On my 39th birthday, I sat in a hospital room surrounded by an outside view of freezing cold gray skies in Cincinnati, Ohio… a children’s hospital where people somberly push their children around in wheelchairs, weep in corners, sit at coffee shops staring into the abyss of thought, or perhaps try to think of nothing at all, the only momentary escape from reality. They walk the halls in the same clothes they most likely wore the day before while their children fight for their lives in rooms and hallways just upstairs, their immune systems too weak for the outside world. Dreaming of something as simple as sunlight on their faces, playing with friends, laughing at silly things, running in the wind… all of it now feeling a million miles away.

Today I’m 42. Somehow, by the grace of God, we have survived. And for today, I’m going to proudly say: I made it. I’m speaking for myself, and I’m sure for other women out there, but somehow, somewhere along the way, it became almost unnatural to say we’re proud of how far we’ve come, as if lifting ourselves up were a luxury we weren’t allowed. And maybe it’s not that others haven’t lifted us up…. I’m sure they have. It’s that we rarely let it seep in. We rarely pause to acknowledge just how powerful and wonderful we are. As a woman, a mom, a wife, I can personally say that I don’t always absorb—or even hear— the accolades I seek within my soul. We slowly bury ourselves in decade-long-to-do-lists, thrown into becoming psychologists, cleaners, cooks, drivers, nutritionists, doctors… multitaskers we were never fully prepared to be… yet somehow we keep going.

We carry and birth the human race and yet we get lost in it all. One day, we look in the mirror and we don’t recognize the little girl that once ran barefoot, without a care in the world… the little girl who put on too-big of heels, slathered on lipstick, let her hair down, and even danced around a tiny room full of wonder and freedom. As life carries on, our kids grow up and we start to feel age. We look back at that little girl in the mirror and try to find ourselves. And our eyes let out slow, warm tears because somehow, somewhere, we lost her.

A few months back I did some trauma therapy with a good friend whom I trust very much, and it was so fascinating to me the things I chose to fight through. Never once, while under light hypnosis, did I face what I went through with my son. Instead, I went back to being that little blonde haired girl who loved to play Barbies in a closet…and sometimes fall asleep there too.

The closet was where I felt safe.

It wasn’t until I returned to that time that I realized even today, I want to stay where it feels safe. Knowing what I would go through, I couldn’t find the strength to tell my younger self it would all be okay. It took everything I had to open the door and step into the light. My body shook. Tears rolling down my face, because I wanted to fight that feeling of safety instead of embracing life… taking chances, facing it all. And the truth is, what held me back wasn’t fear itself… it was knowing the hardship I would endure. The pain seemed to outweigh the joys I’ve encountered all these 42 years. My body was fighting for the words to tell her that it would all be okay, but I wanted to protect her, to keep her safe from harm. I wanted to hold that little barefoot girl, kiss the top of her blonde hair, look into her blue eyes and tell her we could stay right here. It’s warm. Familiar voices are just outside. Flowers are still blooming. But that’s not healing. True healing begins when we open our hearts and step through the door.

So maybe, in a roundabout way, I did confront the journey with my son… but first, I had to find me.

As I enter into another year today, I can proudly say that I am slowly coming back to myself… but in a newer, wiser version. I can recognize my trauma and gently talk myself through it. I can give myself grace and fill my mind with quiet positivity. I can appreciate my body, and instead of dwelling on its flaws, I am thanking it… for carrying me, for sustaining me, for trusting me, for moving even when I didn’t think I could, for carrying my beautiful boys, for fighting for me. I almost love my body more now than I did in my 30s. I am choosing to make better food and drink choices, learning that I am the placebo, submitting it all to God, and letting go of what I thought my life would look like… and embracing what it truly is.

I often imagine a vine running through my body, carrying morning glories, and everywhere I hurt, the vines wrap around that particular area and flowers begin to bloom. It’s powerful imagery, a way to soften the soul and allow the mind to tap into places of pain. As humans, we run a rat race everyday. Add to that phones and technology, and we rarely find ourselves in a place of quiet. Our bodies run down, not properly fueled. We go days—even weeks— without letting our bare feet touch the grass, and we’re so focused on getting somewhere fast that we never just drive and marvel at the beautiful horizon, bearing witness to the glory of it all.

I believe the devil has us running anywhere but toward silence, because it is there we meet God. It is there we remember who we were as children. It is there we heal. It is there our hard times, our deserts, our wilderness areas, soften and turn into gardens… turning desolation into beauty. God says, I am your Savior. I am faithful to My promises. Even in your fear, I am restoring your broken places. Joy and healing will return to you.

Goodbye, 41. Welcome, 42.

With Love,
Erica
Salty Blonde Living