Share Your Story: {av} of {long distance loving}

This is a guest post for the "Share Your Story" series (learn more about it here!).  And after ten inspirational weeks, this also marks the last post in the series... at least for the time being :)  Thank you to everyone who contributed!

Today, I'm excited to introduce you all to Alison a.k.a. {av} of {long distance loving}.  We met when she hosted the Blogger Blitz Chicago event this summer.  I love how she brings bloggers together and encourages a real sense of community.

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Hello there! I'm Alison--otherwise known as {av}--and I blog at {long distance loving}. I'm thrilled to be a part of the Share Your Story series here on Inspiration and Rough Drafts! I am not a writer by trade, but it was fantastic to reflect on the last few years while writing this post...

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We moved to Providence, Rhode Island at the end of June 2009. The move marked the end of our long distance years--and I couldn't have been happier to finally be in the same place as {cv}. Our first months in town were filled with job training and IKEA furniture assembly, so I didn't notice just how unhappy I was in Providence until the winter rolled around...

After I graduated from Georgetown, I managed to build a life in DC that kept my days filled and happy. {cv} and I developed an enjoyable and relaxing routine when I could visit him in Charlotte. When we moved to Providence, I loved the idea of finally being in the same ZIP code as {cv}. I had dreamed of it for so long. The problem was that I resented moving to a place where we knew no one and had to start from scratch. I struggled from the get-go to find my footing in New England and wondered if we'd made the wrong choice.

Being far from my friends and family began to take a serious toll on me. As a result, I traveled for weekends on end--some with {cv} and many without. I felt badly that I couldn't find happiness in our little loft in Providence. I didn't blame him, but I did blame myself for somehow being unable to find friends. I make friends on airplanes and elevators, but for some reason, finding them in New England was a different ballgame.

{cv} was a saint during all of this. He encouraged me to take classes at RISD and supported me in every random hobby I decided to take up. (There were a few, including but not limited to: sewing, interior design, and photobooking.) It wasn't until I started my blog (on a whim) that something finally stuck. I found a place to channel my creativity and meet new people, which made all the difference. When I look back on our years here, my attitude about Providence began to change soon after I started blogging. I know for certain that the daily practice of writing and challenging myself helped me overcome those early struggles.

It's a good thing too: {cv} and I are about to become permanent Rhode Islanders. (We'll break ground on our new home in the 'burbs in a few months!) Three years ago, I would have never expected this turn in our adventure, but now, I embrace it. Learning to love Rhode Island is one of the greatest obstacles I've overcome so far. I'm so grateful to be on this side of the mountain ;)

photo by Kate Headley

Alison lives in Providence, Rhode Island, with her husband {cv} and their two cats, Gus and Mr. Pinky. She will always call Indiana home and have a soft spot in her heart for Washington, DC, where she and {cv} met and got married. By day, she is in sales; by night, she blogs. When she isn't blogging, you'll find her running, pinning, volunteering, instagramming, traveling, tweeting, or polishing other blogs.

Share Your Story: Jill Tydell

This is a guest post for the "Share Your Story" series (learn more about it here!).

I'm excited to introduce you all to my sister-in-law, Jill. She recently asked if she could write a post for this series, and I happily welcomed her to contribute. Her story warmed my heart!

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Is there room for one more?

Five months ago, I did something I never thought I would do.  Those of you who know me know what I’m talking about.  I became a mom, or mama, mommy, even mum if you'd like.  I have never had anything against being a mom, but I had always felt that we were already overpopulating our once ample planet and consuming its ever-shrinking resources. There were already so many tiny little souls in the world without parents, without homes and without regular access to food and water; it was hard for me to consciously choose to add another.

Now that our son is here, I find myself reflecting on this new experience with humility.  I feel deeply grateful, but almost ashamed at times, that we are able to offer our son so much that so many other moms around the world cannot. He has his own room with a clean, brand-new crib.  Actually, he has brand-new everything: clothes, furniture, blankets, and humidifier.  His possessions grow daily.  I contrast this with my experience of caring for young mothers in Nepal during a recent OB GYN mission trip there.  Whole families live in one small room with no bathroom, no sink and no electricity.  There are no Pottery Barn cribs, organic cotton baby clothes, BPA-free bottles or “sleep sheep.”  There certainly are not video baby monitors to watch your little one sleep while you are off in your own bed.

Those are just physical possessions.  For me, the most humbling aspect is being able to provide his most basic needs without stress or worry of whether I am able to.  I drink as much clean water as I want each day.  I am able to nurse him when he is hungry because I can eat enough and drink enough to provide him with his nutritional needs.  He has clean bath water, clean clothes and a clean place to sleep.  Worrying about providing these basics is commonplace in most of the developing world, where notably, the majority of the human population resides.

Finally, I welcome the addition of the new mundane mom activities—begrudgingly at times.  The car seat carrying, the bottle washing, the diaper bag organizing and the bum wiping.  These tasks and chores remind me I am one very fortunate mama.

Jill Tydell is a family medicine physician who practices in Racine, WI.  She regularly participates in medical service trips abroad and appreciates the perspective this provides.  She lives in Illinois with her wonderful family and is honored to practice primary care medicine.

Share Your Story: Jillian of cornflake dreams

This is a guest post for the "Share Your Story" series (learn more about it here!).

I'm excited to introduce you all to Jillian of cornflake dreams. I connected with Jillian earlier this year when she hosted a Chicago blogger meet-up that I organized. And she recently got married... so be sure to check out the beautiful wedding and honeymoon pictures on her blog!

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The summer after I graduated college I decided I wanted to move to Charleston, South Carolina. I fell in love with the city a few summers before, while I was on vacation. I was smitten with the palmetto palm trees, the laid-back beaches and charming historic downtown…not to mention the year-round warm weather. I grew up in Illinois and went to college in Wisconsin so I was very familiar with brutal winters, snow storms and huge down puffy coats. 

I was ready to ditch all of that and figure things out somewhere new. Alone. I didn’t know anyone in Charleston and the closest family I had in Orlando. Despite my parents (obvious) concerns – “You’ll be lonely, you don’t have a job! The South is a whole world!”  despite all of that, I was determined make my move happen. 

 

After I graduated in May and said goodbye to my best friends I moved back home. Ahhh yes... mom was right, it does take money to move. Dang. So that summer I worked two jobs—a 9-5 office position in the suburbs at a digital printing company, working as a customer service rep (HOLY awkward) and on the weekends i folded clothes at a jcrew factory store. Naturally, i ended up spending most my paychecks on clothes. Needless to say, that summer wasn’t very fun.

 

When I told people about my big plan to move they all asked me the same question—"WHY? Why would you want to leave Illinois? Why don’t you just move to Chicago?"  It was exhausting to explain my plan over and over again and to make matters worse my family bought a puppy the week before I was set to leave. really?!?

When Labor Day weekend finally arrived I packed up my stuff and my parents drove me across the country to my new home. I found a roommate online (my mom was terrified she’d turn out to be a crazy-cakes) but she was very normal and from the Midwest too (bonus!) I spent my first month scouring the web for an entry level marketing position but my search left me frustrated and nervous. most of the jobs were part-time or sales -- which i was NOT interested in. after another month of searching (and spending some quality time at the pool) i swallowed my pride and found a part-time position at the nearby banana republic outlet. 

 

i spent so much time (and money) getting to charleston and after just a few months i was running through my savings at record speeds. my roommate and her boyfriend were friendly and we made a few other friends but i desperately missed my best friends from college.  i was not prepared for post-college depression?! i use the word depression liberally but at the time it was a huge adjustment to be separated from all of your friends and get used to a whole new routine and environment. (whatt?! no wednesday happy hours? or sorority parties? or impromptu movie marathon dates?)

 

not all of my experience in charleston was negative -- i learned a LOT about myself and how to make myself happy. i explored the city and got into running and pilates. i realized that although i loved my family and friends and i missed them, i was capable of having a good time by myself. i was independent while i was in college but when was alone in a city i had to figure things out by myself. 

 

my search for a full-time job was not fruitful and after much debate i made the decision to move back to chicago. it turns out my best friend wanted to move from ohio and we decided it was the perfect opportunity to move to chicago together. i was BEYOND excited to return to the midwest where there were more full-time job prospects, friends and things to do. we moved into our vintage garden-view (ie: basement) apartment on one of the coldest days in january and weco couldn't have been happier. 

 

five years later, i still miss charleston - the weather, the quaint downtown and the southern cooking but i LOVE chicago. the city turned out to be a better fit for me --i'm sure it didn't hurt that i met my husband here, i have a job that i love and i've got all of my best friends in this city. in the end it means more to me to be surrounded by the people that i love rather than the climate and city i am smitten with. 

i really believe that things happen for a reason. i don't regret my decision to move to charleston...or to move back to chicago, things have a way of working themselves out. 

xo, 

jillian of cornflake dreams 

 

Jillian is the voice behind cornflake dreams, a life and style blog about all the dreamy things in the city and travels abroad. You can connect with Jillian through her blog or via Twitter.



Share Your Story: Katie Axelson

This is a guest post for the "Share Your Story" series (learn more about it here!).

I'm excited to introduce you all to Katie, one of my fellow contributors on The Write Practice. We've gotten to know each other over the past couple months via Twitter messages, email chains, the occasional Google+ Hangout session... and our writing.

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A Girl Named Loser

 

I spent less than an hour with her almost eleven months ago. I don’t have a photo of her. Her facial features have become blurred in my head. Yet her words are forever etched on my heart.

 

“My name is Loser because I make mistakes,” she said.

 

My heart melted. For one hour, I was Loser’s English teacher. I was a guest speaker told to encourage, entertain, and teach Loser and the 35 other students in the Chinese high school English class. As a native English speaker, I was to convince them they could truly understand and speak English. We started with something simple: their names.

 

Individually, each student stood and told me his or her English name. I met students with some very creative English names: Snowflake, Bread, Kangaroo, Caterpillar, and Loser.

 

As a Christian, I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around the girl named Loser and tell her how much she means to her Heavenly Father. How much she means to me.

 

The communist government regulations prevented me from speaking openly about the Lord. Instead I told Loser it made me sad that she named herself after her mistakes.

 

Shortly after I met Loser, I met Hope. Hope said she believes in herself. I praised her healthy self-esteem and encouraged the other students to have a taste of it.

 

I continued my lesson, trying to engage with the quiet, rigid, militantly-dressed students of my very own Chinese class. We took a brief look at North American geography. I taught them HOMES—the acronym for the Great Lakes. We said the alphabet. They all paused simultaneously but not where native-speakers would pause. We sang “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.” I taught them the difference between “mouse” and “mouth.”

 

To conclude the class, I invited them to ask me any questions they wanted. One student asked me to sing “My Heart Will Go On.” I sang the one line I know and acted out the rest. Another asked for my email address. I wrote it on the chalkboard and told the class they had to email me in English. I’ve never heard from them. One student asked if I wanted a Chinese name. Of course, I eagerly accepted; he wrote it down to help me remember it.

 

Loser’s hand went up. In that moment I had to decide between calling on her by name and calling a precious little girl a Loser.

 

I have come to realize that Loser has done something publicly that I’m only brave enough to do privately: she’s labeled herself by her shortcomings, her mistakes, and her failures. I’d much rather hide behind the façade of having it all together.

 

I wish I would have concluded class by renaming Loser with a more appropriate English name. After all, that’s what Christ has done for me. When I see myself as “Unwanted,” He calls me “Beloved.” When I call myself, “Failure,” He calls me “Blameless.” When I say, “Outcast,” He says, “Daughter.”

