“This is your black belt test! This is not a practice run. This is what you’ve been training for. You have one shot. Now, let’s bring the energy!” our founding KJN said as he began our black belt test.

This is it, mom, I whispered.

I looked to the back of the room and saw my husband and kiddos standing next to my dad in the window with their iPhones and video cameras rolling. This moment was about more than achieving my black belt; it was the culmination of my years of recovery from PTSD, depression, and addiction. It was about my mom’s cancer diagnosis, her death, and my fight to move on through the grief.

For a split second I pictured what my mom would look like standing next to my dad. I saw her beautiful, smiling face as she cheered me on. Then I took a deep breath and pushed her absence far from my mind. I’ll cry later.

Over the next 2 days of testing, I held nothing back. Weapons, forms, kicking combos, mma fighting, sparring, and grappling; I left it all on the floor. I walked away with a badly torn hamstring and no regrets. It was a monumental, life-changing event.

This photo was taken during the Best Tester competition portion of the test. The really funny thing is I had no idea I was competing for Best Tester. I thought they were just randomly calling people up for the show rehearsal. We don’t know yet if I got Best Tester, and, with no disrespect, it really doesn’t matter to me. An award can’t make me more thankful to God for His grace; it can’t make me more content. I’m at peace with everything and everyone, including my mom.

The most memorable and emotional moment of the test happened during the victory lap at the end of the test. It was late at night; we were tired, cold, and completely spent. I wore my mom’s sweatshirt and held hands with my mma friends as we joined hundreds of other testers for the entire loop. I find it a very fitting end to be holding hands with the people who carried me through one of the hardest times in my life. My black belt is as much about them as it is me. But isn’t that how all important things in life are? They’re about the relationships we share with the people God places in our lives.

I ended Mother’s Day sitting on my mom’s grave reviewing the footage my dad took during the 2-day test. It was the end of my commitment to her. I did it, mom. And I’m not going to stop.

I’m happy to report that I’ve already begun work on my 2^nd degree.

So, friends….here’s to living every day ALL out. May you be energized in your goals. May your hearts be encouraged to continue through the hard things that threaten to stop you.

And, most importantly, may we always remember that our goals are never just about us; they are about the people we meet and the shared love and support we give to each other on this journey of life. Together, we can take on anything.

With you…

Ok, here it comes…I thought.

“So, I see the enamel has worn away here on the inside of your teeth.” She said.

Silence. Deep breath.

“Do you know what caused the loss of enamel?” She continued.

“I’m seven years in recovery from an eating disorder that almost took my life. I binged and purged for 20 years, that’s why I don’t have any enamel.” I said bluntly as I unloaded 7 years of recovery on her.

Awkward pause.

“Oh… good for you,” she humbly replied.

My candor surprised her and she quietly went back to cleaning my teeth. I don’t think she expected that response, but it opened a good conversation for the duration of my appointment. The last remaining sign of my painful past lies hidden from everyone except dentists and hygienists. It’s no longer a source of shame, but a reminder of where I’ve been and where I’d be if God hadn’t intervened.

Fortunately, this hygienist was kind. She had true compassion, which is probably why I shared so openly with her. I’ve had others who were horribly insensitive and their questions felt brutally voyeuristic, sending me into a panic. Those were the times when I wanted to yell, “It’s none of your da%$ business!” and bolt right out of the chair. But I never did shout or leave. I just sat still and mumbled something about eating a lot of lemons.

Oh, the lies of addiction, how they fuel the monster of shame.

Asking a bulimic why the enamel is gone from her teeth is like asking a heroin addict why she has fresh needle tracks on her arm. It’s a frontal assault on the denial system that keeps an addict alive and functioning, and I’d like all the hygienists who ask such direct questions of their patients to feel the weight of the wound they’ve opened.

If you call out a bulimic, you’re treading on sacred territory. It’s like barging into a locked bathroom and pulling back the curtain while someone’s showering. It’s just not appropriate. Ever.

Bulimics know all about the permanent, irreversible damage to their teeth. They know that the repeated showering of stomach acid can lead to internal damage, esophageal eruption, and death. They know their rapid, erratic heartbeat and low potassium levels are dangerous. They know all of that. And they are still powerless to stop. There’s deep pain and unresolved trauma under the surface, and it’s more than a dental hygienist can handle.

Because I’m in full recovery, I was happy to share my story yesterday. But seven years ago, shame would have buried me. God had to pry years and layers of regret from my hands, and I cringe with empathy for my brothers and sisters who are still trapped by the monster.

The good news is Jesus is the miracle redeemer of trapped people. He desires to heal those who are lost and feel beyond repair. He did it for me. And he’ll do it for anyone who calls on his name.

A word of advise to dental hygienists: don’t ask questions you’re not equipped to handle. Just be nice and whisper a prayer of healing. The words of Plato come to mind, “Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

My love and prayers to those who continue to struggle. Never give up hope for recovery; despite the burden and hardship of addiction, you’re never too damaged to heal.

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free,” Luke 4:18

In perfect quietness, I sit on the well-manicured grass with a variety of tall, ancient trees towering over me. I watch the deer and turkeys and squirrels roam freely as I talk to my mom about everything as if she’s sitting right beside me. Somehow I feel closer to her there than anywhere else. I tell her about my upcoming black belt test and how much I wish she could be there. I tell her how my dad’s doing, and how much the kids are learning and growing. Maybe this is a normal thing to do, I’m not sure. I’ve never asked anyone before.

I feel an odd sense of comfort when I see fresh flowers on other graves. Even though I rarely see people actually placing the flowers on the grave, I feel deeply connected to them. It’s like we’re sharing the same grief, the same desire to connect and honor, and the same longing that grows stronger with time.

Last week they placed her headstone in the ground, and I was surprised how much emotion it evoked.  It’s not like I expected her to rise out of the grave or anything. I suppose seeing her name with her birthday and death date etched in the granite was another one of death’s blows. My mom’s been gone three and a half months, but it still feels unnatural leaving the cemetery without her; I want her to be warm and cozy in her own bed not in the cold ground with the other buried bodies. It’s a bizarre thought, I know. But there it is, anyway.

Her grave is a strange portal to both heaven and hell. I feel a pain I’ve never felt before, the hell. And yet I feel the highest elation and comfort knowing I’ll see her again, the heaven. I’m helplessly tethered to both torment and hope. And depending on where my mind races, I can experience wild, rapid swings as I move from one end of the chasm to the other, sometimes back and forth so quickly my mind can’t keep up. It’s a whirlwind with both doors open at the same time.

Like the new, rectangular strip of grass on my mom’s grave taking root and blending in with all the other grass, so is the reality of her absence weaving it’s way into the normalcy of my life. One day, her death will be a seamless fact of my life story.

I end my time on her grave by playing a worship song from my phone. It grounds me for another day, leaving me on heaven’s side of the portal.

Romans 8:28 is carved at the bottom of my mom’s gravestone. “For God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God.” Even though my mom is six feet and an eternity away, if I listen past the tears, I can still hear her voice in my head. All things work together for good, Lori.

All things.

But Sunday was my birthday, and the missing of my mom trumped all other days since her death.

My mom was always like the birthday fairy; she treated everyone’s birthdays with the sacredness of Christmas. A full month before my birthday she’d start her excited inquiries about what I’d like for a gift, what dinner I’d like to eat, and most crucially, she always offered to make my birthday cake. She was an awesome cook and baker, and I can’t remember a birthday when she didn’t make my cake. Until Sunday, that is.

When it came time to open my birthday gifts and cards, I just couldn’t hold back the tears when I saw my dad’s handwriting on my card with a huge heart drawn around my name, just like my mom used to do. In all my birthdays, my dad has never written out my card; it was always my mom on behalf of both of them. He’s doing the best he can to fill in the empty spots she’s left. These are the details of life that go unnoticed until someone dies; the little things that weave their way into parts of our heart that belong only to that person. We don’t realize it’s happening until our loved one is gone and that part of our heart goes vacant, hopelessly unable to be filled by anyone else.  I’ve grieved many losses before, so I recognize these are the painful firsts; the first birthday without my mom, the first Easter, and soon it will be the first Mother’s day. The firsts are especially brutal.

