote of its lush fabric and beautiful pattern. I described the memories created sitting in that chair. I didn’t include the fact that scuff marks were created when it was carried up the stairs, or the arms had breast milk stains I just couldn’t get 100 percent out.

I declined to describe the accident a baby boy had while sitting naked in that chair. I left out the part that the ottoman has a tendency to squeak just at the moment when your little one has finally fallen asleep after hours of cluster feeding.

Creating an online dating profile seems to be much the same process. Putting together the positive details and rainbow colors of my life and personality and exposing it to God knows how many men in the hopes that one of them (or a few of them) will like what they see and want to meet me.

They’ll see the professional headshot, in which my eyes sparkle, and my hair is smooth and on point. They’ll see what I feel is the best amateur photo of me—tan and sitting at the bar smiling with one of my best friends. They’ll see a photo taken of my son and me as we view the ocean and step in into the waves (only from behind, of course, so as not to reveal the face of that little boy I’m not ready for anyone to be familiar with just yet).

They’ll read words about my love of reading. About how I like to have a nice dinner out, as much as I love to sit on the couch under a warm blanket as I watch 80s movies, documentaries, or old episodes of “Dateline.” They’ll know all about how when I’m not being a mama, I’m working, or practicing yoga, or traveling.

It’s boring. It’s common. It’s anything and everything—except how I would truly describe myself and the woman you may end up getting to know.

The truth is darker, but also brighter. Because any truth, even the ugly ones, contain sparks of light as we chip away at the layers of concrete we’ve built around our heart walls after years of heartbreak and missed connections. After the disappointment when the ones you believe to be the one turn out to be anything but.

I’ll meet you for a first date at a coffee shop or restaurant. Depending on how I felt that morning, I’ll either put a lot of effort into getting ready, or will ho-hum it through my routine of hair and make-up. I’ll wear something flattering—but not for you. No, for me and for the chance to feel as if I actually have something I can control in this effort.

I’ll walk through the doors, and you’ll be waiting—and before we even sit next to or across from each other, I’ve likely already decided whether or not I want to spend more time with you.

It may be the lack of direct eye contact or the hesitancy in your smile. It may be whether or not you understand my sense of humor and can recognize movie quotes or song lyrics. I’ll whisper to myself, “Don’t do this. Don’t give up,” and I’ll try to listen.

We’ll talk about our childhoods and careers. I’ll tell you why I moved from a place that I love to where I live now, and you’ll remark on my selflessness and sacrifice. We’ll glaze over past marriages and relationships, and I’ll describe my last love affair so briefly that it will seem to you that it had little meaning, when the truth is, I’m still reeling from the loss of him—of us—and the dynamic impact he made on my life in such a short time.

I’ll tell you that my co-parenting relationship with my son’s father is easy and cooperative, when oftentimes, I don’t like being in the same room with him because of his domineering attitude and nature. I’ll tell you that I’m adjusting alright to this new city and state, when actually, homesickness sends me running 550 miles west any chance I get.

I’ll skip the part where the only time I felt genuinely full and happy in this new place was when he was in my life, and I had something—someone—to look forward to sharing my time with.

I won’t tell you that there are stretches of days—or weeks—that I don’t believe in magic anymore.

So why am I here? Why am I even giving this a shot? Because of the sliver of me that still does still believe in magic. Because of the work I’ve put in to becoming someone who I would want to be with.

Someone who is a listener as much as she’s a talker. Someone who wants to do life with someone else, who yearns to be less jealous and more understanding. Someone who will jump in the car at four in the morning to see a sunrise with you, or drive to your parents’ house on a Sunday afternoon to have dinner with them. Someone who wants to be your emergency contact and do your laundry as much as I want to help you get your clothes a little dirty.

I’m here because of the simple fact that I’ve felt it. I’ve been there—and can I really, truly say that I can’t be there once, twice, three times again? Maybe not every day, but today may just be the day that I believe.

I’ll believe, because I think it’s possible I’ll meet someone who is in this same cycle. Who is so much more than a few words on an app or website. Who is terrified that, again, someone may check out and leave. Who may feel like they’re on their last chance, but something in them is telling them to just try…one more time.

Perhaps, you’ll look at me like I am magic—but I won’t believe I’m magic because you think I am; I’ll believe it because I know I am.

Beyond perfect headshots and common interests—and the hope that you’ll like my cooking and corny jokes—I’ll believe you’ll see me for me, and I’ll see you for you…and perhaps, we can believe together.

Author: Jenny Roman 
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina