Life, lately (Kendi everyday)

This is a post I've tried to write many times over the last two years. Well, more so in the last year I suppose. It's a block in my mind, a mountain I can't get over and so I don't write it -- or rather I write it, delete it and never post it. I talk myself out of it, out of fear of the unknown. But I've come to the point where I don't know if I can move forward with my blog if I don't climb this proverbial mountain. Over the last two years, I've become quite a different person than you first met. I did something incredible -- I opened up a boutique. I started an online shop. I continued to blog 3-4x a week, sometimes 5. (I should note that I did all of this with the help of my husband, the best man I've ever met.) I have been a machine of production. I've always been someone who has enjoyed work and feared ever being seen as lazy thanks to a sharp-tongued piano teacher in my early years who warned me that smartest kids are the laziest and I was brilliant. (Turns out, by the way, I can't read sheet music. Years later I would teach myself guitar by ear. Lazy that, music lady.) I slowly allowed my work to take over my identity. If I received positive feedback, I used it as fuel to keep going. If I received negative feedback, I used it as fuel to become better. And slowly but surely with every hour spent, I became less and less of myself and more and more of a machine. My life was statistics, sales, numbers, goals, budgets, deadlines, and taxes due. Which is a garden for feelings of worry, anxiety and stress to grow. And grow they did. I tended to my garden well, constantly finding something else wrong to fix, constantly on the lookout for negative feedback so that I could conquer it, finding something else that wasn't in my control so that I could take it over. And as any good gardener, I watered the plants daily with fear; I was never at rest in my garden of anxiety. About 6 months into opening bloom, I started to sleep less and less. I was getting around 4 hours a night. Not because I would go to sleep late, but because I would wake up in cold sweats filled with anxiety, staying up with my thoughts. I would wake my husband up and ask about the simplest of fears: "did we lock the door?" "are you sure?" "did I pay that bill?" "did you email her back?" Soon enough the small things in life, like locking a door, became shadows in my world. And when something as small as locking a door becomes a fear, the rest of life can become debilitating. Because as well as we know day turns to night, shadows turn light into dark. I had my first panic attack in 2008 when we moved to Kerrville. We had two weeks to move and we couldn't find anywhere to live in the small, retirement community. I had just put in my two weeks at my job back in Dallas and although happy to move forward, the future was not looking as hopeful as I'd thought. We had another unsuccessful trip to find somewhere to live and on the long 6 hour trip back home, I started to cry. Those tears turned into gasps for air as I felt as though I couldn't breathe and I felt as if I was having a heart attack. If you've had a panic attack before, then you know this feeling. It's almost comical now to think that at 23 years old I thought this was the end for me -- the house search had done me in. We pulled over at a gas station and I raced for a curb -- I didn't care who saw me, I was certain I was either going mad or dying. Turns out, it was a panic attack. A feeling I would come to know well in just a few years. Side note: this post is hard to write. Writing a blog is a weird thing. At first, it's a project -- it's something fun you do, you look forward to creating new content, creating new outfits, meeting new people. And you slowly share bits of your life with people over the course of the years; some people like your life, some people don't. But I stopped sharing my life a few years ago. At first I didn't share opening the store because I never wanted to come off as bragging or prideful and I didn't know if I could handle criticism. (Although now I wish I would have, as I know a lot of you do, too. It's funny the things I'm most proud of, I rarely share for fear of God knows what.) And then like a song I know all too well, depression started creeping into my light-filled life. And everything in my world was kept on lock from you. It was a slow entrance; polite almost. It knocked on a few of my doors and I ignored it. I kept smiling, kept working, kept moving. I just stopped sharing the other side. As I'm sure a lot of you are thinking -- how can someone look so normal and happy in a photo but be depressed? I'm actually scared and impressed of how much I can ignore my own small voice for the sake of saving face. I'd venture to say that employees, friends and family members didn't know for many months. That is until it slowly welcomed itself into every door of my life. Depression has looked different in many stages of my life. It first hit me when I was 16 years old. Then again at 20, and now at 28. When I was 16, there were a lot of emo poems written. (I am not kidding you and if I'm correct, I'm pretty sure they are in a closet at my parent's.) Now I can look back and laugh at the long, saga poems I wrote but at the time, it was a sad existence. I remember sitting in a dark room, not wanting to talk to anyone, see anyone or do anything. For a 16 year old with a new car, that's not a good feeling. At 20, I remember ended up in the same dark room, but this time I turned to music and not writings of teen poetry. Thankfully Bright Eyes and other emo musicians were popular at the time so no one suspected anything of me. I'd call my mother crying, she threatened to drive the three hours from home and take me out of school. That's not what I wanted to hear so I didn't call for a while. A few weeks ago, I hit a wall. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't concentrate, I didn't want to do anything. I could no longer hear the voice in my head that sounded familiar, that reminded me of the good things, that helped me create. I figured I was just tired, that I had been working too much again. Usually I would get so stressed that I would end up sick and have to spend a few days in bed and then start over again refreshed, but I wasn't getting sick so I thought I was okay. (Correction: I thought I'd finally conquered that weak-ass immune system once and for all.) So we took some time off and tried to relax. The next day at work in the shop, I was sorting camisoles to be tagged. A simple task. I kept getting them confused and mixed up. I couldn't figure it out and ended up having a panic attack. Thankfully I was alone in the shop and no one saw the breakdown. My mom came, picked me up from work and took me home, just like she offered to in college. But this time I let her. I spent the next three days in bed. Aside from my genetic makeup that gives way to depression, our life has become quite chaotic. We work about 6 and a half days a week. And as it turns out I am a control freak. (Neat!) We have become accustomed to being stressed out. We've become accustomed to letting our stress wreck havoc on bad habits that include french fries and wine. We have also realized in all of this, that's not what life is about. If life is only about sales, then I'm out. You are probably wondering where all this is coming from, why I'm sharing it now. I've known for a while, hence the many times I've tried to write this post, that to move forward sometimes you have to have a clean slate. This is me cleaning my slate from the last two years. I regret not sharing more about bloom, but I never wanted it to be tainted by the hardships, my depression and anxiety. That's why I couldn't talk about it. And aside from the depression, entrepreneurship is a difficult road to venture down. And entrepreneurship with your husband or a partner is even more so. It's quite cruel to learn the lessons of life and entrepreneurship all in the same few years.To be honest, it's hard to put into words; clean, sparkling words that live on blogs. Especially, especially on a style blog. I've wanted to share so many times but fear stops me. "Shut up and wear clothes" it says. I've wanted to make changes but fear stopped me. But as I've taken a step back from things these last few weeks I've come to realize something. Maybe it's not about the clothes that bring you here (meh, or maybe it is) but maybe it's about life. Everyone has a story and maybe you just want to hear mine. If that is the case, then thank you for showing up and asking for more. I apologize for having not being able to share this side of my life. I also apologize for thinking that you only want to see the sunshine and not the rain. That is why I take a sillier tone in my posts most days, because it's comfortable and happy and different than my current train of thought. But it feels dishonest to who I am now and it speaks to perhaps who I was. Now don't get me wrong, I'm still funny. That was a joke. Kind of. All that to say, I need to heal. But as much as my life and identity is wrapped up in my blog, I needed that to heal as well. I need you to be on the same page as me, even if we both hate it. There is something else I've realized in my struggle: life is good. I've confused ambition with dissatisfaction. Ambition isn't something that sets out to destroy, it's something that sets out to create. I've confused these things as I'm constantly on the lookout to destroy the bad and preserve the good. But really, I just need to create the good may it be with bloom and the pretty clothes that hang in our windows, may it be with the blog and this post right here, may it be in life and being grateful for the here and the now, even if it involves tears or sad days. I've always been told that happiness is a choice. I've always hated that statement because it puts the control onto me and not my circumstances. But perhaps it is a choice -- a choice to be present and to be thankful. Thank you for being present and for listening. *** (I should note I've since gone to the doctor for my depression. I am feeling a little bit better every day and finding more light in the shadows. )

On being in your thirties (elements of style)

