Say Its Name.

Language has so much power. While in college, I had to take a linguistic anthropology class, which was as boring as the name suggests and seemed like a tremendous waste of my time. I admit that I was a terrible student in that class and spent 90% of my time on Facebook or reading pointless articles, thus I probably missed many profound moments with that specific professor... until the very last day of class. On that day, I had actually forgotten my laptop at home and was forced to pay attention to the knowledge being dropped upon the class- I feel very fortunate that I did. My professor ended the course with a quote from Ludwig Wittgenstein... "The limits of my language means the limit of my world."

Think about that one for a minute. Have you ever tried to explain something to a toddler? At times, it can feel impossible because the scope of their language feels so small and limits how you can describe, explain, and teach them. Language has so much power over our way of understanding, our way of defining the world around us. That is why it is critical to start using the right words when tackling mental illness. There is so much power, so much freedom in language.

For example, I recently found myself wedged in the middle of a conflict between someone close to me and their parents. I like to think that I know the person quite well and am able to have open, genuine conversations with them. They know my story... they helped me find the confidence and vulnerability to share it with others. I know that they sometimes struggle with depression as well. We can talk about our good days and our bad days... mental illness is a conversation topic we do not shy away from. Yet the same cannot be said about my friend's relationship with their parents. The word 'depression' is somewhat taboo. Instead, they refer to feelings and behaviors as "moodiness".

I get it. Sometimes depression can manifest itself in ways that others may perceive as "being moody". Sometimes I describe myself as moody AF, a result of my lingering teenage angst coupled with a ongoing love for My Chemical Romance and Panic at the Disco. But reducing depression to simply moodiness creates a host of problems that can cause great harm to the sufferer. When people complain that someone is moody, they may tell them to change their attitude or (if you are a woman) they may ask you if it is 'that time of the month'. Depression is an illness, not an attitude choice. It can seriously impair daily life and should not simply be reduced to PMS or moodiness or having a gloomy outlook.

For when we use the wrong language, we transform the power to get better into stigma and shame. Instead of being able to seek help for a treatable mental illness, sufferers may become hard on themselves, feel embarrassment, and exacerbate an already difficult situation. As my professor once explained, language can limit our world... but it can also liberate us. Say its name- depression.

Goodbye, Armor.

Next week, I start the process of moving for the 2nd time since July... 9th time since 2008. By this point, I have mastered the art of moving to a new home- I know the best ways to package dishes, how to transition my cat to a new place, and the list goes on. This time is a little bit different though. This time, I am moving into the house that my fiance and I purchased together. There are a million things that I am freaking out about. This will be my first time with a roommate since college. We are buying a FREAKING HOUSE. We will have a mortgage and lawn and things to fix all on our own. I feel like I am able to jump into the ride of my life. I will write more about the process as we tackle each obstacle, starting today.

Today, I took on a massive challenge. Today, I downsized my closet.

I know, that sounds absolutely ridiculous. How can getting rid of clothes be so hard? Isn't that the most first-world, stereotypical woman thing you've ever heard? Let me explain...

Getting rid of clothes is impossibly hard for me. Over the last 10 years, I have worked so hard to keep an imagine- the girl that is well-dressed, pulled together, and perfect in every way. By wearing this armor of pretty clothes, I kept people from knowing my secret. By looking the part, I thought I could trick people into believing that I was okay... maybe, I could trick even myself. Clothes protected me from the stigma associated with mental illness. They disguised my depression. They fed my anxiety.

Now that I am on the road to becoming myself- the person I am choosing to be beyond the mental illness- I am ready to start leaving that armor behind. Staring at me from across the room are 7 boxes of clothes ready to find a new home. This time, they are no longer armor. They are just clothes. This is one little battle, but it feels amazing to win nonetheless.

The Day After The Day About Love.

