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[hglasz]

[hglasz]

Opening Up

I’ve always been praised for being open. For being vulnerable. For being honest and well-spoken and unafraid to share my deepest troubles. That praise has been my lifeblood for years on end. When I got to college, I used my newfound title as strong, vulnerable woman to mask what I was really feeling inside - lost and closed off and misunderstood. None of the stories I shared were ever made up. None of the advice I gave to others based on my own struggles was ever in vain, nor was it nonchalantly thrown out just because I felt like it was what people wanted to hear. I majored in Psychology because I have the deepest of desires to understand people, to help them in their dark places, and to find ways in which to build up the hearts and minds of those that feel they have been knocked out of the game time and time again. Vulnerability is important to me. I strive to be an honest person, who is willing to open up my heart so that other hearts may resonate with the words I share. But, that’s all still just a goal. I can’t help but feel as though what people have praised about me is still something that I haven’t quite attained yet.

If you’ve read any of my blog posts before, please know that everything I have ever written about, posted about on Facebook or Instagram, or talked about over warm meals and mugs of coffee is all genuine and true.

But there is so much left to share.

If you know my story at all, you might be aware of the roller coaster that has been the past year of my life. Almost a full year ago, on April Fool’s Day nonetheless, I packed up all of my belongings and moved out of my college apartment, just six weeks before graduation, in order to move into a shared bedroom in a residential home for people struggling with eating disorders. My world was wrecked in an instant. One minute I was getting ready to wear a graduation cap and gown, and the next I was waking up at 5:30 every morning to put on a hospital gown and get my vital signs taken before following my housemates down to a less-than-inviting dining room. 

I’ve always been a rule follower. I’ve always lived to please other people. The thought of going against someone or something, the thought of disappointing those who are expecting me to succeed - it’s all too much to think about, even just in a hypothetical sense (currently deep breathing to bring down the anxiety just THINKING about failing someone). Being a rule follower meant I would never second guess the guidance of anyone around me. In the treatment setting, this took the form of me being a sort of puppet. Get up, get blood drawn, eat all meals in the allotted time, participate in group therapy, write down every last detail on my diary cards - I was going to do it all if it meant my care providers, friends, and family would be proud of me.

The thing about rule following is that it is by and far the easy way to live life. Without having the pressure on yourself of making your own decisions, all you have to worry about is pleasing those around you. For the majority of my life, my happiness has ridden on the back of other’s happiness. My sorrow depended on other’s sorrow. Empathy was of the utmost importance, and anything less made me feel like I was failing my purpose as a human being. For all I knew, my place on Earth was to make other people feel okay, not to stay mindful of my own heart in the process.

Somewhere in middle school, or maybe even earlier (it’s hard to remember when everything started), empathy for others completely overrode empathy for myself. I remember learning about this inverted triangle in Sunday School. We were taught that at the top of the triangle, what deserved your full attention, was God. Then there were others, and at the very bottom, in the smallest section of the triangle, was yourself. I took that lesson to heart, and set out to put myself last in all situations. In theory, it seems like a healthy way to live. But what I didn’t understand was that there was a balance between the three. It wasn’t that one compartment was more important than all the others. All three worked together, and depended on each other. Love for God influenced love for others and the self, and vice versa. 

I wish I would have understood that a long time ago.

When I got to college, a whirlwind of bad luck picked me up and flung me around until the storm finally spit me out at The Emily Program. Yet the whole time that I was spinning, I failed to take the time to take care of myself. I longed so deeply for the love of others, for the approval of my God, that I neglected to seek love and approval for myself. I was following all the rules, being a “good Christian,” believing wholeheartedly that my struggles were of the least importance. I managed to silence all the voices in my head telling me to seek help, to take a break, to pay attention to myself. I kept going and going and going and following and empathizing and finally, everything cracked. But somehow, even with the deafening shatter and the mess that surrounded me, I still found a way to minimize my pain, to put myself last, to forget myself completely.

Ultimately, all of this rule following and putting myself last and people pleasing lead to overwhelming self-doubt. My sophomore year of college, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. At first, I went along with my therapist, doing the things she told me to do, solely because she told me to do them. I never once truly believed I had depression. Then, I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder. Again, I took all the medications, I did all the homework, I read all the “helpful” resources, simply because I was instructed to do so. Not once did I believe I had anxiety. Other people had issues that were so much bigger compared to mine. Why should I waste my therapist’s time when there were other people that were hurting more that she could help? And then, last April, when I was diagnosed with anorexia, I followed suit and went to treatment, simply because I was told to do so.

I have not ever believed and still do not believe that I have an eating disorder.

And that’s where I am today. Rule following and participating in the recovery mindset because someone at a treatment center told me to do so. But I am not anorexic. I never have been. The girls that I sat with in the residential home were. The people that post body positive photos on Instagram were. But I just had bad eating and exercising habits. But that word? That big, life changing, hard-to-swallow word? That does not apply to me. At least, it doesn’t apply to my eating disordered brain.

Here’s the thing, though. When you have an eating disorder, or any mental disorder for that matter, your brain splits into different parts. There’s you, the true you, that desires health and happiness and knows logically what the world really is around you. And then there’s the disordered brain, the one that speaks loudest, the one that tells you that your disorder is the end-all-be-all, that begs you to give into its desires and set aside your own. 

My Hayley brain says this: I do have a problem. I do obsess about my body. I do restrict my food. I do spend hours each day looking up low-fat recipes and ways to flatten my stomach the quickest way possible.

I am anorexic. And I am relapsing, hard.

Yesterday I woke up unable to move. I called my boyfriend and tried to explain what was going on. I cried uncontrollably. I couldn’t quite find the right words to explain how the very thought of food made me feel sick to my stomach, to explain how there was a very real fear in my head that eating any amount of carbs would instantly throw me into lifelong obesity, that the only thing that made me feel better was the feeling of being completely empty.

When I was in treatment, I idolized the bodies of other people that I was in treatment with. I know how messed up that sounds, trust me. I know the heartbreaking struggle that others were going through, I know how uncomfortable we all felt in our own skin, I know that other people probably looked at me wishing they had my body, just as I wished I had theirs. But, objectively, I was the heaviest one in treatment. My battle with food and exercise had not made me lose much weight, and I still had lots of extra fat and skin in places that I did not want it. Still today, I look at posts of my friends that I went through treatment with, who are doing exponentially better than we were while in TEP together, and I think to myself, “how can I get my body to look like theirs?”

Perhaps the most frustrating part is that I know how crazy I sound. I actively try and make myself look like people who are sick. I actively seek out unhealthy habits so that I can morph my body into what my brain tells me is ideal. I spend hours a day in the kitchen, telling myself what I can and cannot eat. The scariest part about anorexia is that it works. It works so well, it’s scary. And I know that. I know that if I keep starving myself, if I keep overexercising, and if I keep neglecting to take care of Hayley, I will lose weight. And maybe, as my brain as told me thousands of times, maybe then I will be fulfilled.

I guess what I’m trying to say with all of this is that I want to be truly vulnerable for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. I am sad, I am anxious, I am brain and body starved, and right now, I feel like I don’t care about any of it.

But the last thing I want in this world is for my legacy to be one where I just give up. Of course I want to be known for loving other people, for loving my God, for doing the right things. But I also want to be known for being strong, for being resilient, for being wise and inspiring and true to myself. It’s just that right now, I don’t know how to get there.

Most of this post has just been stream of consciousness, blurting out what I’m actually feeling instead of saying what I think others might want to hear the most. I always try and find some overarching theme for my posts, some sort of lesson to be learned, but today I feel like maybe what needs to be said is this: I am hurting. I am slipping and I am not taking care of myself. I am finding comfort in my eating disorder, and inviting it into my home day after day. My Hayley brain is being overshadowed by my disordered brain, and that is not okay.

I don’t really have a good way to end this post. I wish I could say that today is the day that I turn everything around, but the truth of the matter is that these things take time. Chances are I will restrict today. I will body check as much as possible. I will look up recipes on Pinterest for low-carb, low-fat, low-calorie meals and fat-blasting exercises. I will scroll through Instagram and long for the physique of everyone that I come across. That’s just where I am right now. But I am hoping and praying that this opening up of my heart and my mind and my soul will soon lead to some sort of breakthrough. Maybe not today or tomorrow or even next week, but eventually. That is the hope that I have, and that is the hope that will keep me going.

For anyone that read through all of this: thank you. For caring, for listening, for understanding. And please, know that caring for other people does not mean that you can’t care for yourself. I’m not a great example of that right now, but I know that to be true. And someday, I will be an example of healthy, balanced empathy. 

Your problems matter, your reality is real, your sorrow and fears are valid, and you are worth just as much as the worth you place on others. One day, I know that we will all be able to love ourselves just as much as we deserve to. <3

[hglasz]

My Olive Branch

I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just doing things different.

It started sometime in February. At least that’s when I assumed it started. Of course, there were signs that something was a little off a couple years ago when what I call my “Dark Year” began. But February. That’s when it all hit. 

It seemed normal at first. I was just taking care of myself. I was going to the gym a little bit more and eating a little bit less. That was the way to happiness. Losing weight would make me feel better about my appearance, and that would make me feel better about my life in general. Slowly, and with great ease and caution, I began cutting back on my meals. Today I’m not going to eat until noon, I would tell myself. Or Today I’m only going to eat raw foods. And suddenly, without me really recognizing the magnitude of my changing habits, it turned into Today I’m not going to eat anything and Today I’m going to go to the gym for two hours instead of one.

Like I said, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just a little different than everyone else around me. But a little different started becoming a lot different and I was isolating more and more until others took notice of me withering away.

I was sitting in my nutritionist’s office at school for our third appointment together the first time she threw out that still-hard-to-swallow word.

“You know, often times people with anorexia tend to be perfectionists and high-achieving individuals and....”

The wall I had begun chiseling away with her was rebuilt in a matter of seconds and I left her office that day swearing I would never return. I didn’t.

Two days later, I went in for a routine check-up with the nurse practitioner at school. She was only going to ask me how my antidepressants were working, maybe take my vitals, schedule another check-in soon, and I’d be on my way. It was one o’clock. Half an hour into our appointment, she sat down with me and communicated that she wasn’t comfortable sending me back to my apartment that day. I stared back at her blankly, not sure what she meant, and not sure where else I would go. The library? The union? Would I just stay in the nurse’s office for a few more hours until I was clear to leave?

“The level of care that we provide here is not enough to help you in your situation right now.”

Chest tightening, heart speeding, palms shaking, shoulders sinking.

Not more than ten minutes later and the head of counseling services at my school, along with my nurse practitioner, were on the phone with my mom, telling her that it was time for me to withdraw from Messiah for the remainder of the semester. I couldn’t take care of myself anymore, and I was putting my health - and my life - at serious risk. Two days of packing and trying my best to explain to friends and professors what was happening, and my parents came to pick me up from school and take me back home to Ohio.

I thought that was going to be the end. I was just going to lay in bed for a while, get the rest I had been missing out on, and go back to school in time for graduation. God, I wish it had been that easy.

I went in for an assessment at a treatment facility called The Emily Program in northeast Ohio, again in full denial that anything was going on that needed serious medical attention. After getting my weight checked and spilling out what felt like my entire life story and history with food, the counselor I was meeting with told me I had no choice other than to enter into inpatient, residential treatment in Cleveland Heights.

And here we are now.

I’m typing all of this at 6:57 in the morning on a Sunday. I’m listening to the songs of birds, the humming of a coffeemaker, the gentle rolling of Cleveland traffic, and the shuffling of feet from my housemates. Two weeks ago I was admitted into residential treatment at The Emily Program to begin the process of recovery from anorexia.

Being here is weird. 

There’s really no other way to put it. I spend my days in and out of the offices of my nutritionist, my therapist, my physician, and my psychiatrist. I follow a system of tallies for my meals, making sure that I get in the proper amount of nutrients for each meal and snack. I eat at 8 AM, 10 AM, noon, 3:15 PM, 5:45 PM, and 8:15 PM, on the dot, every single day. I sit at a table with a couple other residents and the treatment home equivalent of a resident assistant. I “check-in” after every meal or snack, stating what was difficult about the meal and what I enjoyed about it. If I don’t finish my meals, I drink a chocolate supplemental shake, which is basically just over-glorified Nesquik. I sit in the same spot on the same couch with the same blanket for all of our group therapy sessions. I have a schedule for bathroom breaks. I wake up at 6:00 AM every morning to get my vitals checked. The amount of water I drink is monitored. Until yesterday, I couldn’t go anywhere without being in the eyesight of one of the staff members here.

Being here is weird.

But.

Being here is also saving my life.

I spend my days in and out of bouts of laughter with my housemates, all of whom know the severity of the deep waters of my struggles with my body image and my food habits. I get to participate in yoga and art therapy every day. I have a team of caretakers that invest their time in me and remind me that I am so worth the investment. I get stickers each morning when I do my individual check-in during group therapy (right now on my binder is a collection of alligators, penguins, lions, bumblebees, and one very sparkly fish). Even when I can’t finish my meals, the staff here encourages me along and praises me for what I could do, not reprimanding me for what I couldn’t. My parents visit me just about every other day, and it gets a little bit easier every time to open up to them about a part of my life that I’ve hid for so very long. I knit blankets, I color pictures of finely decorated swear words, I cuddle up with my housemates every night and watch a minimum of four episodes of The Office. I’m learning each and every day that the process of recovery from this disease is just that - a process. It’s going to take time. And that’s ok.

Yesterday was my first day allowed out of the house by myself. I had four hours to do whatever I wanted, as long as I remembered to have a proper snack right at 3:15 PM. I went to Starbucks first, thinking that’s where I would land for the entire duration of my pass, but after taking a few sips of my full-fat chai latte (because, contrary to my eating disorder’s thinking, 2% milk will not kill me), I found myself driving towards Ohio City and walking into Voodoo Monkey Tattoo, the first tattoo shop opened in Cleveland. I met my artist, named Dave, who asked me what I was doing for a living. Unlike what I tell most people (”oh I’m a student, just home for a little break before I go back”), I didn’t hesitate to tell Dave what I was actually doing in Cleveland. Maybe it was because he had a gun made up of tiny needles and black ink in his hand, maybe it was because I was just feeling extra chatty that day, but I told someone for the first time what I was struggling with, without the fear of being judged or misunderstood. His response was perfect. 

“Oh shit. Sorry, girl.”

I relaxed in the chair a little more and in the next fifteen minutes, I walked away with a beautiful olive branch woven into my skin in black ink. The olive branch, of course, is a symbol of peace. But for me, it has also become a symbol of growth. Of hope. Of a brand new life just around the corner.