 

Like my new Chinese name, it’s hard to remember but that doesn’t make it any less my name.

 

 

Katie Axelson is a daughter of the Lord who gets to serve as a professional writer and editor. She seeks to live a story worth telling, and you can often find her telling stories at KatieAxelson.com, on Twitter (@KatieAxelson), and on Facebook (Katie Axelson Writer).



Share Your Story: Katie of Off Switch

This is a guest post for the "Share Your Story" series (learn more about it here!).

I'm excited to introduce you all to Katie, editor of Off Switch Magazine and blog.  As a contributor to Off Switch Magazine (Volume 2 and the forthcoming Volume 4), I've worked with Katie over the past few months, and it's been so inspiring to see her publication grow during its first year.  Definitely encourage you to check it out.

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In Retrospect (I Laugh)

 

I barely remember riding a bicycle prior to that late summer night shortly before my sophomore year of high school. If I had ridden a bike, I am sure it was a short-lived and feeble attempt. That night was different though. That night I pulled out my pink garage sale bike with the banana seat and practiced around the block with a new sense of courage for what lay ahead.

 

Not only did I go around our block, I went around all the many blocks that made up our neighborhood’s grid-like streets. I remember waving to neighbors who were outside chatting with friends, feeling so genuinely happy and proud of myself.

 

I’m doing it! I’m doing it!

 

Unfortunately my joy was short-lived. After an hour of carefree riding through the unpopulated streets, I was just a half block from home when I collided head-on with a moving car. 

 

The college-age girl driving the offending vehicle got out of her car as I was picking myself and my bike up off the ground. While trying to hold it together, I ended up falling apart into a fit of tears. The driver sat me down in her passenger seat and handed me Dairy Queen napkins for my bloody and badly scraped knees. My tears brought her to tears and we both cried and laughed, saying “this is only supposed to happen in movies.”

 

I declined the girl’s offer to drive me and my bike home. I suppose I felt I had already caused too much trouble by way of riding in the middle of the street. My lack of experience had gotten the better of my already slow reflexes… and I was embarrassed for it all. What I hadn’t realized until after the driver left was that my bike’s front wheel was now bent inward toward the back wheel.

 

Ten minutes later, I had finally dragged the newly disfigured bicycle home with me. I dropped it on the front lawn and started up the steps to the door, yelling through the screen for my mom. In true parental fashion, she was both horrified by my appearance and that of the bike, while keeping her cool bandaging me up. Sitting on the bathroom toilet I heaved in and out, doing my best to catch my breath and relay the incident back to my concerned mother.

 

Not a few minutes after we had begun "operation hydrogen peroxide and band-aides,” my older brother burst into the house and down the hall to the bathroom door. He was laughing hysterically. My brother had just arrived home and found my bicycle out front. He could not believe how horribly I had totaled my bike after just one night of riding. And beyond that, he thought it was hilarious I had dragged the mess home with me instead of leaving it in the street to pick up later.

 

My first reaction was to pummel him to the ground. How dare he laugh when I am so shaken and upset? I was embarrassed for what had happened, and the last thing I needed was my brother finding the humor in it…well, at least not so soon.

 

In the time since that night, I realize how grateful I am for him and his sense of humor. My brother may have chosen an inappropriate time to make a joke, but I believe the point is that he was able to make one. The experience was unfortunate, but in the end no one was hurt and that’s all anyone can ask for. Beyond that, now I had a story to tell with wounds from my battle in the form of a nubby scar on my right knee and the memory of a truly dismantled bike.

 

With the help of my older brother, I was able to realize that in almost every circumstance there is the chance to find humor, and in retrospect I choose to laugh.
 