I was asked the other day how old I was and it took a couple beats for me to do the math before answering “I’ll be 34 in August”. It shocked me to think that I am that age, as I certainly don’t feel it at all. There are days I feel 28 and others barely 18. Acknowledging that number kinda hit me like a ton of bricks, and then the inevitable follow up question came… “Do you have kids?” I get asked that question more often than not these days, especially after admitting to people that I’ve been married going on eight years. Hardly a child bride, but young by the standards set by my peers, I was one of the first to walk down the aisle and now one of the last to be pushed into the delivery room. This unnerves people, the bewilderment spreading across their face as they try to comprehend why I don’t have a bundle of joy yet. In the past few weeks I have had a hard time with this and the realization that being in your early thirties is really hard as a woman. It’s the decade of SO much change in our lives- where in one set of friends you can have one person with three kids, some pregnant, a handful childless, others not even engaged yet and some even ending their marriages. This diversity in lifestyles and milestones causes a tough dynamic between women that seems to get swept under the table because it’s simply too uncomfortable. It’s such an emotionally charged decade to navigate, rife with joy, sadness, excitement, jealousy and yearning. And just when you think you have it all figured out, for the 24th time in one month, a friend announces her pregnancy on Facebook. A little snapshot of a sonogram that fills you with both happiness and yet a pang of loss and you begin to think “maybe I’ve got it all wrong”. Instead of reveling in your successes you feel like a failure as you zero in on the one thing missing in your life. And you may not even WANT it yet, but for some reason you feel you SHOULD want it….. paging the shrink. The truth is, I’ve been trying to get pregnant for many months. And it’s not happening for me right now. Medically, we are healthy as horses but the universe has just decided it’s not time yet. A smart universe, I might add, as I have a friggin’ BOOK to write (oddly, due in 9 months- deduce what you will from THAT coincidental gem). My incredibly busy schedule has kept me from feeling I was missing out, and also from starting any fertility treatment, as I felt in my gut that this is just NOT the year. I have a lot to accomplish and I can’t be sick or “distracted” in order to cross this big item off my Bucket List. The smart part of me says “Erin, one thing at a time, you’ll be a better mother if you succeed in accomplishing goals for yourself first.” But then the other part of me feels so left out and that time is ticking for us, I am almost 34 after all, and Andrew is 40 (although I think he’s an emotional age of about 25…) And I’ve never been the girl whose been just DYING to have a baby, my biological clock is more like a Swiss watch than a church steeple- consistent, but whisper quiet. Our neighborhood’s obnoxious teenagers also seem to be serving as a sobering reminder that babies turn into screaming, annoying, angsty creatures….but even so, I know I want to experience motherhood in this lifetime, I very much do. It’s just a question of WHEN. But it’s hard feeling like the odd girl out. The only one without a baby saddled on her hip. A great job, husband and house- yes- but not that one thing that seems to bind women together. It’s only natural for mothers, especially new moms, to spend more time with others going through what they are, but I can’t help but notice how motherhood sometimes draws a line in the sand between those with kids and those without. People you used to meet for a drink or hang out with seem to disappear from your radar. Dinner dates become fewer. Emails less frequent. It’s heartbreaking, yet understandable when it happens. People latch on to those who are experiencing the same things as they are, it’s only natural. I’m sure they feel that talking about the all the minute details of motherhood would bore those of us who aren’t going through it, and NOT talking about it would be like trying to write a novel without using vowels. Impossible. So there is a natural separation. And there is also a specifically tough dynamic between those who get pregnant and those who struggle to. Remember how Miranda felt horrible telling Charlotte she was pregnant because she knew she was struggling and it happened to be (incredibly) easy for her? That happens every day off the TV screen. It’s happened to me. I’ve always thought I was a Carrie, but apparently I’m a Charlotte too. As Andrew said to me yesterday with a big sigh after I came into his office a bit despondent, ” Man, you have a lot of complex emotions going on right now.” Oh boy, do I. Someone pop the pinot grigio. And it may not be a baby for you. It may be a ring, or a house, or a job. There is always something that makes you feel your life in not the one you had hoped or planned for. That there is something missing, incomplete or off. And the thing to remember is that it will ALWAYS be this way no matter what age you are. Instead of looking and the boxed left unchecked on our life “to do” list we should be looking at the ones we HAVE checked off. Everyone’s life plan is different and we miss the joy of what’s happening to us right now if we consistently focus on what’s not. It’s all very zen and “namaste” of me to say, but we do need to be more present. I need to be more present. Yes, I need to be vigilant about my health and have a plan so that I can make sure I can have a baby someday, but focusing on that is making me miss the wonderful things going on right now, of which there are many. I am where I need to be. And I’ll be somewhere else soon enough.