I know I’m only in the very beginning stages of recovery. I know that my eating disorder will not magically disappear once I no longer have trouble eating pasta, or don’t go on excessive runs or bike rides after I eat a handful of nuts. I know that, somewhere along the road, I will fall back into familiar habits. I will need ongoing therapy, and ongoing conversation with family, and ongoing encouragement from the people that surround me every day. But I also know that that is no fault of my own. Being sick is not my fault. Leaving school is not my fault. The burdens I have carried on my back for a lifetime do not belong to me. I will have good days and bad days and days somewhere in between, but each and every day from here on out, I hope that I can take a minute to pause, breathe, and set down my worries and my burdens in order to pick up my own olive branch. 

Peace, hope, and a brand new life - they are just around the corner.

[hglasz]

We've made it another trip around the sun. An incredible feat, really, if you stop to think about it. Our tiny planet, a speck of dust in comparison to its galactic neighbors, moves at an alarming 67,000 miles per hour. That's fast enough to get you from one end of the United States to the other in just over two minutes. And yet here we are, living and breathing freely, unphased by the overwhelming nature of our surroundings. What incredible power that speaks of. And we're told that the same power that keeps our feet on solid ground is the power that resurrected a blameless man from the grave some 2,000 years ago. That same power, we're told, lives in us today. A few weeks ago, I got to travel with some of my friends to a bible camp in central Pennsylvania to help lead a youth retreat for a local church. Our theme for the weekend challenged us to think about what we believe to be true about God, and whether we believe that what we believe is actually real. On Friday night, my friend was delivering the message for the evening. It's always funny going on these youth retreats as part of the leadership team. You go preparing to teach, and end up being taught more by the people surrounding you. At one point in his message, my friend made a statement that has stuck to me like glue since the words left his mouth: we are all subscribers to a certain story. It got me thinking... what is my story? What have I adopted as my narrative? What have I subscribed to? I, too, have made it another trip around the sun. Most days I'm not sure how I've done it. Where most people remain unphased by the speed at which we're all whirring around in this endless black void, somehow I can feel every sharp turn, every slight tilt of the axis, every meter traveled. And somehow, though I can speak freely of the power that makes this whole miracle happen, I still spend my days feeling powerless. For two years now, nearly to the date, I have subscribed to a story that tells me I am worthless. I've become the primary author of that narrative, though there have been quite a few contributing writers. This story has felt never ending. It has included chapters that tell me I am unwanted, that I'm too fat, that I'm burdensome, that I'm unattractive, that I'm overwhelming, that I'm damaged, that I'm a disappointment, and most frequently that this world might just be a little bit brighter without me in it. It's a nasty novel that has taken about 22 years to write, and though I'm not proud of any part of it, I have clenched my calloused hands around the torn and tattered spine. Because although it has caused me a billion miles traveled around the sun worth of pain, it is still mine. But that power. The power that keeps our feet planted on the ground. The power that brought that blameless man back. The power that has been placed in the hearts of the poor, the broken, the lonely, the needy, the undeserving. That power, I'm told, lives in me, too. And maybe, just maybe, that same power can take my hands, loose them from the story that has bogged me down for the past two trips through the endless black void, and help me rewrite a new book that tells me I am loved, I am whole, I am wanted, and that I am worthy. Friends, rewriting our stories is no easy task. It doesn't happen overnight. It might take a dozen passes through space to get even one chapter down on paper. But this year, during this next trip around the sun, I resolve to subscribe to the story that tells me that the same power that holds all of this world and more together is the power that lives in me.

[hglasz]

Goodness.

I've always been a big supporter of the idea that everyone is inherently good. Some people call it humanism, I call it common sense. Sure, I've been wronged by plenty of people. But as my first therapist used to always tell me, good people can do bad things, and that doesn't make them any less good. It's become one of my mantras over the past couple of years. And for a while it felt healthy - I was constantly seeking goodness in people and my days seemed to be brighter because of it. But I've slowly started to realize that while I've been taking the time to search for the inherent goodness of the people around me, I've forgotten to search for the goodness in myself. When I started seeing a new counselor at the beginning of this semester, I went in telling her all of the things that I had learned in my previous counseling experience. It went something like, "this person broke my heart, this person doesn't want anything to do with me, this person has said awful things about me behind my back, but they're still good people and I know that." I don't know if I communicated things insufficiently or if it was the fact that my counselor was always incredibly joyful and made me feel the need to be the same way, but she didn't seem to understand that what I was communicating wasn't coming from a healthy place. Instead, once I told her how sad I was feeling, she looked at me and said that it was probably just situational depression and I would get over it in time. Get over it. In time. How much time? Don't you know I've been feeling this way for two years? Shouldn't that have been enough time? Don't you know? Can't you tell? Can't you see that I hate myself? That was the first time I heard the voice in my head say that. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Soon it became all I could hear. And the goodness that I saw in everyone else? It was nowhere to be found in me. I stopped seeing my counselor after two sessions. I took her daggers for words and decided they would be my new truth. That I was overreacting in each situation, that I would get over whatever it was that was making me feel like a hollow shell of a person, that I didn't need the help that took me months to finally seek out. And now here I am, at the end of yet another semester that feels as if it's sucked out every last drop of energy I had left in my already weary body, and all I can say to myself is I hate you. It's an exhausting feeling to be so disconnected from yourself. I looked in a mirror in our school library a few days ago and didn't recognize what was staring back at me. I listen to other people laughing and conversing with their friends and I can't wrap my head around the fact that people can feel true joy, let alone feel anything at all. Feeling like you don't belong in your own body is unlike anything else. Hating yourself takes more energy than learning self love. And yet, for some reason, it's all I can seem to do anymore. I usually like to have some sort of resolution to the things I write. I like to have some sort of hope. But this time I can't seem to find any. I'm still seeking the goodness around me, in the shapes of people and places and new experiences. But I don't know how to see goodness in myself. All I can hope right now is that my words resonate with anyone reading this right now who might be feeling the same way. Dear friend, if you can't see the good in yourself, please know that I see it for you. You radiate with goodness, for it is Goodness that created your every fiber. Don't let anyone tell you that your feelings are invalid. Don't let anyone tell you that you just need to wait it out and you'll get over it sooner or later. Don't wait around forever to find your goodness. Don't let the hate consume you. For I know that place all too well, and I'd wish it on no one. Seek truth, seek light, seek life. And most importantly, seek out the ones around you that will remind you day in and day out of your value, because it is there even when you don't see it. We're all in this together.

[hglasz]

God our Mother

We had just been asked to have a seat following a short time of worship. Our pastor started speaking in hushed yet brilliantly eloquent tones, her voice settling over the congregation like a spring cloud full of rain but not quite ready to saturate the earth. I had my hands clutched around my homemade coffee mug, warming every part of my fingertips until finally the comfort the coffee provided my tastebuds also seeped into my soul. To either side of me, dear friends that I was getting to share this experience with. In front of me sat a well-known family in the church. One of their children had left for Sunday school after children’s time ended a few minutes prior. Mother and father sitting next to each other, son and daughter playing with their toys quietly beside them. A little ways into the sermon, the little boy tapped on his mom’s shoulder. She gently put her arm around him and he found his way onto her lap. Small hands clasped around her neck, the little boy rested his face on his mother’s shoulder as she placed silent kisses on his forehead, whispering in his ear that she loved him. Watching this interaction was like holding onto a fresh mug of black coffee in both hands at the same time. The warmth and comfort rushed through my heart so quickly, I didn’t have time to hold back the tears welling up in my eyes.