My black belt test is the day before Mother’s day, and it’s been tough for me to shake the deal I made with my mom when she was first diagnosed with brain cancer. We made a pact that we’d both train hard, she with her physical therapy and I with my black belt training. I’ve written about this agreement before (renegotiating a deal with my mom), so I won’t go into it here. Needless to say, I’m hoping I can hold it together during the test, and I pray I don’t bawl over her not being in the stands like we planned. Wanting to honor my part of the deal has kept me going, but there continues to be times when I wanted to bail out. Usually when I wake up in the middle of the night crying my eyes out because I’m dreaming about her dying, or when I zone out during training because I’m remembering she’s dead; these are the times when I wonder if I should wait and test next year. I often look over my shoulder for the back door out.

My black belt has become a symbol of persevering through the loss of my mom and not letting circumstances rule my life. My training has remained one of the few constants in my life since my mom’s diagnosis, and I know I need to complete this task, not only for myself, but as a celebration of my mom and everything she’d want for me. I know she’d want me to do it now. I feel her urging me on.

So, onward I march trying to close that back door.

Grief is like the run-off from a melting glacier. I must let the sorrow flow through me freely; even when it rushes so hard it feels like it will wash me away with its force. No matter how painful and awful the sadness feels, I know the tears will keep my heart soft, so it can grow and hold more compassion for others.

As I sat alone on my mom’s grave at the end of my birthday, I replayed the last 108 days I spent with her before she died. I thanked her for loving me so much, and I apologized for not appreciating it until she got sick.

And then I thanked God for the mercy and grace he’s given me to continue this journey of life – as wonderful and very hard as it is…

Yuck.

“Oh, this is my daughter,” he said sweetly as he looked at me and patted my shoulder. We locked eyes and felt the enormous weight of my mom not being there. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t cry, but the emotion got the best of me. My eyes watered as I feigned a smile and felt the sadness make its way into my chest.

Turning his attention back to the nurse my dad said, “My wife, um, well, she died in January, so, my daughter will be here in case something happens. She has power of attorney.”  A look of pity swept over her face, and it made me feel sick. My dad’s pain made me sicker. It felt like an out-of-body experience as flashbacks of losing my mom came into view. This is just all wrong. I don’t want power of attorney. I don’t want to make these decisions for my dad. My mom should be doing this.

Even though this procedure was a fairly common one, it felt mortal to me. As I sat in the same hospital where I said goodbye to my mom just a couple months ago, I was keenly aware that nothing feels right anymore.

With power of attorney in hand, a variety of worst-case scenarios started playing out. My dark imagination started whispering stories about how easy it would be for my dad to die. I studied his face and wondered if I should ask him any last questions. When my mom died, she took all her family history with her. No one knows who gave her the tiny, laced glove we found in an old box with her first Holy Communion bible. No one knows who the people are in the old photos she inherited from her dad when he died.  For some reason I was compelled to ask him about his childhood and what his favorite teacher was growing up. All this random information is slipping through my hands as I realize I’ll never get the answers to the questions I never thought to ask.

Anxiety stirred for a few minutes before I threw a lasso over my thoughts and pulled them in tight. Excuse me, but we’re not going there today, I demanded.

Instead of bawling in a lost corner of the hospital, which I desperately wanted to do, I chose to introduce myself to the only woman in the waiting room. We struck up a conversation and within a minute we were sharing our respective stories of recovery. She’s twenty five years sober from alcoholism and has one of the most profound stories of spiritual healing I’ve ever heard. She looked to be the about the same age as my mom, and her nurturing spirit made me miss my mom’s sweet comfort. Forty-five minutes later, I was called to go back to see my dad, so my new friend and I exchanged long hugs, phone numbers, and promises to keep in touch.

As I walked out of the hospital with my healthy, lightly-bandaged dad and a new friend in my heart, I breathed a prayer of gratitude to God. Despite the enormous grief my family bears right now, He’s helping us through the hardest time in our lives. My dad and I went through my mom’s clothes and dumped her cancer meds together. We gave her hats to a cancer ministry and took back all the things my mom and I bought together during our wonderful post-surgery shopping sprees. All very hard things…but things we must do to move forward in a positive way.

