How dare she?

I was set out to tell my story a few weeks ago. The story of overcoming challenges and rising above the ashes and blooming from adversity. And so, obviously, I'd start with what seemed like the worst year of my life. The year of the sudden and swift downfall of my marriage, ending in divorce. It was easy to start there.

But what about the part where my second child almost died? Scratch that, he technically did die for a little bit. And then returned to us a different child who lost all of his abilities, who didn't even know me - his mother - and who would live a very different life than what he was born into.

That didn't quite tell the story so I was reminded that I never really talk about having a baby at the age of 17, graduating early, going to college, and getting a degree with a small child in tow. Because, to me, it was so long ago. And really no big deal, honestly. We're talking nineteen years ago. People do it all the time, don't they?

No. That wasn't it. If I was going to tell my story I was going to have to take it back. Way back to the beginning. Not birth. But early childhood. One of my earliest memories. And how it would define the very experiences and patterns showing up over and over again, even in my thirty-seventh year of life. 

Before telling my story to a room full of women, I hesitated. I didn't know if they were ready for all that. I didn't know if I was ready to divulge all that. I'm the uplifter. The overcomer. Was this a little too raw? A little too vulnerable?

I've done some learnin' recently. The kind that flips your soul inside out. And I've recently learned that vulnerability is the key to true connection. So this is where I'll do it. This is where I'll tell my story. This place is where I'll take risks and dare sharing. Because why? Because CONNECTION. The "me, too" over shared experiences and feelings...that's my drug.

Consider it selfish or self indulgent, if you want. I consider it life saving. Life giving.

And How Dare She? On my way to my friend's podcast I was thinking about all the things I could talk about, the dirty details of my story, downfalls and fearless overcoming. Over and over I kept hearing the phrase - how dare she? as a running theme in my head.

How dare she be a mother so young?

How dare she go to school?

How dare she be happy?

How dare she not wallow in tragedy?

How dare she not martyr herself?

How dare she not lose it on social media and drag everyone through the mud? (That's my favorite.)

How dare she post that picture?

How dare she be so confident?

How dare she say that?

How dare she write that?

How dare she speak up?

How dare she survive?

How dare she?

How dare she?

How dare she...

I've never been a huge risk taker, at least not by a traditional definition. But I guess I've had what I like to call unreasonable confidence more often than not that has made me brave enough to dare without even knowing it. Because sometimes even daring to get out of bed in the morning when you know what is facing you is an absolute risk of survival and safety. But you dare to do it anyway out of sheer hope that putting one foot in front of the other will take you where you need to go. And it usually does.

Consider this new space for my story telling my figurative getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other to get where I need to go. 

Dare accepted. Risk executed. So here goes...