There was something so innocent about watching that transpire. Something so pure and lovely and right. As if I was watching an instructional video on how humanity was always meant to be - totally and completely willing to embrace each other, offering a shoulder to lean our heads on and words of affirmation and love to fill our ears. I thought about my own mother, how I would love nothing more than to lean my head on her shoulder in that moment. I thought of my grandmother and the times that I would sit in her lap on the rocking chair in her bedroom as a young girl, running my hands up and down her arms as she sang me to sleep with the sweet sounds of “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” I thought of the type of woman I want to be, the type of mother I want to be to my children someday. And I thought of God. I thought of God as that mother, letting me rest my weary head on his shoulders, telling me over and over that there is nothing but love for me in his heart.

I’ve spoken about the Liturgists before on my blog. My first tattoo was inspired by the first liturgy I ever heard from them. I constantly turn to their spoken word and their songs as forms of spiritual replenishment. As I sat behind the little boy and his mother, I recalled a spoken word called “Pink and Blue.” In this piece, the narrator talks about a walk that she took in a forest, where she saw a mother deer roaming around the trees with her young. The mother was there to protect them and to love them. She then goes on to talk about how, as a society, we tend to force people into pink or blue. Man or woman. Strong arms or soft hands. We have this need to put people in a certain place to make sense of who they are and what their purposes are on this planet.

But God. God cannot be placed into a box. God isn’t pink or blue. God is God. God is strong. God is gentle. God is father. But God is also mother. God does what mothers do - he scoops us up in his loving arms, offering us his shoulder when we are weak. God nurtures us back to health when we are sick. God stands guard over us in the night. God does what we as humans should all do - God loves us in every way imaginable. God is not pink. God is not blue. God is God and God alone.

So there I sat, watching God literally breathe life and grace and love and peace and softness and fragility and beauty into this mother and her son. Watching God be God our Father and God our Mother all at once. And my soul warmed up with each sip of coffee, with each whispered “I love you,” with each smile shared between mother and son. And I walked out of that church and back to my apartment feeling comforted by the presence of God my Mother, the one who will always hold me and make it known that I am undeniably, inexplicably, unconditionally loved.

[hglasz]

Bud

It started with a pup.

We had been begging my parents for a dog for years. We just recently had to give one away; our family was struggling after a difficult move, and we weren’t ready to add another member to the mix. I don’t know what it was about this day, but it started like it always seems to: “we’ll just go look.” Not too many hours of looking later, and we brought a tiny little ball of fluff with paws the size of my 9 year old hands into our car and into our home. Not knowing what else to call him, we referred to him as our “little Buddy.” The name stuck and Buddy was officially a part of the Green family.

Dad wasn’t as excited as we were. It was overwhelming, amongst a host of other things, to have this small bundle of energy tearing through our house day in and day out. Not to mention he was growing fast and soon stood almost taller than my little sister.

But there was always something about Bud. Something about the way he stuck in our hearts. The way he would calm down his rambunctious self the moment he sensed you were hurting. The way he would nudge his head up against your hand in the middle of a long walk just to remind you that he was still there. The way he sat as close to you as possible during family movie nights, the way he would stand guard when a stranger approached until you told him it was ok, the way his lips would curl up into a small smile whenever you spoke his name.

I think the thing about Buddy is that he was the most tangible form of Christ’s love that I have ever known. Buddy had no faults. He didn’t know how to be angry at us. He didn’t throw a temper tantrum when he didn’t get his way. He loved. He loved and loved and loved without expecting anything in return. There were days where Buddy would stay outside on our deck by himself because we were just a little bit too busy to sit with him. Yet, still, he loved. There were days where we all had short fuses and would snap at Buddy when he dared put his paws on the kitchen counter or when he would chew holes in our throw pillows. Yet, still, he loved. We brought another dog into the mix three years after he came into our lives and much of our attention soon diverted to the new small puppy. Yet, still, Buddy loved.

A couple days ago my mom and dad called to tell me that Buddy was no longer with us. He had been hurting for a while, and it was simply his time to go home. At first I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it because Bud was just our dog. But after I got back into the safety of my apartment in the midst of a torrential downpour, I sat in front of the window watching the wind and the rain saturate the earth, letting my tears fall as freely as the rain did from the sky. Buddy was not just our dog. Buddy was our hope.

There were many, many nights growing up where I would cry out into the middle of the night, asking God to just show me that he was present. It was many of those same nights that I would find myself curled up on the floor with my Bud, his big paws wrapped tightly around my arms. When I was afraid of the dark, or afraid of someone coming into my home when they weren’t welcome, I rested easy knowing that Buddy would protect me. When I came home in the middle of the day from school in my junior year of high school, Buddy was the one that always greeted me with one small kiss and lots of soft cuddles. When my dad was struggling with anxiety and fear, when my family didn’t know how else to help calm things down, it was Buddy that offered us the peace we needed. And through it all, I truly believe that it was God showing us that he was present. Buddy was - and is - our rock, our peace, our comfort, and our joy. Buddy was everything that we could have needed and much more than we could have ever fathomed we would receive from God. 

I’m thankful for the 12 years I got to spend with my Bud walking through the forest preserves in Illinois, laying in front of the fire, learning (and failing to learn) how to do tricks, snuggling up together on a recliner far too small for one full grown adult and one full grown golden retriever. But perhaps the thing I’m most thankful for is that God was kind and gracious enough to give us our Buddy as a direct extension of his love - so that even in the darkest times, we might know that he was with us and that he would love and love and love without asking anything in return. 

Thank you Jesus for Buddy, and thank you Buddy for being everything my family has ever needed. We love you.

[hglasz]

Let it go, let it happen

I remember the first time I ever had to let go of something I had fought incredibly hard for. I was a junior in high school, and I was consumed by my grades and how my professors and classmates viewed me academically. It was just before the AP Biology exam in April, and I had a gut feeling that I was going to fail miserably. I laid on my family room couch in a fit of tears and uncontrollable shaking, not even calmed down by my mother’s soft voice and softer touch. She kept telling me over and over that I needed to not be so concerned about how people viewed me, that I was only going to make myself sick, physically and mentally. I walked in a few days later to the Biology exam (which I took late) and walked out barely scraping by with a score of 1. Hours upon hours I put into studying for this exam, and I got out of all of that hard work a laughable score, one that not even the most lenient of universities would consider a job well done.

I’ve been this way for as long as I’ve known. Consumed. By other people, but my work, by how I’m seen through eyes other than my own. I’ve had countless friends, counselors, and family members tell me that I simply cannot put that kind of pressure on myself. It’s the kind of pressure that, when I let it build up enough, causes me to crack. It’s not a need for perfection. It’s just a need for others to think that I am good.

Letting go is terrifying. Whether it’s letting go of anxiety about an AP Bio exam, or letting go of someone who is toxic in your life, or letting go of your own insecurities - it’s all unnatural and it’s all just terrifying.

There’s this quote that I use as somewhat of a mantra. I wish I could remember who it was by (my gut wants to tell me Rachel Held Evans or Sarah Bessey). It reads:

“The hardest part is letting go and then, you’re flying.”

I love that contrast. Giving up your chains and replacing them with wings. Weighted to weightless. Bondage to freedom. 

I mean, that’s the Gospel, right? We are all deserving of the shackles we bring upon ourselves yet Jesus came as a human and died so that we may fly free. So why then is it so hard to let go and fall into the freedom that has been promised to us since the very beginning?

Maybe we need the struggle. Maybe we need the times where we feel utterly broken and hopeless so that we can fully experience and appreciate the times where we feel whole. Maybe we need the days upon days of sorrow so that we can feel refreshed by even just a glimmer of hope. Maybe we need to hold on to our feelings of worthlessness for a moment so that we may understand the full extent of freedom.

I can’t help but think about how different life would be if I could just let everything go.

What if I told myself that shattered relationships were no fault of my own and let the broken pieces rest where they fell?