Valentine's Day is weird. Nearly everyone falls into two camps when it comes to feelings about the day- you either adore it and spend all day wrapped in bliss or you hate it and spend all day lamenting about how awful love is. For ten years, I thought that the only boyfriend that would ever stick around would be depression; we had a horribly unhealthy relationship, but he always stuck around even when I tried to date someone else. When I was ready to take (yet another) break from dating, I just happened to match with a smooth talker who convinced me that he deserved a chance. On one of our first dates, I could not stop myself from spilling every detail of my struggle with mental illness with this introverted, quiet man that had no idea what to expect from the loud redhead that he met through online dating. For some insane reason, he asked me out again and again and again- even after that embarrassing lack of constraint on that date.

About three months later, I woke up with high anxiety and knew that I was close to a breakdown. He could tell something was wrong just by looking at my face and soon found himself holding me as wrapped myself in a blanket burrito and sobbed uncontrollably. With a tear streaked face, I asked him if he thought I was crazy and if he still wanted to be with me. I had been through this before- meet a man, start to fall for him, and then the depression and anxiety scares him away. But this time proved to be different; he pushed the hair out of my face and said “I have been waiting for this. I want to see the real you- all of you. The perfectly imperfect you.”

I fell in love with someone who sees my mental illness as just another thing that makes me unique and wonderful. On the days that feel impossibly hard, he encourages me to try to take one step- get out of bed- and then another- make coffee- and another, until I feel confidently enough to take on the day. He reminds me to take my medication every day- he is a pharmacist after all- and tells me to focus on breathing when I feel an anxiety attack creeping in. I brought my mental illness to this relationship, but that doesn’t mean that it has control over us. My mental illness is a challenge that we embrace together, every day.

In October, we are getting married. My anxiety tends to be a party crasher and will probably show up without RSVPing, but we are ready. In life and love, there is nothing that is impossible when you have the hope and fight in you to keep pushing on.

PS Check out Ryan & Alyssa Photography! They took this amazing picture of us.

Little Women with Big Voices.

The last month has been impossibly hard. Each day, I wake up afraid of what horrible thing that I will see in the media or what outrageous thing has happened in our world. I have felt scared, alone, angry, and useless. I am a worrier- it is in my blood. Living in a Trump presidency feel impossible because there is so much unpredictability that my brain can't help but think of the worst in every situation. Repeal ACA? My anxious brain tells me that I am going to lose my health insurance and not be able to afford my medications. Turn public education into a private money-maker? I am worried about my students, my job, my future children. I hope that my fear is irrational, but I cannot help but worry.

With all of this fear, worry, anxiety sitting on my chest, how could I possibly think about writing this blog, seeking opportunities to further advocate for mental health and wellness, or even contemplate continuing to tell the stories that are buried within me? My voice feels so small compared to the chaos in our world. So I fell silent.

And then, I had a realization... silence is my safety blanket. From the day I was diagnosed until the day I put this video into the world, I had used silence to protect myself from the harsh reality that people may see me differently if they know that I live with a mental illness. For so long I had let being silent keep me safe from judgement, but in doing so had pushed people away, lied to those that I love, and fought my battle alone. In silence, there is comfort laced with ignorance. Staying comfortable means nothing changes.

That is my challenge- in this time of uncertainty and fear, find your voice and use it. Whatever ignites your soul, share it with others. That is the only way we will ever overcome that challenges that lie in front of us.

I Won't Be Silent.

I haven't wrote anything in a while. I have been afraid, ashamed- my confidence shaken. A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with someone that I look up to and they revealed (with no intended malice) that people had been talking about me and my willingness to be open about my struggle with mental illness. Hearing my story made people uncomfortable. In a small Southern town, such topics are not discussed out in the open... they are reserved for back porches and whispered breath.

Nearly a year after I had first shared my story through a video, I was heartbroken, embarrassed, scared, and uncertain. Had I made the right choice? Is my story worth sharing? Am I doing more harm than good? These questions filled my thoughts and made it impossible to even consider writing- wouldn't I just be giving "the talkers" more ammunition?

The last month has been FULL of changes and challenges. I have questioned whether or not my story is worth sharing. I have gotten engaged and started wedding planning. I have struggled with horrible anxiety. I have decided to move (again) for the 7th time in 8.5 years. I have finally figured out "what's next" in terms of my career. It has been easy to put off things like self-care, blogging, pursuing what makes me happy- storytelling.