 

 

Katie Michels is the gal behind Off Switch: magazine, blog, and shop. As the founder and editor of Off Switch Magazine—a quarterly print publication aimed at encouraging people to pursue their passions—Katie is amazed each day that her "job" allows her to meet and form relationships with like-minded and talented folks from across the country. Katie resides in a western suburb of Chicago, IL and aspires to live each day fully, without an off switch.

 

Share Your Story: Jude McCanse

This is a guest post for the "Share Your Story" series (learn more about it here!).

I'm excited to introduce you all to Jude. Her daughter J., who I know through my best friend N., encouraged her to write a post for this series. I'm so glad she reached out to me!

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I am a cradle Catholic and embrace the faith, but I have always felt a little uncomfortable when I hear people say, “God cured me” or “God saved me” in one situation or another.  While I believe in the healing power of God, that He is omnipotent and can do all things, I’ve struggled with the notion that He would choose to heal or save one person over another, one child over another. I find it difficult to put “God” and “arbitrary” in the same thought.  Did one person not pray hard enough for him or herself, or for their ailing child?  Does God have some kind of “prayer meter” that measures the quantity, intensity and sincerity of prayer? If a person dies in spite of prayer, was he or she deemed unworthy of healing? I think not.

Two years ago, a middle-school student in the district I work in passed away from a cancer that he bravely fought against since kindergarten.  I never had Ben as a student, but his grandmother is a colleague, and staff would get regular mass e-mails about Ben’s condition and treatment. Talk about a faith-filled family…his mom thanked God for new treatments, prayed constantly that they would work and that Ben would tolerate the side-effects without too much pain and nausea.  She ended every e-mail with, “KEEP PRAYING!!!”  We all did.

The year Ben died, our 24-year-old daughter, Hilary, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.  Any parent can relate to our feelings, the realization of a parent’s worst nightmare.  We jumped in with both feet getting the medical treatment started; CT scan, two difficult and dangerous biopsies (the tumor was near her heart), six months of chemotherapy and five weeks of radiation.  And like Ben’s mother, I prayed and asked everyone I know to pray for Hilary’s healing.  In the back of my mind, however, I couldn’t help but think, “Why Hilary and not Ben?”

One of the friends I asked to pray for Hilary is a woman I’ve known since our kids were little.  We’ve shared many ups and downs of life over the years.  Chris isn’t sophisticated, and she’s had a hard life, but I’ve always admired her faith and how easily she can put things in God’s hands.  The next time I saw her after I asked her to pray for Hilary, she told me that God spoke to her and told her what words we should use when we prayed.  She looked a little puzzled and asked, “What does, era…era…eradicate mean?”  When I told her, she said that’s what she thought it must mean.  God told her that we should pray that “Hilary’s cancer is eradicated.”  I had no doubt that God had spoken to my friend…she wasn’t sure how to pronounce “eradicate” or what exactly the word meant.

It has been over a year since Hilary completed her treatments, and she is actively working and living her life in New York City.  She just had a negative CT scan and was told that she can stretch the scans to 8 months instead of 6.  We are incredibly grateful.  I wish I could say that now I get it, the whole prayer/healing thing, but I don’t, and I know that it is a mystery that I will never understand.  All I can say is that I take nothing for granted. Every day, I thank God for Hilary’s health and continue to pray for strength and wisdom…and of course, that the cancer will be eradicated forever.

Jude is a speech pathologist in the Winnebago, IL school district and writing is her avocation. She has published a children's book, The Disappearance of Dawn (judemccanse.com), for ages pre-school through fifth grade, and she has had several poems published in the literary magazine, The Rockford Review. An essay that she wrote about her father appears in Tim Russert's Wisdom of Our Fathers and she has been a guest blogger on Makobi Scribe. Jude is married to her wonderful husband, Don, and they are the parents of five terrific grown children!

Share Your Story: Diane of A Spot of Whimsy

This is a guest post for the "Share Your Story" series (learn more about it here!).