What if I told myself that good people do bad things and that doesn’t make them any less good?

What if I could recognize the beauty that others see in me and take it to be genuine and true?

What if I told myself that taking a moment to break down does not mean I’m broken?

What if I believed that the shackles were lifted and that I can fly free this very instant?

It’s a lifelong process. Like I said, it’s unnatural and terrifying to let it all go, to let God work, and to give up the need to reign everything back in when you feel like you’re out of control. But maybe the discomfort is necessary. Maybe, just maybe, what lies beyond the discomfort is a God waiting to cradle us in the comfort of His own arms if only we let it go and let it happen.

[hglasz]

Extremes

I've loved tattoos for as long as I can remember. I always looked at people - especially women - and thought that the tattoos they wore on their skin spoke of brilliantly brave stories. I got my first tattoo when I was 20 and I've been hooked ever since. Several months ago, I was sitting in my college's music building practice room, playing the piano following a phone call with a friend from back home who had just left the hospital following a downhill battle with depression. My heart ached as I thought of him and of my own struggles with depression. I had just been diagnosed before Christmas, and the newfound awareness that I was sick weighed heavily on my chest. Without much hesitation, I called my local tattoo studio and made an appointment for the next day to get a small semicolon permanently placed on my left wrist. The Semicolon Project has always been near and dear to my heart, and I encourage you to read about it if you're not aware of the movement. I got my semicolon for my friend, for myself, and for everyone who has seen that their depression doesn't have to be the end of the road - there is hope, always hope. Fast forward to this summer, skipping over the many struggles with my depression throughout the remainder of the school year. I've still got this semicolon on my wrist, placed where it's the first thing I see when I wake up, when I shake someone's hand, when I look in the mirror. And while I still fully believe that the Semicolon Project is a beautiful and noble cause, I've started to regret my tattoo. I've always had a hard time standing up for myself, fighting for what's right. Most times the culprit in charge of challenging my importance and self worth is not another person, but my own brain. It's an exhausting thing to always be fighting with yourself, but it's been this way for a couple years, so I became numb to the battlefield I was living in. When I was diagnosed with clinical depression, I was relieved to have a name to put to what I had been feeling. Finally my crying spells, my inability to love myself, my periods of not allowing myself to eat or smile or enjoy life - it all had a name. And I was in therapy and I was taking medicine and it was all going to be ok. I quickly learned that the Lexapro and the counseling sessions wasn't going to completely demolish all of my demons. I can't remember the first day I told myself I wasn't depressed. But I can remember that there was no going back after that became my reality. Depression didn't look like me, I thought. Depression was people who couldn't get out of bed, people who hurt themselves, people who literally could not stop crying for days on end. Me? Sure, I was sad. But that was just it - I was only sad. I started telling myself I was just overly sensitive, and that I needed to get over myself and leave the attention for people who really needed help. I continued therapy, but didn't talk about the real issues. I quit taking my medicine, cold turkey. Sadness didn't need antidepressants. I was fine, just dramatic. So that's been my narrative. And I look at my semicolon and I still wear it for my friend and for everyone else struggling with depression, but I no longer wear it for me. That's not my story. I'm not sick. Luckily I've got people around me who are a lot smarter - and more gracious - than I am. I've been staying in the Outer Banks with my family for the past week. It's been a surreal time. On one end my heart has been full of joy for being with loved ones. On the other, I'm on the receiving end of a lot of sudden losses and heartbreak. The balance felt like a little more than I could bear. I had been hiding what I was feeling until last night when my family was getting ready to head out to Dairy Queen and I walked into the bathroom to put on my shoes but ended up collapsing in tears. My parents and siblings were quick to my side, first saying nothing and then just letting me talk. We spoke for what had to have been an hour. I'll spare all the details, but they helped me realize what I've needed to understand for a long time. I am sick. Sure, I can get out of bed and I can smile and joke and I can work and eat and sing and spend time with friends. But that doesn't mean I'm not dealing with things. See, I think what I've failed to realize is that depression is not one thing. It's not just being uncontrollably sad 24/7. Depression is so incredibly complex. And my depression is just that. Perhaps its most easily explained in a poem written by one of my favorite authors, Rupi Kaur: "I don't know what living a balanced life feels like When I am sad I don't cry I pour When I am happy I don't smile I glow When I am angry I don't yell I burn The good thing about feeling in extremes is When I love I give them wings But perhaps that isn't Such a good thing cause They always tend to leave And you should see me When my heart is broken I don't grieve I shatter" I feel everything in extremes. And sometimes I mistake my extreme happiness or extreme joy for being healed of my depression. But that's just not how this disease works. Depression looks sad. Depression looks happy. Depression looks like spending three days lying on the floor because another boy decided he didn't want to be with you anymore. Depression looks like spending three hours getting ready for a date, giddy because a boy has decided that he wants to give his attention to you and only you. Depression looks like not eating anything because you don't feel like you deserve even the most simple things in life. Depression looks like laughing and smiling with your roommates in a Mexican restaurant in Harrisburg, genuinely feeling happy in their presence. Depression looks like sitting on the floor of the shower for two hours, hoping that maybe for just a while people will forget that you exist. And sometimes depression looks like being the first one to make your presence known in a room because God, are you thankful to be alive. I'm still learning a lot about my illness, but I've first learned that it is an illness, and that's okay. It's okay that I'm sick. It doesn't make me any less of a person, and it surely doesn't make me any less worthy of getting the help that I need to get better. So right now, as I sit typing this on my phone on the shore of the Outer Banks, semicolon tattoo in plain view, I'm feeling a lot like one of those women I use to look upon with awe when I saw their art on their sleeves. My story might still be taking shape, but I'm determined to make it a brilliantly brave one.

[hglasz]

I have started apologizing for being overwhelming when I know I am just human and it is you who cannot handle my fullness

[hglasz]

Old friend

Oh, hello.

It’s been a while. You know, I was starting to think you were never coming back. I guess I got busy focusing on the new things that came into my life, and forgot you existed. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it felt nice to have some space apart. To be able to stretch out in my bed without your company keeping me up into the early morning hours. To only take drives when I wanted to get from here to there, not when I wanted to get from here to anywhere else but. To not have you sitting with me at the dinner table, watching every single move I made. But, I see you’ve found your way back home. Come in.

I got new white sheets. They haven’t been stained with my mascara yet. I guess I can always throw them in the wash, though. You see that chalkboard on my top shelf? I wrote my favorite quote on it, one that reminds me how lucky we are to be alive. It’s a little dumb, I guess... I can erase it. I’ve got pictures hung up of my friends, of my family, of this guy I really like... please don’t make me take those down.

I’ve been good. Well, as good as I can be. I mean don’t get me wrong, I’ve had bad days here and there but... you know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not okay. But I’ve spent lots of time working and I’ve adjusted well to my new home and I haven’t shut myself away from people as much as I used to. But maybe they could use some time away from me. I know I can be overwhelming. Do I overwhelm you? I’m sorry if I do. I know you’re just trying to help me.

I listened to you, you know. I did what you said. I took matters into my own hands - I’ve been doing pretty well by myself, no help from the therapist or the medication they put me on. I think you were right when you told me I didn’t need it, when you helped me see that other people need the help much more than I do. After all, this is just momentary sadness right? But... I do have to let you know... not everyone is happy with me. I have a lot of people that care about me, they want me to get better. They tell me I should listen to what the doctors say. But they don’t know you like I do... they don’t know that you’re not trying to hurt me, you’re here to help, to remind me of what’s true in life. 

You’re not trying to hurt me, right?

