What I Wish My Students Knew

When I walked through the doors of this classroom for the first time this week, I was walking into my eighth year of teaching middle school. Each and every year has presented different challenges and different victories, but some things have always remained the same. Despite the groups of students, how many have been in my room, what grade I’m teaching, or where I’ve taught, each and every year brings tears; every year brings laughter; every year brings exhaustion and frustration. Every year shows me my weaknesses, but in every year I find my strength, and every year I work to turn all the frustrations into “teachable moments” for my students and for me. In spite of almost a decade-worth of ups and downs, I am still here, with my students in my classroom because more than anything else, every year I am reminded of my capacity to love. What I wish my students knew is that I am merely human, but I am a human with a heart the size of the ocean, and each of them takes up their own space there - among the wind and the waves.

        Oh how human I truly am! Dear ones, please know from the bottom of my heart that I do try. I try so hard, but WOW! Some days are tough. Just like you, I fight with my alarm clock. There are some mornings that I refuse to get out of bed. Snooze becomes my best friend, and getting out from under the covers feels like it will be the end of the world! Or the morning doesn’t go as planned. I didn’t sleep well; someone is sick; I’m running late; the clothes I want to wear are dirty; my child isn’t cooperating; I didn’t have time to eat breakfast; I forgot my lunch; I need to put gas in my car; my house is a mess; my dogs take 20 minutes instead of five on their walk. Before I even leave my house or pull into the school, I’ve already decided the day will be awful, or I just need to get a sub, just run away forever, or just sit and cry. But then, I think of you. I think of what you need from me. I think about all the things I could teach you in that day that you wouldn’t get the chance to learn because I’m not there. I think about the commitment I have made to your education, and to some of you, your hobbies and interests. I think about how much extra pressure it is on the school staff to try to replace me on a whim, even for just a day. I think about all the ways I am not prepared to turn my classroom and my kids over to someone else. I think about whether or not you’ll be okay today - what if your morning was rough, too, or worse than mine, and you just need a smile or a familiar face. You just need to know you can count on me if you can’t anyone else. And then I know I have only one option: (turn off the alarm and get out of bed or stop whining or wipe the tears off my face or throw on the shirt I don’t really love or skip putting on makeup) get to school, get to you.

        Do you know how much I expect out of myself? More than you can imagine. There is pressure from every angle. (I bet you have no idea how that feels *insert sarcasm*) Society hates teachers. (Some) Politicians hate teachers. Testing companies hate teachers. (Some) Parents hate teachers. (Some) Students hate teachers. There’s so much hate that sometimes I even hate being a teacher. It gets hard, trying to reach down deep and pull the joy up out of me to give to you, but I know it’s worth it. You’re worth it, so I push. I push myself, and I push the boundaries, and I push the belief system, and I push the stereotypes, and I push you. I carry the weight of proving the world wrong about teachers and about you, and then I work, work, work to actually do it. When I wake up, my brain starts a running to-do list – what has to happen in my classroom today, what am I behind on (everything, in case you’re wondering)? I get to school early to make sure the room feels like home, copies are made, the board is organized, and I am ready. I teach all day, tweaking and changing my plans as I need to. I stay late to have meetings or reflect or finish lesson plans. At night, I dream about my classroom and my students. My mind and my work are constantly focused on you. I expect myself to scale the mountains of your minds and leap the canyons of your understanding and bridge every gap and work out every problem and lead you to new places academically and personally. I expect the best out of myself for you, and in turn, I expect the best out of you for you. I am giving you so much, working so hard, and I wish you knew that if you would give that much back, work that hard in return, there is absolutely nothing we couldn’t accomplish in this classroom. There is absolutely nothing you couldn’t accomplish in your life. Run through the obstacles, jump over the hurdles, speed past the hate, shut your ears to the lies of failure and defeat, and tackle life with me. Work alongside me. Push alongside me. Expect alongside me. Believe alongside me. You don’t have to do it alone, but I can’t either.

        I have a child of my own, you know. A two-year-old little boy with the whitest blond hair and the bluest of eyes and a laugh that makes the world sparkle with sunshine. He hugs me, and he kisses me, and he loves me, and he holds tight to me, and he talks to me, and even when he isn’t perfect, he still is, and I miss him when I’m not with him. My heart aches when I drop him off at the sitter’s in the morning. When I see pictures of him throughout the day, all I want is to grab him up and snuggle and read books and go for walks and do everything I don’t get to do all day long because I am here. I am here with you. Instead of my own child. And some days, that makes my heart break. But what makes my heart break more is that some of you don’t have mommies who love you the way I love my son. Some of you don’t get cuddles and stories. Some of you aren’t thought of throughout the day; you don’t have love to go home to. Some of don’t have anyone who thinks you hung the moon, and THAT is unfathomable to me. How could anyone look at you and not believe you are incredible? How could anyone see the spark in your eyes and not recognize the fire hiding in your soul? How could anyone hold you for the very first time or be with you any day after and not believe you were worth giving up everything else for? Because let me tell you, you are. And so, I come to my classroom every day, not out of obligation or duty or the need to earn a living, but out of love and out of awe for who you are, who you were created to be, because you deserve to know that someone sees you and respects you and believes in you and loves you. I am that someone.

        Teaching is hard. Life is harder. Both are rewarding beyond compare, I can promise you that. It would be a lie to say that every day is fun, enjoyable, easy, entertaining. But that’s the thing about being alive in the real world – some days are dark and gloomy, yet we still wait on the sun. When I face frustrations and obstacles that would overtake me, I think about why I am here in this tiny little school in this tiny little community, and I know the answer is you. You are my sun. You are what I look for when everything else is shadowed. What I wish my students knew is that I am here because of them – not for a paycheck, not out of habit, not because “those who can’t do, teach,” and honestly, not even for their academic gain, but to help them learn to be human: experiencing hate knowing how to return love, experiencing lies knowing how to recognize truth, and experiencing defeat knowing how to create victory. I want my students to be everything no one has told them they could be and more than everything everyone has said they would be. I want them to dream and laugh and play, discover and recover and build. I want them to turn off the snooze, get out of bed, and enjoy the day because I love them; I believe in them, and I want to watch them be amazing.

Part 2: Beauty is a Woman Named...

Beauty is a woman named

Sharon Forsyth. 

          I know this woman. She is a cleaner, an organizer, a card player, a family woman. She is a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend. She loves history and genealogy, is civic-minded, and enjoys an occasional hike through the woods. She has an incredible green thumb and raises dogs and humans (chickens, horses, cows, cats, and goats, too.) This woman is a giver: time, money, advice, sweat, tears...she'll turn it all over to you, whatever she has for whatever you need. Her mind is the trifecta: common sense, intelligence, and wisdom. She laughs and she cries; she yells and she whispers (mainly she yells because she is slightly deaf.) Her name is Sharon, and she is my mother.

          My mother is a force. She is opinionated and strong-willed, loud and occasionally abrasive (see, I come by it honestly.) She was born in the South and raised in the North; her heart is all Belle, but her mouth is Yankee tried and true. She's one of those people you either love or hate; with her there is no in-between, and I don't think she'd have it any other way. She is an all or nothing kind of woman, and her ALL is the all that moves mountains and breaks barriers. She is an overcomer, a pusher, a mover; she doesn't stand still, and she won't back down.

          My mother, like many other women, has a story to tell. That story belongs to her, and I won't lay it out here for all the world to see (although maybe one day...,) but I will say that pain is her headliner. The things my mother has seen, the things she's experienced, the secrets in her mind and the anguish in her heart, these things would crumble a lesser woman. These moments, these memories, they would bring most people to their knees. Yet my mother stands. She stands, and she sings, and she smiles, and she plays, and she lives. 

          My mother is the bravest woman I know. She is the strongest woman I know. And she is the softest woman I know. She is the one who brought me apple juice and spoke in hushed tones to soothe my worries. She is the one who cried every time Little Ann and Old Dan died (because we only read Where the Red Fern Grows 15 times when I was a child.) She is the one who drove to the Girl Scout hut early on a Saturday morning to help me find my troll I left behind. She's the one who so patiently tried to help me write the number eight. She is the one who brought my pet goat to school for show and tell. She's the one who baked cinnamon rolls for after school snacks. She is the one who let me try to rescue a hurt bird. She is the one who looked upon the lifeless body of my classmate, so I wouldn't have to share the burden of the sight alone. She is the one sat down with me every Friday afternoon and did my hair for color guard, making sure to hide the bald spots from where I'd pulled it out. She's the one who wiped my tears when the first boy I ever loved broke my heart. She's the one who taught me to look at things from others' perspectives when life-long friendships were torn apart. She is the one who padded my bank account in college, so I didn't have to eat pb&j every day for the last week of the month. She is the one who made pounds upon pounds of spaghetti to feed my wedding guests. She is the one who has loved my husband like a son since his own mother passed away. She is the one who sat across from me in a Burger King in Birmingham while I waited on the call from my doctor telling me my first pregnancy wasn't viable. She is the one who listened as I cried words of heartache, words dripping in the world's injustice, words of a mother's despair, and all she said, all she needed to say, was, "I know." Because she does know. She knows it all and then some.

          I spent this afternoon beating my mother at Canasta, and as the two of us sat at the table with my aunt, my grandma, and my son, I couldn't help but wonder at this woman, this one who carried me not just in her womb but through so many pieces of my life. Despite every hurt, despite every wrong, despite every pain, despite every tragedy, my mother still smiles. She still laughs. She still plays. Despite every act of hate and every unfathomable circumstance she's experienced in her life, she still chooses to love. Every day, she gets out of bed, and she chooses to love, and she chooses to live. I know it can't be easy. I've seen it in her eyes, the way it hurts sometimes. But my mother is a fighter. She fights for love.

          On this Mother's Day and every day, I honor the woman who gave me life. There isn't a woman on planet Earth more beautiful to me than she is. When my mom looks in the mirror, her eyes deceive her. She sees aged exhaustion, a body worn down and weathered by life's storms. When I look at her, I see a warrior; I see hope, dignity, and strength, a mighty woman who doesn't bend to circumstance. Her battle scars are stunning - the evidence of a life lived with valor and coated in love. I only hope that when my son is 30, he sees the same thing in me. 

     I love you, Mom, today and every day. Thank you for being an example, for being a rock, and for loving me in every way you know how. Happy Mother's Day. 

Pain Is Beauty Part 3: A Beautiful Death

        There is a story of a man who loved a multitude. He fed the hungry, gave comfort to the brokenhearted, spoke life in dead places, played with children, and cared for the sick. He was every man's friend, a gentle soul who gave and expected nothing in return. People sought him out, desperate just to be near him, just to experience the peace that exuded from his being. He was capable of making each person feel special, significant, wanted. He was the ultimate humanitarian. 

          This man, so full of love for people, so desperate to see others' lives overflowing with abundance, died at the hands of those he served. A whisper started a whirlwind fueled by ignorance, guilt, and jealousy. The multitude to whom he had given his heart - his whole life - were suddenly calling for his death, seeking him out, blood-lust pumping through their thirsty veins. In the cover of night, they hunted him down, captured him, and tortured him. They punctured holes in his side, ripped the flesh from his back, stabbed thorns into his scalp, and beat him senseless. His blood spilled to the ground; his muscle tissue dangled in pieces from his bones. In a final act of cruelty, the mob of people who witnessed firsthand the goodness in this man's heart ended his life: death by crucifixion. 

          Death by crucifixion: the most beautiful death this world has ever known. Oh, the sight itself was ugly: a body mutilated, ravaged, destroyed; anguish seeping from torn flesh; agony etched in facial features. That moment in time speaks of pain most men never endure. The man who loved the multitude hung on his cross, looked upon those that nailed him to it, and released his last breath. When peace invaded his body and his eyes closed that final time, there on his lips lingered not the taste of bitterness but the sweet, sweet flavor of forgiveness, forgiveness marinated in love. 

          His name is Christ. His pain is the most beautiful thing in all the world.

          With His pain comes our redemption. With His pain comes our freedom. With His pain comes our healing. With His pain comes our salvation.

          The phrase "pain is beauty" truly does define my entire life. Yes, my heart has been broken. The past has clouded my present. My insecurities have led me to attempt to maintain impossible standards. My pain, like yours, has been very real. But it is not my pain that makes my life beautiful. It is His.

          I am part of the multitude. He has given His life over to me. He has loved me. He has cared for me. He has clothed me and fed me. He has healed my sickness. He has given me everything He has - His very life - forever suspended in one of the most brutal moments in history. And while His death was hideous, I am the ugly one. I have spit in His face, pushed thorns into his skull, and driven nails through his hands. It was my anger-filled, insecurity-ridden heart that prowled in the darkness, looking to trap Him and tear him limb from limb. I am the one who demanded the death of the Son of Man, the One who devoted His whole life to me. And this Man gave me everything I asked of Him. He gave me His all. 

          I caused His pain, yet when He whispers into the ear of His Father, He doesn't speak words of hate or words of revenge. He doesn't map out retaliation. When He whispers into the ear of His Father, on His lips is the sound of forgiveness, the song of redemption. I am His Beloved. Despite my turning on Him, He takes care of me. He heals my blemishes. He erases my invalidity. Through all of His pain, He has turned His heart toward me and loved me back to beauty. 

Women Who Count

          Today, ladies all across the nation filled church pews, restaurants, and homes with their children by their sides and smiles on their faces, proud to be a mother and thankful to be honored by their family and their friends. Their hearts were full of love for their babies (no matter how old) and gratitude for the blessings that have been poured out on their lives. People flooded them with hugs, kisses, cards, flowers, phone calls, praise, and well-wishes, and these beautiful, strong, selfless mothers truly deserved every gift that reached their hands and every kind word that met their ears. 

          Today, in the middle of all the celebrations of the women we cherish and hold dear to our hearts, there were ladies who filled church pews, restaurants, and homes who felt anything but thankful, anything but honored. These women smiled though they didn't mean it, struggled solitarily  through the comments, the questions, and especially the silence, and bit their tongues when words that were less than kind met their ears. I know because I was one of them.

          Today, I was bombarded with many empty comments ranging from, "You can celebrate next year," to "I don't know if you count." You see, I am currently seven months pregnant, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, there is much confusion as to my maternal status. The problem with the whole situation is this: I have been a mother for a year now. It was a year ago, after all, that I first watched as a little, blankly white screen produced a clear blue plus sign, and my whole world changed.

           In one moment one year ago in the tiny bathroom of my rental house, I became a mother. I can't explain with precision of language exactly what happened inside me or how it happened, but in an instant, I was no longer a young woman alive for myself and my happiness. Instead, I became consciously aware that my position in the universe had shifted; I existed now for the health and the well-being of someone else: my child. I was filled with excitement, anticipation, anxiety, hope, fear, joy, and maybe even a little dread, and my mind began to race with visions of nurseries, flashes of future baseball games and dance recitals, bows and frills, dirt and laughter. My whole self was consumed with beauty of what was happening to my life, to my family.

          Two weeks later on a Wednesday morning, I sat in a doctor's office while someone explained to me how Methotrexate would end my ectopic pregnancy. Two weeks later on a Wednesday afternoon, I stood in an exam room as a nurse injected my body with the poison that would kill my child. Two weeks later on a Wednesday night, all my dreams broke in pieces around me as my body went into labor in an attempt to rid itself of what was harming it: the child to whom I was supposed to give life.

          On Friday morning, surgeons took me into an emergency surgery to cut out the tube where my baby was still growing. I awoke in a hospital room not only missing part of my body but also missing my baby, and as a result, missing my heart. 

          Shame crippled me. Fear devoured me. Anger consumed me. They ran through every inch of my soul. I didn't feel like a real woman. I truly believed my husband would leave me. I doubted I ever would know joy again. I couldn't believe the injustice in those who abuse and abandon their children being allowed to birth them in the first place. Everything I thought I understood about life and about love was challenged, and I was a broken person.

          When I woke up this morning, one of my first thoughts was of the child I lost a year ago and of the pain I experienced. For some reason, I knew that today my motherhood would be called into question, and I would have no proof in my arms to shut down the naysayers. It doesn't matter that my stomach is growing with the promise of a child due in two months; I knew some would doubt the mother I now know myself to be. Today, I prepared myself for the emptiness of a Mother's Day without a child to hold, steeled myself for the words and even for the silence I knew was coming. I was not alone in those preparations. 

          When they awoke this morning, women everywhere were readying themselves for the emotional battles they would endure throughout the day. Today, there were many women who instead of feeling celebrated, felt shamed; instead of feeling honored, felt afraid; instead of feeling loved, felt angered. There are women all around who have lost children, experienced miscarriages, and dealt with infertility. There are women all around who are mothers but who have no physical evidence of that in their lives. There are women all around who are forgotten, overlooked, or ignored because their children aren't in their arms, aren't standing beside them, or did not come from their own wombs.  

          Today, I want to tell those women that I see you. I recognize you. I know your pain. I share your heartache. You are a woman who gave your body to another person even if that person was never born here on Earth. You are a woman who gave your best to a child whose life is no longer lived in this world. You are a woman who gave your love to another whose own mother couldn't fill the gaps. You are a woman who longs every day to share your light with a tiny baby all your own snuggled in your arms. 

          You are a woman worth celebrating. You are a woman filled with goodness. You are a woman clothed in dignity and strength. You are a woman to be honored. 

          Despite the accusations, despite the unanswered questions, despite the broken dreams and the shattered hearts, you are a mother - one who nurtures, one who cares, one who gives, one who loves. 

         Happy Mother's Day to you, a woman I celebrate, a woman I honor, a woman who counts. 

Still

Have you ever felt like the world is passing you by

And you sit

Still

Still

Still

And your heart, it cries

And no one hears

Because you are sitting

Still

Still

Still

And there they are swirling all around you: their mouths, their hands, their feet

And you are all alone

Because you sit

Still

Still

Still

And suddenly they leave you behind

And now your world is quiet...except your heart

Because it cries
Still
Still
Still

Pain is Beauty Part 2: Waxing and Weeping

          The first time I ever waxed my face was pure torture. I was standing in front of the mirror that covered the wall in the community bathroom of the house I lived in my junior year of college. After carefully following every direction on the box of Sally Hansen body wax, my little plastic jar of molten facial hair remover was finally the perfect temperature to spread ever so evenly over the top of my lip. I stirred the wax with the plastic spatula once more just to make sure the little blue "hot" didn't pop-up on the handle again, and I went to work covering every inch of facial hair that up until about two hours before, I had never given a second thought.

          His name was Jack. I met him through a friend; we immediately hit it off, and a few weeks later, I found myself on a treadmill in the cardio room of the student recreation hall, his face inches from mine as he barked "encouragements," and I sputtered my thoughts concerning my hatred for running. As the track of the treadmill whirred on, my brain began to muddle the other noises in the room as well, including his voice, so that I was only catching snippets of his motivational speeches that, to me, seemed far from helpful. In the middle of this muffled exchange of words (from him) and glares (from me,) my ears did register one phrase loud and clear: "I can see your mustache."

          My mustache? Excuse me? I was instantly shocked, angry, and incredibly humiliated. Here I was sweating and jiggling and giving everything I had on a treadmill to impress the guy I was into, and instead of noticing my incredible calf muscles or complimenting me on my extreme determination, I was being told I needed to wax. No, of course, he didn't say those words outright, but we all know that girls are the queens of implied meaning, so to me, it could be no clearer that he was displeased with my current appearance and would appreciate me getting rid of whatever fine hair rested above my upper lip. 

          So now, there I was, spreading goo the color and constancy of honey all across my face, peeling off/ripping out every stray little hair I could fine, hoping that fine tuning my appearance would give me the edge I needed to earn the approval of a guy who would never truly love me, and all the while, tears were streaming down my face because well, if I'm just being honest, waxing flippin' hurts. 

          But hey, pain is beauty. 

          There is no escaping that simple quip that seems to rule the lives of females from their preteen years until death. Yes, there are those few women who are fortunate enough to come to some self-awareness somewhere between the ages of 40-60 when they realize that vanity is simply that and no more, that being "kept" on the outside gives no value to the person you are on the inside. However, for most women it seems that our outer beauty becomes a prison, detaining who we truly are on the inside because the bars of youthful skin, current makeup trends, and fashionable clothing keep us locked away from the freedom of the truth about who we really are. For some, it starts with a first crush, that crucial moment of realization that because we "just" noticed him, all it would take is him "just" noticing us. For others it's the guidance of a mother who remembers awkward preteen years filled with clumsiness, embarrassment, and an innocent sense of desperation who just wants her own daughter to experience something a little less disconcerting. Some fold to peer pressure: a story in a teen magazine or "advice" from a friend who has already discovered the transformation of which a bit of mascara and lip gloss is capable. Some girls attempt to fill a gap, a place left void that should've been filled by a father, a mother, a sibling, anyone who had our best interests at heart. Others find themselves locked away by the opinions of others, by people's careless words and actions that leave us with a need to impress and a sense that we don't measure up. For me, it was the latter; it was always (and unfortunately still is) the latter.

          Like many people I know, I have always struggled with my weight, and to be honest, I think that particular phrase sugar coats my situation. To put it bluntly, I was fat. There is absolutely no denying that. Once I started school, I began to swell, and I didn't stop until the 8th grade. I remember being in 6th grade and weighing 115 pounds. I remember some years earlier my mother suggesting I have a lemon instead of the peanut butter crackers my sister was getting as an after school snack. (I knew the insinuation behind this, and the result was me running from the house, tears welling in my eyes.) There was also the comment from my aunt, her declaration that she couldn't believe my mother would have a fat kid, and of course, I never found it fair that my little sister and my cousin were allowed to sport two-piece swimsuits every summer, and I was always in a one-piece. Each of those moments ingrained in me just a bit further that idea that I didn't add up the way I was, that I didn't fit the expectations of those around me, but it wasn't until 8th grade that I associated my "lack" with beauty.