I still have a good life with more love and compassion than I ever thought possible. I intend to give it all away as I fight to grab the goodness and joy that comes each day.

And I carry the hope that one day life will feel a little bit normal again.

I love you, mom…

7 years ago…

For more than a year, I had a standing date with myself every Tuesday, 5pm-10pm at Borders Bookstore. As a part of my recovery, I parked myself on the floor of the Psychology/Mental Health section and read just about every book on their shelves. I was desperate to find out what was wrong with me, so I sat criss-cross applesauce with my head-down devouring everything in sight. I was sure the staff thought I was crazy, and in the beginning stages of my breakdown, I wouldn’t argue with that assessment. I’d often show up with uncombed hair and red-stained eyes from crying all day, and I rarely made eye contact with anyone. I was a complete and utter mess and couldn’t be bothered; I was on a mission to save my own life. I had some very dark and disturbing titles piled next to me, so out of embarrassment, I’d often turn the books upside down so no one could read them. I wouldn’t be able to name most of the books or authors I read. One right after another, I consumed these books like a starving, wilderness traveler would feast on a turkey dinner.

In addition to my weekly visits to Borders, I was in therapy twice a week, and I was googling up a storm and scouring websites about depression, eating disorders, childhood trauma, and PTSD. I was completely disconnected from the source of my grief, so I simply googled the feelings I had. Out of a blind and committed devotion to healing, I tried every healing method out there. I felt like a detective desperately trying to piece together my life, bit by bit. I had clues, but very little proof to substantiate my life-long destructive behaviors and tendencies. Slowly, my painful and chaotic story fell into place and the healing began. One of the greatest sources of hope I found was through reading other stories that connected perfectly to mine. I’d never met these people before, but somehow they knew exactly what I was experiencing and feeling. For the first time in my life, because of their courage to lay their souls bare, I no longer felt alone in my head. While reading, I’d often say aloud, “Yes! Yes! That’s exactly how I feel!” That’s one of the biggest reasons why I blog openly about my struggle and healing. If I can help one person feel less alone and hopeful about his/her own recovery, then the risk I take exposing myself is worth it.

The enemy wants us to feel alone, ashamed, and completely unfixable. But that’s not true – ever.

I was on the phone with my first counselor during the first few days of my breakdown, and I cried, “Do you really think I can get better?” I felt un-repairable and like I was going crazy. My paper thin facade was ripped to shreds as I transformed from a strong, functioning addict in hiding into an emotionally destroyed human being. Like being tossed off a waterfall, I couldn’t stop the terrifying emotions that spewed out the moment I stopped numbing myself.

I’ll never forget what she said to me. With a bold sweetness she said, “Lori, you can heal from anything.” Her words were life to me. She spoke light into my darkness, and it was the first moment I had any hope of sorting through the hell I was going through. Almost seven years later, I wholeheartedly agree: We can heal from anything.

In the early emergency stage, I struggled to manage our two young sons, who I loved more than anything in the world. Juggling motherhood and being a wife was very, very hard. I had severe panic attacks (holy cow), exhaustion, confusion, and I often found myself screaming and crying in a pillow at the back of my closet so the kids couldn’t hear me. But as hellish as it was, God showed up each moment, lovingly guiding me through the treacherous unknown.

Through a very intimate guided imagery with Jesus, I experienced a miraculous healing and complete deliverance from my eating disorder. After fighting it on my own for almost 20 years, in an instant with him, he took it from me. He did for me what I couldn’t do for myself. His love set me free, and I’ve never struggled with food since that moment with him. Not once.

Many people have asked what I did to heal, what books I read, and how they should start their own journey of healing. So, I here’s a brief list of therapies and methods I did to recover. Keep in mind that everything I list, as wonderful and freeing as they were, were simply tools that God used to heal me. HE is the one who healed me. I simply cooperated with it.

Inner child work (sounds strange – but this is very powerful)

Meditation

Grounding exercises

Reading recovery books/visiting websites – expose yourself to a wide range of methodologies. There’s something helpful in most therapies

Body work – this releases the trauma that is trapped in our bodies

Prayer

Guided imagery

Dream work and journaling – I had horrible nightmares, so I kept a journal next to my bed so I could journal immediately when I woke up – even in the middle of the night.