I wasn’t expecting you to stop by tonight. I’ve felt like you were probably coming back, but I didn’t think this would be the night. I wasn’t really prepared. You can sleep in the bed with me, on my new white sheets... I can always clean the mascara off in the morning.

[hglasz]

The world we live in

It’s been 1,452 days since James Holmes walked into an Aurora, Colorado theatre and opened fire, killing 12 people and injuring 70 others.

1,305 days since 20 children and six staff members were killed in the Sandy Hook school shooting.

220 days since a San Bernardino, California shooting took the lives of 14 and injured 22 others.

27 days since the deadliest mass shooting killed 49 people at an Orlando nightclub.

Just a handful of hours since shots started firing in from Texas to Louisiana to Minnesota. 

This. Is. Still. Not. Okay.

Following nearly every tragedy regarding gun violence (or just any tragedy in general) that has occurred in our nation over the past several years, I’ve paid close attention to my friends and family as they respond to each event. Mainly so I could best understand how to react, because frankly it is nearly impossible to know how to respond in such a desperately sad situation. The overwhelming comment I came across when on Facebook or Instagram or just having conversations with my loved ones was surely an attempt at trying to make sense of the senseless: “what has our world come to?”

That’s it. That’s the golden question. The one that has had me pacing back and forth across my kitchen floor or standing in the shower for an extra 15 minutes just trying to come up with an answer, something to help bring peace to those that ask why this is now the world we live in - one where gun violence is almost expected, where we have to fight about whose lives matter most (answer: humans. Humans matter), where we have to be more focused on what divides us as a nation rather than one makes us united. But no amount of pacing, no amount of thinking, no amount of time that has passed by following every senseless act of violence has led me to an answer I’m comfortable with giving.

You know why?

Because this is not our world.

I refuse to say that the world we live in is the one where we have to be afraid of each coming day. I refuse to say that the world we live in is the one where the color of our skin defines what our worth is as human beings. And I refuse to say that the world we live in is the one where a mass shooting that takes away the innocent lives of tens or hundreds of people is just another news story. Because the second we say that this is the world that we live in is the same moment that we become numb to what’s happening around us. So, no. This is not my world. This is not our world. 

Our world is one where citizens stand together, linking arms to protect the officers in Dallas. Our world is one where thousands of people stand in line all day just to donate blood to the victims of the Orlando shootings. Our world is one where we stand up for those who don’t have a voice, shouting loud enough for them so that they can finally be heard. Our world is not one that is doomed for tragedy. Our world is destined for change.

Please. Please do not become numb to the world around you. I know it is so difficult. I know that so many of the things going on in our nation, on our planet, sometimes seem too out of reach for you to have any sort of impact. But you, dear friend, you are part of my world. You are part of our world. And you can make a difference.

Call your state representatives and tell them you want gun laws to be changed. Go to your local blood bank and donate for those who have been affected by violence. Offer your time to a shelter in your area. Tell a stranger you care about their life. Do what you can with what you have. Just don’t become numb.

Time keeps moving, days keep coming. There will be more tragedy, and there will be more times to revert back to wondering what our world has come to. But please remember - it does not have to be this way.

[hglasz]

Thank you.

It’s been a while. A while since I looked at you or thought about you without feeling a rush of every and any emotion flood over me all at once. A while since I felt completely shattered just because I knew that you were somewhere, doing something, without me. A while since I felt like my very existence depended on whether or not you thought about me throughout the day. 

It’s been a while since I felt broken because of you. I’m doing better now. And I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to you.

Thank you.

Thank you for introducing me to a facade rather than a real human.

Thank you for taking advantage of me at my weakest, most vulnerable moments, and making me believe that you actually cared to help me pick up the pieces of my heart and make it whole again.

Thank you for not putting in an ounce of effort into making things work. Thank you for not calling, thank you for not responding to my texts, thank you for never visiting me, thank you for not caring about meeting my father.

Thank you for leading me on for five months, for telling me that I was “the one,” for all of the empty promises you made, and for not keeping a single one of them.

Thank you for driving me to the parking lot of a bank to tell me that your feelings had just changed and you couldn’t explain why but you just didn’t care about me the way I cared about you anymore.

Thank you for literally dumping me out on the sidewalk of my dorm building, not caring one bit how hard I was crying or how much I was hurting.

Thank you for subsequently denying every single one of my requests to talk, telling me you were too busy or it was just too early or you were just hurting too much. Thank you for making me believe that you were the victim in the situation.

Thank you for bringing your new girlfriend to my only safe space, making me feel like the wind was being sucked out of my lungs and that the life I was only hanging onto by a thread had been severed away from me all at once.

Thank you for making me believe that my world had to revolve around you, and for making me feel like my world stopped turning the moment you walked out on me.

It’s been a while since you were in my life, and god am I thankful.

Because without you I have learned how to breathe on my own again. I have learned how to hold up my world just by the strength of my own arms. I don’t have to depend on the undependable anymore. I don’t have to look at you and crumble. I can walk past you and hold my head up high because I made it out alive and I made it out stronger and I made it out a new person who is deserving of a love that you could never have given her. 

Thank you for breaking me. Because the woman I have put back together since you left is so much better without you around.

[hglasz]

What they never told me

It’s been about six months since I was sitting down in a small, warmly lit room with my counselor at college, crying because none of my thoughts seemed to make sense anymore and because I felt like I was going insane. It’s been six months since I left that small, warmly lit room with a note of recommendation in my hand to get a prescription filled for an antidepressant, and another note of recommendation crumpled up in the bottom of my purse to go to a nutritionist to talk about my “disordered eating.” 

Last summer was the catalyst of the depths of my depression, when I really sit back and think about it. I spent the entire season alone in an apartment in northeast Ohio, working two retail jobs with very little spare time to breathe and take care of myself. I spent more nights than I like to remember laying motionless on my living room floor, every single horrible thought I could think about myself weighing my entire body down and anchoring it to the floorboards. But, I made it through the summer and I made it through my junior year of college, and I’m at the beginning of another summer season that seems to be a whole lot brighter than the one I trudged through just a year ago.

So, I’m healed. My depression is gone, and I’m safe to be happy now. That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past month. After all, what do I really have to be sad about anymore? I’ve got a job that I love working, my family is moving to Ohio in a couple weeks, I’ve stripped away most of the negativity that took the shape of people, places, and expectations, and I’m surrounded now by people who I can feel truly and genuinely care about me. Any ounce of sadness now is sure to be unwarranted, unneeded, and unbelievably selfish.

But.

There are things about depression that I never read about. Things that I hadn’t ever heard talked about before. Things that I wish I would have known before I decided on my own to stop taking my medication or to take a break from seeing a counselor for the summer.

Depression isn’t a phase. It’s not just a momentary blip in the system of life where you feel a little extra sad and a little extra unhappy with who you are as a human being. It doesn’t come to your doorstep only to stay for an emotional chat over a lukewarm cup of tea, and then leave you respectfully to your own space and thoughts. It somehow finds its way into even the most guarded parts of your heart, chipping away bit by bit at whatever it can get its dark, heavy hands on.

Depression doesn’t mean you won’t ever feel good. Sometimes, it means you’ll feel too good. And then, in an instant, you’ll swear you’re at the lowest point you’ve ever been at before. It takes you on a violent roller coaster, the kind where you’re sitting with your feet dangling underneath you and you can’t see what’s ahead because you’re going too fast and the track is too winding and your brain can’t keep up with everything that’s happening around you.

Depression is not - or should not - be an identity. You are not required to write down your bruised emotional state on every job application or dating profile you create. It doesn’t hold that kind of power, though it so desperately tries to day in and day out.