          His name was Brad, and I had a major crush on him (what I would now classify as my first real crush.) We flirted. All the time. In science class. And he let me wear his necklace. He even let me keep it over the weekend as a good luck charm for my first honor band. It was obvious I liked him, and to me, it was just as obvious that any day now, he would be passing a note to me (in science class) asking me to be his girlfriend. Then it happened, the comment that forever changed the way I looked at myself, the way I looked at life. 

          My best girl friends and I sat at one end of the lunch table, he and his friends at the other. The boys and girls always ignored each other. We were too busy talking about chocolate pudding and the 9th grade girl whose bangs stood out a foot from her forehead, and they were constantly talking about...well, honestly, I didn't have a clue, until the day I overheard this: "Megan would be hot if she would just lose some weight." Straight from the mouth of the boy whose necklace I was wearing. Straight to the heart of a little girl who five seconds before didn't realize people thought she was ugly, but now she knew. So began my imprisonment.

          My sentence consisted of the standard tear-inducing plucking of the eyebrows, the occasional jab in the eye with a mascara wand or an eyeliner pencil, the tender fingertip burns from overexposure to hair dryers, hot rollers, and straight irons, the cuts from careless strokes with soapy razors. I hated the itchiness of facial masks, the pain of a comb being pulled through tangles, and the sting of hairspray in my eyes. Once, I even left a nice scar on my leg while trying to iron my clothes. Still the punishment wasn't enough. My junior year, I battled an eating disorder, finding a way to manipulate my schedule so that no one would notice my lifestyle changes, dropping 50 pounds in two months. The trends continued into college where I picked up diet pills, tanning, and yes, waxing. Sure, all the girls I knew had the same experiences, the same pains, the same complaints. Sure, we all vented to each other about how unfair it was to have to work so hard to be beautiful and how much we didn't like being girls. Yet the conversation always found its ending in our mantra, "Pain is beauty," the answer to every complaint, the truth that governed our lives, the finality we had come to accept.

          Now, I understand a different truth. Pain is not beauty. In fact, to ring true, the phrase itself needs to be reversed: beauty is pain. 

          Don't misinterpret that phrase. Beauty is not pain because it hurts to tweeze our eyebrows or we burn our fingers on the curling iron. Beauty is pain because it is impossible to live up to the world's standards of beauty, and when we try, we put ourselves through an incredible amount of emotional torture. The world says that if the scale doesn't reveal the correct number or our clothes cannot be valued by their tags, we are worthless. The world says that if we can't walk a mile in heels, wing our eyeliner, and keep our hair glossy, we have no value. The world whispers to us, "If you would just do this one little thing, you would be beautiful." The problem is that there is always going to be one more little thing. The list of physical expectations the world gives females never ends, so no matter how much weight we lose or what shade of red our lipstick is, when we measure ourselves by the world's standards, we will always walk away feeling ugly. Yes, it hurts to rip wax strips from your body; yes, it hurts to pinch your eyelid with the lash curler, but what hurts worse is placing your value in the hands of a monster that will never know what you're worth. 





(Side Note: I am not speaking ill against the use of beauty products or against a woman's desire to look and feel her best. I myself love eye shadow, jewelry, and red lipstick. I love getting dolled-up for date night with my husband, and dresses are my favorite things to wear. Please understand though that there is a difference in wanting to look your best and giving yourself a value based on outside expectations.)

Pain Is Beauty: All Dolled Up

          I grew up in a simple home - a mom, a dad, a little sister, older siblings who lived on their own elsewhere, lots of animals, and little money. We didn't go on vacations (except to visit family,) shop at outlet malls, dine out every weekend, or catch movies together. Our most exciting nights were driving a town over to eat Chinese or Mexican, usually to celebrate a birthday or all As on report cards. I wore sweat suits to school for the majority of elementary and was always approved for free or reduced lunch. My extent of "beautiful things" were the fake jewelry and makeup sets my nanny bought me for every gift-giving occasion, and the porcelain dolls my parents got my little sister and me - one each every Christmas and birthday (and occasionally a random one here and there if there was extra money.) I adored those dolls. They looked up at me with vibrant blue eyes behind thick lashes, pouty pink little-girl lips smiling under blushed cheeks, and delicate golden curls shining in a cascade down the sides of their faces. When I looked into the flushed face of a new doll, I found myself captivated by its beauty, breathless with wonder that something so small could be so exquisite and that something so exquisite could be mine.

          It wasn't just the painted features of the porcelains that left me in awe; I often found myself fawning over their clothes. How could it be that these glass little girls looked more like royalty than the Princess Diana herself? Lace, ruffles, velvet, fur, petticoats, and golden buttons caressed these dolls in luxury I only dreamed of experiencing. My favorite was a blonde statue with pink cheeks and lips, curly hair, and blue eyes dressed in winter's finest. Her hair tumbled down from under a navy velvet hat, beret-style, trimmed in soft, white fur (faux of course.) Her dress was made of the same velvet, covering her baby doll arms to her wrists and stopping just below the frozen bend of her knees. The sleeves and hem of her dress were bordered by the fur trim, and her legs were covered in lacey-white stockings. Her shoes were simple Mary Janes fitting perfectly with her outfit but not distracting the extravagance of her dress. I was proud to own her, call her mine; I knew I would never be clothed like she was, but I was satisfied to hold her in my arms and pretend her life was mine. After all, what I lacked in monetary surplus, I most certainly accommodated for in imagination.