EMDR sessions with my therapist (HUGE benefit)

Art therapy

Worship,

Depression/PTSD workbooks,

Free-write processing

Cognitive therapy (talk)

And then there’s my beloved, UN-censored journal (this was a must).

Here are some of the reference books I keep at home:

The Road Less Traveled – Scott Peck

The Courage to Heal – Ellen Bass and Laura Davis

Memories, Dreams, Reflections – Carl Jung

Depression: A Stubborn Darkness–Light for the Path – Edward Welch

Breaking Free – Beth Moore

Abba’s Child – Brennan Manning

Ruthless Trust – Brennan Manning

Finding Peace – Charles Stanley

Just enough light for the step I’m on – Stormie Omartan

Battlefield of the Mind – Joyce Meyer

Hinds Feet on High Places – Hannah Hurnard

The Genesis Process – Michael Dye

Waking the Tiger -Healing Trauma – Peter A. Levine

Managing Traumatic Stress Through Art – Barry M. Cohen, Mary-Michola Barnes, Anita B. Rankin

Addiction and Grace – Gerald G. May M.D.

Restoring Hope and Trust – Lisa Lewis, Kay Kelly, Jon G. Allen

The PTSD Workbook – Mary Beth Williamson and Soili Poijula

I had a difficult time reading the Bible in the beginning of my recovery. I was afraid of God and was blocked from his love for me. Since I was a performance-oriented believer, scripture felt more like salt to my wounds. Instead of reading the Bible, I listened to worship music as my way of connecting with God. Somehow the music penetrated my spirit in a way the written word couldn’t. After my experience with Jesus and the miracle of his healing, reading scripture became a primary source of peace and continued healing and strength.

I have one piece of advice for anyone who’s seeking healing from depression, addiction, or PTSD: Before you read a book, surf the web, or see your counselor, commit everything to God. Let him be in charge of the timing of your discoveries. He has a plan, and it is good. Devote yourself to the process completely, and don’t ever give up. You are worth every dollar you spend in therapy, every tear you cry, and every moment you choose to take to care of yourself instead of cleaning the house. This pain will end. There’s an incredible life ahead of you. Grab it!

Healing is yours.

If you’re in recovery, I’d love to hear how your healing began. What resources have been the most helpful for you?

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” John 10:10

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.” Galatians 5:1

“So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” John 8:36

“If you seek me, you will find me. If you seek with your whole heart.” Jeremiah 29:13

“Don’t be sad, your mom is happy in heaven.” It was the day after my mom’s funeral when someone bearing a huge, plastered smile said those words to me. You want me to be happy? I thought. One day earlier I was standing in front of my family and friends giving my mom’s eulogy. Just ten days earlier I was staring into my mom’s eyes watching the morphine drip carry her into eternity, knowing I’d never be able to hear her voice or see her beautiful eyes again.

My family had just traveled 108 days of the most holy and horrific journey of ushering my mom into God’s hands and this person wants me to be happy?

Audacious. Careless. Ignorant.

I felt slimed, and I wanted to get it off me.

“Yes, I know my mom is doing great. It’s all of us left here without her who suffer,” I said defensively. We were passing each other in a hall and didn’t have time to expand on our comments, so we left each other in a public and obviously awkward moment. I knew my voice smacked of a disapproving tone. And, uncharacteristically of me, I was totally fine with it. I didn’t want to save this person from the gross misstep and go on spreading the poison to someone else.

What would cause an otherwise loving person to say such a flippant comment?

As cutting as the remark was to hear, it’s very easy to understand. Because most of us were never taught how to grieve well, we have no idea how to suffer with other people. It’s uncomfortable and we feel incapable of handling such deep emotion. Out of misguided love, we are compelled to fix it by making it go away. “Woohoo! Look over here on the bright side!” Our instinct is to encourage others away from their pain, but, unfortunately, what starts as good intention actually drives the pain deeper underground, increasing the suffering.