But today, that changes. I have been so lucky to attend a general assembly for a fantastic group that focuses on the health and wellness of college students. We got to take best worst selfies together, talk about vulnerability and courage, and tackle the insane task of learning to love ourselves. I got to ask my favorite question- how are you... no really, how are you?

The bravery that I saw in that room reminded me of why it is so important to keep talking about the difficult topics. We cannot be silent. We must continue to tell stories to change lives. Because the most powerful weapon against fear is love and learning to love yourself may be the ultimate training for that battle.

From the Psychiatrist's Office.

Today, I had my usual 3-month check in with my psychiatrist and once again had to face one of my biggest anxieties... The waiting room.

This room fills me with dread before I even step foot into it. I know there will be other people there and we will all shift our eyes around the room to avoid eye contact, pondering what has brought each of us here. Someone will sneak a look my way and think "wow, she is too young to be seeing a psychiatrist- I wonder what happened to her." Another person will stare at their shoes with a heart full of shame, embarrassed to be seen in a mental health center. It is an uncomfortable place with tension pulsing through the air.

That is why I always smile at every person who walks through the door.

At first, it was a way to cope with my own anxiety, but it has since evolved into a personal mission of sorts. I want the people around me to know that it is okay not to be okay. I hope that they know that simply being in that office is a monstrous step towards getting better. My smile is my weapon to combat the awkwardness that fills the room.

Today was no different until a conversation began to unfold around me. I was flanked by a middle aged man who arrived way too early for his appointment, and in front of me sat an elderly woman I have seen many times before. They started chatting- small talk really- and then began to unpack the reasons why there were there.

My smile dropped and my heart sank. The woman brought up that she has been seeing our psychiatrist for 20 years. 20 YEARS. I felt tears well up in my eyes as a thought about my future- will I be sitting in this chair 20 years from now? How long will I have to take these medications? Is my future always going to be shared with my mental illness?

The man then asked the question whose answer I needed to hear- "have you gotten better?"

"Oh yes!" the woman exclaimed. She went on to tell us how her medication hasn't changed in 10 years and she is very stable. She told us about her children and grandchildren, about her husband that has now since passed away but gave her the best years of her life, and about the amazing things she had done over the last 20 years.

In this woman, I saw my future. Yes, I will probably always be dealing with my depression and anxiety. But that won't stop me from living a full life. You can be all the things you want to be and do all the things you want to do- even with a mental illness. Life does not end at the beginning of the diagnosis.

This is My Brave.

This Is My Brave, Inc., a 501(c)3 non-profit organization (http://thisismybrave.org) is the leading platform for individuals to share their stories of living successful lives despite a diagnosis of a mental health disorder through artistic expression (spoken word poetry, original music and essay readings) on stage in front of a live audience. We're opening up the conversation about mental health disorders in communities all across the country and beyond via our YouTube channel.

We're shining a light on mental illness because it has been in the dark too long. We're ending mental illness stigma, one story at a time.

"This Is My Brave - the Show" - 2016 Greenville performance

May 5, 2016 The Kroc Center, Greenville SC

Donate to This Is My Brave, Inc. to help us continue to shine a light on mental illness: http://thisismybrave.org/donate/

My Depression Diet

Have you ever felt guilty after eating something you just know you shouldn't eat? Maybe tried slipping into your favorite jeans to realize that they are just a little too snug and then regretting every donut you have ever eaten? What about looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing nothing but every flaw? Now imagine those thoughts screaming at you non-stop, getting louder until you can't hear anything else. Welcome to your body with depression.

Recently, I decided that I was going to cut all refined sugar from my diet. Why you ask? Because I had convinced myself that cutting refined sugar would bring me closer to finding a mind-body connection, something that I have been seeking to reach ever since I started therapy again almost 2 years ago. The result was far from any sort of connection- I was grouchy, miserable, and craving Diet Coke, my kryptonite. But I did gain something: control.