          Maybe it was no secret to my mother, but there was a reason that dolly with the velvet and fur was my choice playmate. Her clothes reminded me of the secret life of my mother, the life I never knew. My mom came to me from many miles away. Of course, I wasn't alive yet when she arrived in Alabama, but she came here for me and for my little sister. She came because she loved us even though she didn't know it yet. She left my two older brothers and my older sister. She left their father, their home, their life, and even though it hurt them so, she had to come, and she knew it, and I think now, so do they. My mother wasn't elite in her time in Chicago, but her life was a far cry from the dried beans, concrete house, and trailer plant income that awaited her in Alabama. She traded block parties, social events and Trans Ams for horseshoe tournaments, country boys downing moonshine, and pickup trucks that found themselves stuck in the mud much too often. She didn't have a job, my daddy didn't have any savings, and neither of them planned for a child, but I came anyway, and so did their new marriage, a disgusting old house, and an incredible wave of insecurity. After cleaning out a two-bedroom, one-bath house with concrete walls and concrete floors and an old wood cookstove for heat, my mom unpacked her things and settled into the South for good, and I was born just two months later. My mother gained me, but she lost so much else, including a place to wear her white rabbit fur coat, the coat that reminded me of my gorgeous porcelain doll. 

          Just like any other little girl, I was fascinated by my mother's things. Her closet consisted only of a shelf attached to the wall and a bar mounted to it for hanging, but my tiny curious fingers didn't know the difference as they rifled though shirts, pants, and the occasional dress. She had one dress that she brought with her from Chicago; it was chocolate brown, dotted with flowers, and the silky texture slipped though my hands when I traced the crisply pleated skirt. She wore it on special occasions along with a garnet ring (her birthstone.) I was delighted by that dress, but it could never hold my attention when I knew that in just a few hangers down, I would find the epitome of beauty to a six-year-old: my mother's fur coat. For so long, I never knew what was tucked away in that black garbage bag, but finally one afternoon in a moment of newfound bravery, my tiny fingernail just happened to make a tiny hole that I could slide my tiny fingertip into, and the moment my skin made contact with the soft fur underneath the plastic, I knew I had unearthed a treasure. 

          Even at six, I knew that treasures came with strings attached. I had heard enough stories and seen enough movies to understand that when someone stowed away a treasure, there was a purpose which never included anyone else finding it. Yet I couldn't imagine why on earth Mommy wouldn't want to share her beautiful white coat with me. Had she hoped it would just hang there on that rack in that black bag for all eternity, never raising any curiosity in me? Had she never wanted me to experience the elegant warmth of fur wrapped around my body? Was she afraid of the coat she kept hidden in that garbage bag? Was she ashamed? Was she hiding it from my family's eyes? From her own? The answer to all these questions, I later learned, was yes. She hid the coat to protect my little sister and me, to protect our father, to protect herself. Wrapped up inside that black plastic bag was more than just a lavish fur coat; that bag held my mother's past, a place that hurt her, that caused her pain. All I wanted to do was put on that coat, feel sophisticated and beautiful, like my precious little doll. All my mom wanted to do was bury the darkness of her hurt in a place where none of us could access it. 

          When I finally got the chance to slip my arms into the sleeves of rabbit fur, I expected my mother's face to glitter with delight, but all I saw in her expression was sadness. She couldn't see the glistening sheen of the snow-white fur or feel its decadently soft fibers. Instead, her senses were blinded by the memories of all she lost and all she gave up, and there I stood, standing in front of her, a little girl in an oversized fur coat, hoping that if I looked enough like my porcelain doll, the sight of me would make all her pain worth it. I didn't understand how the image of her daughter draped in such loveliness could make her anything but happy, but I had seen that glossed, far-away gaze in my mother's eyes before, and I knew it was time to wrap the rabbit back in blackness. The beauty of her fur coat was stained by the past it held in its seams, but all my little-girl heart could comprehend was that the pain in my mother's eyes meant I could never live up to the beauty of her past.  It was in this moment that I first began to realize the statement that would come to define the rest of my life: pain is beauty. At six years old, I learned that beauty was dangerous and that it caused pain because I understood clearly that I could never be beautiful enough to overcome my mother's hurt, no matter how many times I tried. 

          

          

Safe and Insecure

       Hello.

     My name is Megan.

     I don't believe we've met.

     Oh yes, you've seen me, but you've never gotten a close look. Sure, we've talked, but you don't really know what I'm thinking. Perhaps you've seen me weep, heard me laugh, but I know you don't really understand what I'm feeling. You see, I've made it my goal to keep you out. I've devoted every ounce of spare energy in my life to making you believe I am someone I'm really not. I do this because I am sure if you knew me, truly saw me, you would not like who I am and what I have to give. My name is Megan, and I am safe and insecure.

     Here is the girl you know:

Megan Forsyth Bolton

Graduated from WCHS in the top 10 of her class

Attended JSU on scholarship and graduated in 4 years with honors

Involved in many clubs, organizations, and honor societies in high school and in college

Hired right out of college for dream job and recognized as an outstanding first year teacher

Top 3 in system test scores every year (so far)

Tenured teacher who loves her job and her students

Incredibly close family 

Amazing best friends

Newlywed 

Woman in love with the Lord

Worshiper

Prayer Warrior

Here is the girl I know:

Megan Forsyth Bolton

Has battled with anxiety, depression, weight control, OCD, and trichotillomania for 12 years

Never had her hair styled by a professional

Wears a wig to cover years of damage and the fact that she still pulls her hair out

Spent every day of her freshman health class in dread of being in the same room with the upperclassman who made fun of her

Lives terrified that when people find out, they will think she is a freak

Lies about her problem to avoid judgement and ridicule

Serial Dater in college in an attempt to make herself feel attractive

Dealt with boyfriends telling her no one would ever "put up with you" like they did