Try telling a war veteran, who watched his best friends get killed in combat, to just be happy. Advise a man who just lost his wife of 46 years to cancer that he should just be thankful for all the years he had with her. Good luck convincing a married couple desperate for children that they should be happy their stillborn baby is an angel in heaven. Where there’s injury, there must be repair. And grieving with each other is part of the repair. We need to stop saying careless, hurtful things and learn how to help each other.

In Scott Peck’s book, The Road Less Traveled, he writes, “All neurosis is a substitute for legitimate suffering.”  When I first read that sentence, I was twenty-one years old and trapped in a vicious eating disorder. I was buried in unresolved, complicated grief that was hidden even from me, and I was living completely out of my tormented unconscious. Little did I know it would be another 14 years of addiction before I’d learn how grief leads to freedom.

I’ve done alot of grieving over the past 7 years of recovery, and I often compare it to a controlled forest fire. It looks devastating at first, but once the ground is cleared by the fire (processing the pain), those beautiful seeds of gratitude sprout quickly in the fertile ground. But they’ll die before they take root on a ground layered with unresolved pain.

That’s why keeping a gratitude journal all on its own won’t make someone happy long term. Yes, gratitude helps shape our perspective, but our happiness will be short lived if we don’t also address our pain.

Grief isn’t a lack of gratitude; it’s the door to it. We can’t thank our sadness away; it won’t work. A soundly joyful life is a healthy balance of both grief and gratitude. And when both are handled well, they become a powerful team for good mental health.

Am I thankful my mom is out of pain? Yes.

Do I wish she was still here with us? Yes.

Both are equally true. And if I ignore the sadness I have about losing my mom to brain cancer, it will lead me back into depression. And I’m never going back there again.

Gratitude and grief; they are inextricably linked.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:…a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”

Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 4

We all get knocked down by life. Some of us are hit early on in life, and it takes decades to realize the damage we live out every day. But no matter what life has dealt us, and no matter how we’ve responded – PTSD, addiction, depression, anxiety -, God has the healing we need to move past our circumstances and into the life of freedom he created us to live.

My prayer is today will be a new day of healing, a miraculous recovery, and a time of renewed strength and vision for all of us.

Blessings….

“However, as it is written: “What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and
what no human mind has conceived” — the things God has prepared for those who
love him.”  1 Corinthians 2:9

When I first entered recovery almost 7 years ago, via a serious breakdown, I quickly learned how important grieving was to my recovery. I had a mountain of unprocessed sadness and pain that trailed me since childhood, and the only thing I knew how to do was ignore the feelings and hope they’d go away. I was barely coping and I had unhealthy addictions and behaviors that only masked the wounds I carried.

I was so used to ignoring the pain that I became completely disconnected to the beast of sorrow that lived inside me. And I was unconscious to the power it had over my life. I wanted to be well, but I was powerless to stop the eating disorder that was destroying my body, mind, and spirit.

Once I committed myself to therapy, I learned that grieving is a tool to freedom, and I became more willing to travel through it. With a lot of loving patience and teaching, my therapist showed me that grief is a tunnel to the light, not a bottomless pit of mire. I read dozens and dozens of books about grief and depression, and I started my no-holds-barred journal that told the story I had long forgotten. With a loving witness by my side and a complete dedication to the truth, I started slowly unpacking the burdens that weighed me down.

It was the beginning to the life of joy and freedom I have today.

Yes, grief it’s painful, but it becomes easier when we’re aware of what awaits us at the end of the journey.

My husband and I were married for almost eight years before our first son was born, so I had a lot of time for these fantasies to become well rooted and unchallenged.

And then we had kids, and I heard reality laughing so hard it scared me.

When our first son was born I turned into a complete lunatic because of the lack of sleep. I can say with all my heart that I understand why sleep deprivation is used as torture tactic. Feed, burp, change the diaper, cajole to sleep, pray for sleep, beg for sleep, do anything for sleep, wake up after a cat-nap with spit-up all over you, and then do it all again. Whoever said time flies never had a newborn baby. Every day felt like a ground-hog year. I was buried in monotony, and I felt guilty that I wasn’t barefoot and happy about it. Did I love my baby? Of course I did. I just wanted his mother to show up so I could take a nap.