Depression is not final. It’s not the end of the road. All of the sad days in the world added up into one montage that should have a melancholy Lana Del Ray song playing in the background does not mean that there can’t be a happy ending.  And sometimes, in some really messed up way, that happy ending can still feel sad. And that’s okay.

I’m learning a lot this summer about myself. I’m learning that I can’t declare myself healed just because I had a few really bright days in a row. Because I’ve found myself at the end of the brightest of days back on my living room floor, screaming out loud because I’m so incredibly angry with my heart for still feeling as heavy as it does. But I have hope for this new season. I have hope that I will let myself be sad, and not feel like that sadness defines me. I have hope that I’ll be able to see the end of the road no matter how crazy the path ahead of me seems. I have hope that I will learn to love myself a little harder, treat myself a little kinder, and understand myself a little deeper. Maybe that’s what I’ve always needed to be told.

[hglasz]

Speak.

Joy

is found.

In the warm smell of coffee on a Saturday morning,

And my mom coming home after a long day at work, still smiling even though exhaustion has hit

And my dogs laying out in the warm July sun, only getting up to run to me when I open the door to our peaceful backyard

And the crack of a bat on the fresh Wrigley Field dirt and hearing the cheering of what seems to be the entire Windy City.

And the long drives and the longer hikes under blue skies up to the tops of the tallest mountains.

And the games that I play with my youth group on Sunday, and the songs that we sing and the friends that they bring and the coming of spring to rend us all alive again.

Joy 

was found.

But now the smell of coffee only makes me sad

And I don’t get to be home when my mom walks in and I can tell she’s starting to feel all the exhaustion

And my dogs are 700 miles away and they’re slowing down day after day and my peaceful backyard will no longer be mine because everything is changing and life’s rearranging and I’m leaving the place I’ve called home for 7 years

And the crack of a bat feels like a hit to my heart

And driving and hiking are more about running away than running towards and the mountains seem too tall to conquer anymore

And the games that I play with my youth group on Sunday and the songs that we sing and the friends that they bring and the coming of spring only rends me alive for a short moment.

And then

I’m back.

I’m back in the dark with a heavy burdened heart 

I’m back questioning anything and everything, trying to make sense of why I feel as if I serve no purpose

Trying to forgive You for the pain that You’ve put me through because God three friends telling me that life isn’t worth living and they’ve got no giving left in them feels like maybe it really isn’t worth it in the end and maybe there’s only going to be sadness at the end and maybe the hurt in my chest will never end and maybe I should just create my own end.

Trying to understand why You left me here on my own to fight all of my demons alone.

You let Job believe his life was a waste and You left Elijah with only exhaustion to his name and you let King David fall from his throne into the throes of depression so why should You treat me any different? Because I’m certainly no king and I don’t make You proud so maybe this depression is what I’m bound for.

Peace was my dad singing “it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul” and his voice somehow burying all of my worrying but now I’m left crying “it is well it is well it is well with my soul” and it feels like those words are only hollow. 

I hate the way that it feels when I say that I’m doing okay when I’m not because it’s the same type of pain that I feel in my brain when I try and explain how it won’t go away, all the sorrow and shame and the clouds and the rain are all here to stay

And 

It 

Hurts.

The heaviness and the weight of the world has convinced me that this is it. That the dark is what’s left and that is that. That I’m not worth Your affection and I’m predestined for rejection and the only direction left to go is down.

But.

Coffee has become my meeting place where I can talk with my friends about life and its joys and its sorrows and what is to follow when all of this passes over.

And my mom will always be the most resilient woman I know, and her smile will always light up a room with the most brilliant glow

And my dogs still know me when I step out into my yard and 700 miles isn’t really that far in the grand scheme of things

And the Cubs have had their best season opening winning streak since sometime back in the 1960s and if that isn’t some type of miracle worth celebrating then I don’t know what is

And the mountains are still there, standing strong there even when I feel like everything is crumbling and I somehow always make it to the top even if I’m barely stumbling

And the games that I play with my youth group on Sunday and the songs that we sing and the friends that they bring and the coming of spring still rends me alive again, even if only for a moment.

And if Job could endure his feelings of worthlessness and if Elijah could find hope in the still small voice and if David could write psalm after psalm praising God, knowing he would overcome, then why do I think I can’t overcome, too?

My dad still sings “it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul” and those words still bring peace no matter how hard they are to say and it all speaks of this incredible grace. And maybe that grace is what will take the place of the sorrow and shame and the clouds and the rain and they’ll all go away but that grace will stay. And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll actually be okay. 

[hglasz]

To Run, To Stay

I’ve never been a runner. I remember staying up into the wee hours of the morning panicking about running the mile in my elementary school gym class. I constantly worried that I was going to be the last to finish, or perhaps that I wouldn’t finish at all. I was always more content to be sitting inside with a puzzle or helping my mom in the kitchen than I was to be sweating up a storm while flailing my body around in what had to be a completely unnatural form of physical movement (honestly who was the first person that came up with running and thought “oh yes this looks cool let’s definitely do this, family come join we are going to run for miles and it will be fun!”). Point being, running just isn’t my thing. I tried to make it at least one percent of my thing a few years ago when my dad started running first to lose weight and then just because he loved it so much. Running became a chance to spend time with my dad one-on-one, and anyone that knows my dad knows that any second of time spent with him is a priceless gift. Still, my first instinct when I was bored was never to go for a run. Even after all the time I spent trying to make it a part of my routine, it still felt unnatural.

That’s how it was until a year ago.

March 26th, 2015. The day I felt like my lungs collapsed. Like my world was turned left and right and upside down and every which way that didn’t feel at all like it was the way it should be. The day the light left, and the day the dark felt like it was making a permanent home in my head and in my heart. And it was the day when I felt like running was my only option.

I’ve spent the past year of my life feeling stuck in my own body. Every day that passes by, I feel like life is just happening to me, not that I’m actually living through it. Laying my head down on my pillow at night is a relief, because at least I’ve made it through the day. At least I’ve only cried three times that day. At least I’ve managed to eat a banana and a few crackers instead of shaming myself out of eating anything at all. At least I was there. Who cares if I didn’t find any pleasure in life anymore. At least I was still there.

But being there wasn’t at all about doing something for myself. It was about pleasing others, just as my entire life has seemed to be. There were so many days that I wanted to stay in bed, body facing towards the wall, staring blankly at it without thinking a thing at all but also thinking everything all at once. But I got out of bed and I showered and I passively ate a bagel and took the long way to school just because I felt like I owed something to everyone around me. It became such an exhausting way to live my life. It still is. Throughout all of this time, throughout this past year of struggling to understand why I’m here and struggling to understand that I should be living life for me rather than for other people, my first instinct was - and still is - to run.

Coming up on the anniversary of everything falling apart, last Tuesday I did the only thing that I felt I knew how to do anymore. I ran. 

It had been a long night at work. The day before was my birthday and I had felt so incredibly loved by everyone around me. But I didn’t hear from a couple people I had been wanting so desperately to hear from, and I started to feel inadequate. It’s funny how the lack of two wishes can so dramatically outweigh the best wishes of hundreds of other loved ones, but that’s just how it is sometimes. So I had been feeling really down. Really forgotten. I was coming off of the high of my birthday, a day where I felt genuinely happy for most of the day. I paced back and forth from academic building to academic building in the cold night, knowing that I needed to study for an incredibly difficult exam the next morning. But each time I sat down and cracked open my notes, I fell apart. I couldn’t see past the tears in my eyes, and I couldn’t breathe long enough to make me feel stable. I sat down in my third different study spot when this incredible urge came over me, something I feel so very often. The urge to just get out. To go away and leave behind everything that pinned me down with painful memories and thoughts. So I packed my stuff up, and I started walking. I didn’t know where I was going, I just knew I was going away. 