Doesn't think her husband could possibly find her attractive without a wig on

Can't stand to look in the mirror 

Has a hard time believing she will ever be whole and healed

Feels like anything but beautiful

     

     I have spent half of my life hiding. I have spent half of my life believing I was crazy, ugly, and unworthy of love. I have lived in fear that every whisper is about me, every word of disapproval and discontentment is because of me. I have convinced myself that if I were to tell people the truth about me, I would no longer be welcomed, no longer be wanted. And so I begin every day by covering up the truth. I coat my face with foundation to cover every spot I've picked at, line my eyes, layer the mascara over my lashes, and dust my cheeks with blush. I brush my teeth for unhealthy lengths of time because I just can't stop until it feels "right," slide on my control-top spanks, and get dressed. I stand in front of the mirror and watch myself pull out hair after hair, disgusting myself with my inability to stop, and then, I put on my wig with its perfectly colored plastic strands and hide the last bit of the truth about me.

     When my students ask why my hair never grows, I brush them off. When adults ask me where I get my hair done, I tell them a lady in Hoover (I do get my hair from her, after all.) When people make comments about wanting to pull their hair out (which I notice happens quite a lot,) I focus on keeping my face calm and relaxed so as to not give myself away. I wring my hands; I bite my nails; I eat too much, and I cry, and then when I go to sleep, I dream of full, long hair, a scalp with no bald spots, how heavy real hair might feel and what it would be like to have someone play with it because it's been so long that I just can't remember. 

     For all these years, I've thought it's been so much easier to lock all my insecurities inside myself and present to the world a perfect version of me. What I've come to understand now is that while I may have felt safe hiding my insecurities, I have damaged myself so much more. I've taught myself to think that no one who knew the truth would love me, but I've never given anyone the chance to prove me wrong. 

     I harbor resentment toward girls who always talk about how much they hate their hair, how it never does anything, how they're having bad hair days. I've closed myself off from friendships because I let myself believe I'm unwanted in every way. I do not like to try new things because I cannot tolerate criticism; to me, that automatically means I am not good enough. I've drained my life of peace, joy, and fellowship because in my attempt to live safely, I've stopped living at all.

     I realize that in some instances, my battles may be extreme, may be something you cannot relate to, and yet I know, underneath the surface, you truly understand everything I'm saying. You may not pull your hair out or deal with emotional eating or obsessive teeth brushing, but I know you deal with something. Every human being does. We all have that one thing (or those 12 things) that mock us in the mirror or haunt our hearts throughout the day. We all think the best way to deal with those things is to hide them, keep those around us from knowing our struggles and our battles. After all, if they really knew the truth, how could they see us as anything but hideous? 

     We hide in our insecurities, thinking we are safe there, but the reality is we are not. When we hold our imperfections so close to our hearts, we allow them to feed on us, to grow in our minds, and to overshadow our entire lives in shame. We give them more power than they should ever have; we allow them to dictate every decision we make, every relationship we have, and every thought we speak over ourselves and others. This, my friends, is not safety. There is no safety in shame. There is no safety in fear.

     Today, I have done the one thing I've been afraid of the most: I have admitted to the whole wide world that there is so much of me that is ugly. Please do not be mistaken. I am not ugly because I have no hair or because my BMI is too high. The part of me that is ugly is the part that has allowed myself to believe for 12 years that I was unworthy, unwanted, and unloved because I have no hair and my BMI is too high. For 4,376 days, I have stood in front of a mirror and lied to myself, but today, I am telling the truth: I am not safe living inside my insecurities, and neither are you. 

    We need to see that it is not an issue or an imperfection that makes us unattractive; instead, it is our unwillingness to confront our problems that disgraces us. When we harbor our anxieties, we allow them to ensnare us, giving them complete and total control over our lives. When we speak out, when we admit the issues of our hearts and make a stand against the secrets and the lies we live with inside our minds, we take back control. When we realize we are not alone in our struggle, and we see that there are successful, beautiful, favored, and blessed people all around us who are also imperfect, we give ourselves power to look at that snarky, back-biting image in the mirror and tell it to shut up.

     Tomorrow morning when I look in the mirror, I will still see bald spots on my scalp and imperfections on my skin, but I will also see something else. I will see a woman who is loved by her Heavenly Father, by her husband, by her family, and by her friends. I will see a woman who is capable of many things (even ones she has not tried) and wants so desperately to explore the world around her. I will see a woman who was brave enough to tell the truth. I will see a woman who believes in Jehovah Rophe, the God Who heals and who restores. I will see a woman who has hope for the future.  I will see a woman who is beautiful in her imperfections.

Psalm 139

13 For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. 14 I praise youbecause I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. 15 My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, 16 your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. 17 How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! 18 Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand. When I awake, I am still with you.

Part 1: Beauty Is a Woman Named...

Beauty is a woman named

Renita Bolton.

     Two years ago this March, I began dating the son of one of the most beautiful women in the world; I just didn't know it at the time. Over the next several months, Renita would become to me a second mother, a dear friend, and a kindred spirit - someone I could count on to tell me the truth, share in my pain, and help me find beauty when I couldn't see any. I hope I did the same for her.

     Less than a month ago, this woman who grew so dear to my heart in such a short time left this world to sit at the feet of our Heavenly Father. As I stood in the receiving line at the funeral home beside her husband Tommy and her son Kyle who became my husband last June, I was blown away at the outpouring of love we received from those who knew Renita. With each passing handshake, hug, and kind word, it became evidently clear to me that I wasn't the only one who was dazzled by Renita's beauty. Today I want to try to put into words just what it is about this woman that captured so many. I think I can explain in two simple truths.