I'm excited to introduce you all to Diane of a spot of whimsy. We met during college through the Dance Company of Notre Dame and have stayed in touch post-graduation via our blogs... and when our paths occasionally cross here in Chicago :)

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Hello Readers of Inspiration and Rough Drafts!  I am particularly honored that Melissa asked me to be a part of this series because I am not a writer—or at least not in the traditional sense (so go easy on me ;)).  I am a lawyer by day, which means I am writing all the time (emails, letters, briefs, memos), but rarely in a way that allows for much creativity.  That was really the impetus for the creation of my blog, a spot of whimsy, a lifestyle blog with a dash of whimsy.

Rather than share with you all today one particular anecdote, I’d like to discuss an ongoing one, inspired by this mantra:

I interpret this in two ways: (1) that we allow for imperfection in ourselves, and accept and forgive ourselves for our flaws with grace and understanding; and (2) that we allow for imperfection in others, and accept and forgive them for their flaws with grace and understanding.  

Before I get any further (and before you really start wondering what the heck these images have to do with anything), I like to pair my more thoughtful posts with dreamy images that compliment my words.  A bit of mood-setting, if you will.  Now, back to it.

Let me take you way back, in fact, to 5th Grade, where the boy I had a massive crush on told my friend that he didn’t like me because I was “too perfect.”  This was not, in fact, a back-handed compliment—that I knew for sure—but what I didn’t understand was why he was dismissing me for what I thought were positive attributes: good student, did what I was told, on student council, lots of after-school activities, the normal good little girl traits.  Turns out this particular boy turned into not so great of a man, so I made my peace with him more than a decade ago, but the “too perfect” label came back to haunt me many years later, in my early 20s.  In the midst of an argument with my then-boyfriend, he told me that my expectations for others (namely, himself) were too high, that I couldn’t expect him to live up to the same lofty goals I set for myself, that I was…too perfect.  In that moment, of course I didn’t take this very well.  I was sensitive to that word.  I still couldn’t wholly rectify the negative and positive of it, and I certainly couldn’t get behind the “you just have to lower your expectations of what I can give you” argument (if you hadn’t guessed, that relationship was not long for this world by the time of this exchange, but that's not relevant here!).  

After cooling down, I started to see what he was kinda-sorta-maybe-getting-at (even if I was still hurt by the impetus for the argument, which is best left in the past), which is essentially the quote above: hold yourself (and others) to a standard of grace, not perfection.

If only I’d been able to put it in such eloquent words.    

You will disappoint yourself; it is inevitable.  People will disappoint you; this is also inevitable.

I know I’m far from perfect; the trap comes when I subconsciously make that the expectation.  When I set “perfection” as the goal for myself and my relationships with others, I am setting us all up for failure.  Instead, if I learn to accept those disappointments with grace, if I am quick to forgive instead of to anger, life will not only be more realistic, but more satisfying.  Believe me, I am far from perfect (oh, the irony!) in embracing this mantra, but the point is to try, and try hard.

This, of course, does not mean that we allow others to walk all over us, wandering around just forgiving and accepting everything with grace to the point of absurdity.  There are still standards and expectations, but the point is to account for the fact that perfection is unattainable, and to stop being so quick to blame and frustration, instead of to grace.  

Diane wishes she lived in a Nora Ephron movie (and sometimes pretends she does), hates talking on the phone (to the dismay of her mother), is happiest on a boat in the middle of a lake, watches too much tv (in her defense, it’s usually good tv, she’s not a reality girl), sneaks in pleasure reading on the bus to and from work, and is in love with a boy she calls C.  Diane lives in Chicago and hails from Pure Michigan.  Come say hello over on her blog a spot of whimsy, say hi (less characters) on twitter @aspotofwhimsy, view photographic evidence of her day-to-day life on instagram user: @aspotofwhimsy, and what’s inspiring her lately on pinterest @aspotofwhimsy.  Thanks for reading her thoughts here today, and Diane thanks Melissa for having her.

*image 1,2,3,4,5,6,7