Tag Archives: Brave

'On The Move

On The Move

I missed New Jersey before I even left it. Like a breakup that you see coming and though you know it’s for the best you start to miss what you love before the moment it’s officially gone. I wasn’t breaking up with New Jersey per se, I was moving forward, opening a new chapter, stepping into the vast unknown. Okay, so it sounds like a break up, but truly Jersey, no hard feelings. You will always be my first love and a huge part of who I’ve come to be.

I traveled across the country for more than two months to get to my new city. And, as breakups tend to go, once I was in this new place, I missed the familiar.

A great friend told me, right before I left, the best advice she received in her cross-country move was in times of transition it is okay to grieve. Let yourself grieve. Man is that a liberating piece of advice.

I tell you now, I cried. I cried a lot. I allowed myself to feel – even when I would have rather shut my feelings off. I cried out of fear. I cried out of insecurity. I cried out of vulnerability. I cried out of nervousness. I grieved the life I left behind until I was all cried out.

Life starts when you allow it to.

Once this city became my new reality, I was fearful of what it would actually look like to create a life here. I questioned decisions made leading up to this point that I had felt so sure about before. Was I out of my mind? What made me fall for this place? Why did I pick up and move away from nearly everyone I love?

Fear is a powerful devil.
The truth is, those questions end up being the best reminders of why I embarked upon this journey to begin with. I was ready.


Moving is enlightening. It presents us with an opportunity to sift through things, figuratively and literally. We physically and internally sort through “stuff” to best help us move in a forward direction. It’s a chance to open boxes and take a careful assessment of memories to decide which ones to keep and which ones need a said goodbye. We make our lives lighter, in healthy ways — recognizing what we truly need and what we may have been unknowingly holding onto.

10868170_899996827393_1717723081360994717_n1958452_900142475513_8867675992382571103_n10891748_901462604963_9079933129696952992_n

It’s quite a process. When I started preparing for my move cross-country, I found myself sorting through a great deal. The move surfaced everything from old photos and keepsakes to retired relationships and personal weaknesses that tested my character. Moving can do that; it shakes things up. I started to discover some things had remained in my life that I wasn’t aware were still there.

It’s funny; when we say a word a million times it tends to lose its individual value. “I’m moving” just sounds to me like a common phrase for an action I decided to take and I pay little mind to the root of the word, “move.”  It’s called moving because we are physically transferring ourselves from one place to another, but think about that; to move is to take action, to start doing something, to make progression, to change, to improve, to open our view.

Moving, in its inherent definition, is meant to shake things up for us, and in us, to help us forward.

In the last month before my big move out west, the realness of it all slowly set in more with each day. It was a gradual roll over the past year, but that concluding month was my final dose of reality. I had been working through things in my life, many times with blurred, puffed eyes and a sore, but healing heart. I felt as though I was participating in a final exam of sorts for that season in my life. No grade would be given for its completion; just amplified gratitude and strengthened endurance if I made it through.

It’s not easy relearning lessons that you hoped you’d only have to absorb once or ones you thought you had skated by in the past. Maybe that’s the point though. Maybe it’s not about “getting by” or “pushing through.” Maybe it’s all about enduring until it no longer becomes a lesson for you, but rather an experience to be shared and, perhaps, a possible lesson to help someone else later in life.

Moving, if you allow it, lets you see your life, yourself, at bare bones. No ego. No shame. No guilt. No regret. At bare bones, you are what you are. If you can look at yourself and your life that way, no-frills, then you can begin to build upon it as a base to create and allow for the life that was meant for you.


“You’re building a foundation,” she said to me. “Ever notice how quickly a building goes up after years of witnessing construction that looked like it had little to show for it?”

I nodded my head visualizing her analogy.

“They spend years working on buildings. All you see, for the bulk of those years, are orange cones everywhere and all you hear are loud drilling and bulldozing noises. Then one day, seemingly all of a sudden, the building is up and it’s beautiful and sturdy and stunning. You see, what takes the most time is in building and securing the foundation.

I continued to nod, in awe of this incredible compare-and-contrast example she was playing out in front of me. It was spot on.

“This is where you’re at,” she continued. “There’s some digging that needs to be done. This is what God is doing in your life – digging, steadying and working hard on your foundation to eventually build you up – sturdy and beautiful.”

She paused, “You’re feeling it and while you may not see what it will ultimately look like just yet, it’s on its way.”


So there I was, in my first adult apartment – bulldozing and being bulldozed. With a few weeks left, I sat presently in front of well-taped U-Haul boxes, immersing myself in all of it. I tossed out old receipts while saving captured moments and penned words that to this day make me smile more than I could ever fully communicate to another human being. I continued to face some real moments of pushed down tension all the while becoming present and grateful for where I’d come from.

I was moving. I was transitioning. I was evolving.
I was ready.

'Shake It Out

Shake It Out

Nerves are crazy.

I recent met up with a friend of mine to have a conversation of significant magnitude and my body was extremely aware of what it was about to get itself into.

I was confident in what I knew I needed to express and ready to listen to his end with both ears wide open, but nerves don’t really take any of that into consideration. They tend to have a mind of their own. Seemingly, one that makes little to no sense at all.

Case in point: My dominant hand decided to malfunction as it listened to the nerves speaking inside of me rather than just acting like a normal part of my body. It was so shaky — out of commission shaky — when I went to use it for anything at all. This was terribly embarrassing in the moment, but sort of wholeheartedly hilarious in retrospect.

I found my friend and sat down at the bar next to him. Shortly into the conversation I ordered a beer. At these moments, I think life likes to be extra witty.

As luck would have it, this particular bar gives you a taste-tester to start; so now I was challenged with trying a swig – in front of my friend and the waitress — before actually ordering. I held my glass with both hands. TWO HANDS. Like a child holds a sippy cup. And, without having really accomplished tasting anything, I quickly okayed my first choice hoping for the best. I just knew my one hand was too weak on its own and it needed support for a little bit.

Between the negative thoughts we all struggle to silence and the palpable fear of an imagined outcome, we can so easily shut down.

What’s interesting though is how easily we allow our nerves to take over — our small, but fierce anxieties – even subconsciously. Between the negative thoughts we all struggle to silence and the palpable fear of an imagined outcome, we can so easily shut down. I had dove so hard into my nerves leading up to this moment, that even when I was mentally past them, my body physically still needed to shake them out.

The truth was, allowing the conversation to flow naturally, there was no reason at all to shake. To waver. To be anything, but myself.

Witty life strikes again when I think back to how our conversation played out.

We talked confidence and insecurity. We looked directly at one another and rarely allowed our eyes to stray. That’s the thing though about real communication – it’s too beautiful to look away from.

That’s the thing though about real communication – it’s too beautiful to look away from.

I wish this upon every person that walks this insanely gorgeous, imperfect world. Being wholehearted and real is such a gift in itself. And having someone respond in kind — well that’s true freedom right there.

It’s incredible to me how every real conversation is a captured moment in time. It’s an instant polaroid, a beautifully written letter, a slow dance that those involved get to keep. Things going forward can falter, but that moment is solidified as an authentic width of time.

And for that moment, it was undeniably what it was.

Just beautiful.