We did, in fact, chase lady bugs and butterflies in an open field. Once. But the kids were more interested in arguing and throwing weeds at each other, so I ended up growling at them while I begrudgingly gathered lady bugs in the stupid habitat container. The jar sat on the dining room table for a week, serving as a reminder of how not fun it was. Needless to say, I didn’t hear Chariots of Fire.

Dinnertime, my prized fantasy, ended up being the most awful time of day when our boys were young. Our kitchen table turned into a perpetual battleground complete with lines drawn and complaints and preferences rifling at me so fast I needed a catcher’s mitt. We had antsy, energetic boys who’d rather jump up and down making weird sound effects than sit and listen to any words of wisdom. It was crazy mayhem wrought with tears and loud noises, and eventually I stopped serving myself because I couldn’t swallow my food through all the stress. Dinner was over in a flash, and even though I was glad when it ended, I felt resentful that my two hours of cooking organic, hand-made meals were dismissed with horrified expressions and pinched noses as if I dished out sewer contents. The only wisdom we shared at the dinner table revolved around the fact that if they didn’t eat their vegetables they couldn’t have dessert. Period.

Chores were a joke. No one cared about a clean house. I felt more like a drill sergeant than a loving mother. The kids just wanted to play with Legos and leave them out wherever they fancied. Have you ever stepped on a Lego brick right in the arch of your foot? Two words: primal scream.

Can you hear my dreams shattering like glass on the floor? I could seriously write the best selling, most effective parenting book of all time, Do the complete opposite of what I did and you’re guaranteed to be a successful parent. Sigh.

On top of wanting to be perfect so I wouldn’t mess up my kids, I had some other major issues to sort through. I was undiagnosed PTSD and suffered from major depression, which only compounded the ordinary struggles and adjustments. I loved our kids so much it hurt, but I was treading water in the deep end of the pool long before they were born.

Motherhood was a shock beyond shocks to my psyche and it took years of butting my head up against my dreams before I realized I needed to let go of the fantasy, so I could make my reality work. Life improved dramatically when I realized I was trying to fit my children into the mommy dream box instead of meeting them where they were. I had to start from ground zero and work my way through all my unresolved trauma while trying to be a good mom. I walked step by painful little step until life opened up and things started to click. Oh, those early years were tough.

Out of pure survival, I chucked my ridiculous expectations of myself and our children. Forget running in fields and sharing insight; my goal was to keep our children one step above feral, so I could work my way through the depression.

Thanks to the grace of God, I found a great therapist who lovingly witnessed my breakdown while teaching me the tools to process my layered, complicated grief and PTSD. Slowly but surely I was able to manage quasi-sanity and chicken nuggets, and I made a promise to myself I wouldn’t quit until I was well. And it worked.

There’s a special joy that comes with making peace with domestic chaos. After years of dedicating myself to that adjustment, I can tell you with all sincerity that when I tuck my children into bed at night and I lay my tired mommy self next to them, my world is complete. As they open their hearts and reveal their secret wishes, dreams, and fears, I’m leveled by their compassion, untainted truth, and willingness to forgive. They’re far wiser than I ever imagined, and I’m humbled to know that I’m the one learning most of the lessons in this sacred relationship.

Yes, no one ever told me how hard motherhood was. But they also didn’t tell me how my life would really begin the moment my children were born.

Chasing an active, tantrum-slinging toddler around the park well past his nap-time while hauling a crying baby on your back is no fun. And if anyone says otherwise, it’s a lie. Whether a mom has depression, PTSD, or a solid background, any mom worth her weight will admit she wasn’t born a good mom; she had to work at developing past her natural abilities. She’ll also swear that every moment of frustration and fatigue pales in comparison to the holy bond she has with her children.

Long gone are the days of expecting things to be perfect. Instead of a sparkling, clean house, our visitors are promised nothing beyond flushed toilets; and I’m ok with that. Friends might not be able to eat off the floor, but they’ll be greeted with happy hearts and a genuine desire to connect.

And, yes, after almost twelve years of being a mom, I will agree that time flies…but only in retrospect.