Now I can’t explain exactly what my plan was for whenever I got to my stopping point. I figured I had my cell phone and I had an extra jacket, and my water bottle was full - I would just sleep outside somewhere that night and maybe make my way back to campus the next day, maybe not. It didn’t really matter to me at that point, I just needed to leave. I walked up past the athletic fields at Messiah, passing a few groups of people along my way. One group of friends in particular were standing right by the track, one boy with a guitar in hand and the lot of them smiling and laughing while telling each other stories from happenings that day. Their happiness penetrated my heart like a sharp dagger, and I walked on. I didn’t actually make it very far. I was just off campus when I couldn’t walk anymore. I sat down and looked back towards the heart of Messiah, and I just lost it. I cried for myself. I cried for my friends, who I was going to leave behind. I cried for my parents, who I didn’t feel like I could reach out to at that moment for whatever reason (probably because I didn’t want to worry them or disappoint them). I cried for the people that had hurt me in the past year. I cried for the memories I had with them, I cried for the fact that they didn’t want anything to do with me anymore, I cried for the thought that maybe everything was all my fault in the first place. I sat outside for nearly an hour looking up at the sky before my hands started to go numb. I got up and started walking again, this time making it to my friend’s apartment where one of my dearest girls greeted me as I was crying and shaking and offered right away for me to sit down and talk, only if I wanted to. I told her how I tried to run away, I told her how sad I was, I told her how confused I was that people kept leaving me, I told her that I was just exhausted. She listened and didn’t say much, other than offering me a blanket and a cup of tea. It was exactly what I needed, and I am grateful for the fact that she was the person I ran into when I decided to run again.

I still wake up every morning feeling like running is my only option for that day. Thinking about actually facing the days and facing my hurt and facing those that have hurt me, it’s all a little too much to bear. Most times I feel like I would rather just drive into the mountains and set up camp there, forgetting everything that has happened to me and making a new life in the quiet, where no one and no thing can hurt me anymore. I know that’s unrealistic, and I guess I can thank my genes for making me such a practical person. Because each time I run, I know I have to go back. I don’t go back for myself, and I don’t have anyone telling me to go back. But I have to believe that there is something - someone - that is urging me to have courage that I can be ok right where I am. That running isn’t the only option. That running away from the people I love and the people that love me should feel just as unnatural as running a few miles around the forest preserve with my dad on hot summer days. And I have to believe that there won’t always be an urge to run. That one day, the urge to run will morph into an urge to stay and an urge to fight. Perhaps it will take a long time to get to that point, and perhaps I’ll run again, but I choose to have hope that I will find my way back home someday. I will find my way back to peace and to joy and to love that doesn’t feel like it leaves me crushed. I will get to a place where I can run towards light instead of away from it, and I cannot wait to arrive to that place, wherever it may be.

[hglasz]

21

The last birthday party I had was in the third grade. I invited over a handful of girls to my house in Illinois, my dining room and living room decked out in all the American Girl Doll-themed decorations you could think of. We had pin the tail on Coconut (the AG white terrier pup), purple and green streamers hanging from the ceiling, and a cake that my mom had so obviously put tons of time and energy into. I remember feeling sad that birthday. Like I wasn’t doing a good job of hosting, like I wasn’t spending enough time with everyone, like people weren’t having a good time on a day that I was much more convinced was for them than it was for me. 

I’ve never been a fan of birthdays. I get easily annoyed with people who make it known that it’s their birthday, I feel uncomfortable when people wish me a happy birthday and I don’t know what to say in return. I think I’ve always felt this way, but this year it felt the strongest it ever has.

Rewind one year ago today. I was in Chicago at the very end of my spring break. My sister had left two days prior for a week-long trip to Ireland, and my parents left in the morning to go to Portland. I woke up alone on my birthday, in a 4 bedroom house with no one to talk to but my two cats, who didn’t seem to be all that into celebrating with me. I remember getting upset with myself because I was sad that no one was there to hug me or tell me happy birthday. “You don’t care about birthdays, remember Hayley?” I told myself as soon as I mustered up enough courage to get out of bed and face the day. But the truth was that I was devastated. I was lonely and sad and I felt cheated out of a day of celebration. The only people I had contact with that day was my cab driver to the airport, the TSA agent that didn’t bother saying anything after looking at my license, and the shuttle driver that dropped me off in the middle of a pitch black parking lot to find my way back to my car on the back end of the trip. 

The rest of my 20th year on Earth would prove to be just like the night of my birthday. Cold, dark, and lonely.

It has been a hell of a year. And when I say that, I actually mean that a large part of this year has felt like it has been hell on Earth. I have dealt with pain and sorrow in a way that I didn’t think was humanly possible. I’ve spent most of my days feeling forgotten, second best, unworthy of love, and accepting all of those things and so much more as my truths. I hit what I thought was rock bottom multiple times, but I always seemed to find a lower low than where I had been before. Don’t get me wrong, I had sunny days. But they felt so incredibly temporary. And I almost hated to feel them because I knew that they would only go away in the moments to come. It wasn’t until my good friends and family urged me to seek help that I could put a term with it: depression.

How hard I fought that word. How much I didn’t want that to become my reality. How heavy it weighed on my heart that that was what was happening, that I wasn’t just sad because a boy broke my heart or because I was missing family or because school was a little more stressful than usual. But accepting that word, saying it out loud, sharing with friends that this was happening to me - that was my road to hope.

I still have dark days. I still have moments where I feel like my chest is being crushed in on itself. I still doubt everything I say to people, everything people say to me, everything I feel in my heart and in my head. Sometimes I still feel unworthy of love. But throughout my Dark Year, I have found Light. I’ve found hope. And it comes in slivers, but it comes in shouts.

It comes in the hot cup of coffee brewing in the morning while I get ready for school. It comes in the woman that swipes my card at Lottie every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, smiling at me and telling me to have a lovely day. It comes in the people I work with, who let me act like a fool in front of them but love me anyway. It comes in the snapchats from my sister of my dad doing ridiculous things that make me laugh until my stomach hurts. It comes in the faithfulness and graciousness of my friends, who have held me when I can’t stop crying, who have helped me see that better days are on their way. It comes in my counselor, who has made me feel human again. It comes in the still small voice. The one that follows me wherever I go. The one that holds tight to me when I’m curled up on my bed or pulled over on the side of the highway because I just don’t have the strength in me to make it all the way home. The still small voice of hope, of joy in the midst of pain, of peace in the midst of chaos. It comes just when I need it, and always when I don’t think I deserve it.

If there’s anything I learned from the Dark Year, I learned that there is Light. There is always Light. And sometimes, I have to enter the darkness to find it. But when I see it, when I can place even just one finger on it, the world changes. Color is brought back into the sky and the grass and the trees. The wind feels like a reminder of life rather than a force to knock me down to my knees. Smiles don’t hurt as much, and my steps feel just a little bit lighter. I can answer the question “how are you?” with “I’m doing ok” and mean it. And God, does that feel good.

I don’t know what 21 has in store for me. There are a million changes happening and a million ways in which I could fall apart. But I choose to have faith that the Light will find me. Whether I’m in the darkness or on my way out of it, Light will be there to guide the way. How thankful I am for that reminder today. How thankful I am to be alive, to be breathing, to be me. Here’s to the Light Year, and the many years following.