1. Her love for God and her faith in Him drove her life.

     I have never in all my life met a woman more optimistic than my mother-in-law. Some may point out that's not saying a whole lot for me because it seems that the females in my family (including myself) tend to be eternal pessimists, but I fully know that regardless of the scale on which I have to measure, Renita is the brightest light. The entire time I knew her, her life was what most would deem a struggle. Shortly after I met her, she was forced to quit working due to her health. This alone broke her heart, but the difficulty it brought to her home would've been enough to crush anyone's spirit. Oh yes, she had hard days. I sat across from her at the kitchen table on several occasions sharing tears over the past and sorrows about the present, but for Renita, there was always a light at the end of the tunnel. It didn't matter how long she cried, when it was over, she would set her eye on the hope of the future.

     She found this hope in one place alone: her relationship with Jesus Christ. It still amazes me the faith this woman had. She countered every harsh reality with a promise from God. To be honest, right after she passed away, I felt so angry with God because I kept calling to mind all those promises she stood on, and I just didn't feel that those promises had been fulfilled. I couldn't have been further from the truth. Regardless of what we here on Earth desired, Renita had her ultimate hope for the future fulfilled: meeting her Savior face to face. It was His life in her that made her truly beautiful. 

    2. Meeting her just once could change your life forever. 

     I've always heard those little inspirational quotes about crossing paths and being forever changed or how one person had the potential to offset another's chosen direction with simply a smile. While these words were always beautiful thoughts, I never found them to be beautiful truths until I met my mother-in-law. I promise you the woman didn't go anywhere that she didn't impact someone's life. She always wore a smile, and laughter was constantly dancing on her lips. Her words were full of encouragement and zeal, and while sometimes they carried a bite (especially to those who knew her well,) she made a point to speak truth and life.

     Renita was a nurse by trade, but her capacity to care for others went far beyond any learned bedside manner; it was truly a gift from God. When you looked into her eyes, you felt sincerity. When she hugged you, her embrace spoke of overwhelming love. She was a mother to more than just her son, a sister to more than just her brother. She was a woman who knew no stranger and who looked for the good in everything and everyone. She was capable of pulling beauty out of the ugliest situations and if truth be told, out of the ugliest people. Her whole life reflected the beauty of the world around her.

     Beauty is a woman named Renita. Yes, she had warm, honey eyes, thick hair that could hold a curl, and a smile that lit up the entire world, but these outward traits were only a fraction of her beauty. Her beauty was found in her Heavenly Father's love for her, the love that she shared with everyone she met. Her beauty was in the way she made those around her feel: special, important, victorious. Her beauty was the hope she kept hidden in her heart, the hope she fostered against all odds and poured out to those who were hurting as well. 

     It is my hope to do for others what she did for me. I want to take the love and the kindness and the truth that she gave to me, that God gave to me through her, and pour it out on others. I want to be the kind of person who is full of life and love and laughter. I want to be the kind of person who seeks out all of God's beauty in all of God's creations and opens others' eyes and hearts to all the good there is to be found. In some of my darkest moments of doubt, shame, hurt, and fear, Renita helped me find light. She taught me how to see beauty in myself that I had never noticed before. I want to be one who can do that for others. After all, what good is beauty buried beneath dirt or hidden by the dust of the past? Truly beauty is meant to be shared and enjoyed. I am eternally thankful Renita's was shared with me.

The Truth About Scars

          Before my husband Kyle and I were ever engaged, he had a severe gallbladder attack and had to have the nasty little thing removed, and it was exactly that: a nasty little thing. What should have taken just a couple of hours turned into six. His family and I sat quietly in the waiting room, the silence being broken only by the ring of the telephone indicating to us the doctor had news. For the first few hours, it seemed the phone rang on the hour every hour, the speaker on the other line giving us increasingly uncomfortable updates. After several failed attempts to remove the gallbladder laparoscopicly, the doctor decided to go about it the old-fashioned way: slice open the skin and remove the organ. Of course, this meant more time in the OR, a longer recovery, and one heck of a scar. 

          I remember distinctly a moment after Kyle (finally) had the drainage tube and the staples removed. He was standing in front of a mirror with his shirt lifted up staring intently at the scar that now very noticeably covers a section of his abdomen. He turned toward me and asked in a somber tone, "Does this scar make me unattractive?" My heart sank into the pit of my stomach, uneasily settling there as I searched for words that would heal. Was that scar in its fresh, tender, reddened state something I considered ugly? Absolutely. Did it make the man I loved and wanted to share my life with unattractive? Absolutely not. 

          We all have scars. Some of us have physical marks that smudge our flesh, reminding us of searing pain, trouble, or anguish. Some of us are pocked with emotional and mental scars that limit us in our pursuit of healthy lives filled with joy. We all have moments from our past that darken the light of our futures. We have all, at some point, carried blemishes, and what is more burdensome than the weight all of our imperfections combined is the question we ask over and over: "Does this make me unlovable?" The answer is quite simply this: no.

          The truth about scars is yes, they are ugly, but we don't have to let their appearances in our lives dictate the way we look at ourselves. When we see our defects staring back at us from a mirror, we are flooded with feelings of inadequacy, doubt, and regret. It's easier to believe we are unwanted than it is to see the beauty beyond the scars. Please, though, consider this: does one torn corner of a hundred-dollar bill decrease its worth? Does one missing petal from the bud of a rose subtract from its beauty? Stop wondering if your scars make you unforgivably repulsive, and wonder instead why you are giving them so much power. Look squarely in the face at the person in the mirror and ask the only question that truly matters, "Does one ugly moment define my entire life?"

The answer is quite simply this: no.