Reflecting back on the day that I decided to cut sugar, I was knee-deep in stress from the end of the semester, working on my biggest project of the year, and confronting a nasty problem at work. I felt like I was losing control, so I looked for the easiest thing I could have power over: what I ate. This isn't the first time I have manipulated my diet or denied myself food in order to feel like I had some tiny bit of control in my life. This has been my relationship with food for the last 10 years. This has been my depression diet.

Although I have never been diagnosed with an eating disorder nor would I consider my eating habits to be distinctly unhealthy, I do acknowledge the fact that living with depression has forced me to be hyperaware of how I am treating my body. In the pursuit of the unattainable perfection I have always sought, I have tried to push myself towards a body that is perfect. Any pants above a size zero won't do, wearing a size medium shirt crushes my self-esteem. This has sometimes led to trying "get skinny fast" tricks or working out to my body's limit. Not being able to reach my dream body type overnight then led to deeper depression and a stronger feeling of helpless, thus pushing me to seek out ways to find control. It is an unending, unpleasant, and potentially dangerous cycle.

I believe that there is a way out. Learning to respect your body is one of the hardest things to accomplish when trying to overcome a mental illness. I have been angry at my body for cursing me with this illness, for not living up to my outrageous demands for perfection, for betraying me with its weakness. I have starved it, punished it, and disrespected it. But this body- stricken with depression and anxiety- is strong, resilient, and beautiful. It deserves to be loved as such.

I am still learning to love the body that I have lived with for 25 years. I am starting to give my body the respect it demands. Simply being aware of my eating habits and not letting myself get wrapped up in the numbers on the scale or how my jeans are fitting is the first, tiny step. Forgiving my body for its faults and pushing it towards new challenges is the next. Eventually, I hope love will come.

In the meantime, I am never, EVER giving up Diet Coke again.

3-Fold Truths.

Sometimes a routine eye doctors appointment can lead to the worst of anxiety- this is my story about how a quest for new glasses turned into a fear of blindness. Thank you for any good vibes you can send.

PS- Sorry about the rude puppy and growling in the background. Minnie sometimes feeds off my anxiety and can get a little rowdy... but that is for another post.

Tonight.

Tonight, I am angry. Furious at the universe for cursing me with this life. All week, things have been going wrong- nothing on my to-do list has been accomplished, my truck needed more repairs for the second week in a row, my body is tired and achy, my time spent at work has felt meaningless, I have pushed my boyfriend away (again), and experienced failure in the harshest way. For a "normal" person, this may just seem like a bad week. But for me (and my friends, depression and anxiety) this week is a downward spiral towards a really negative place. Tonight, I want to scream and cry and rip from my chest this feeling of crushing defeat. My tongue becomes a weapon, ready to lash out at anyone who tries to reason with me. "Everything is going to be okay. Things happen for a reason. Next week will be better." Every cell in my body is screaming in reply- you are wrong. I want to show them how wrong they are by breaking them down with my words. I want to bring them to my level so I am not so alone in this pit of despair.

Tonight, I am self-aware. I can feel my racing heartbeat in my toes, my muscles tensing up, and my skin becoming claustrophobic. I feel trapped in the muggy heat of my own body. The breathing exercises, the mantras, the medication, the habits, the triggers. I know what they all are, how they play into this disease, and how I can use them to move myself towards a better place. But I am tired of fighting a battle that I know will not end- I am disgusted with this body for betraying me with its chemical imbalances, hormones, and the broken neurotransmitters.

Tonight, I am my disorder. I am a living, breathing caricature of the chronic depressive disorder, generalized anxiety, and obsessive compulsive behaviors cocktail that lives in my brain. I don't like it- I hate it quite honestly. This disease that drags me to the darkest of places. That causes me to lose control of my emotions, my physical being, and my own stream of consciousness. That causes me to embarrass myself by crying in the middle of an aisle at Lowe's because they don't have a plant I want. I am no longer me- the pieces of my identity are overshadowed by my disorder.

Tomorrow, I will keep fighting. I will do whatever it takes to pull myself from this awful place I am in tonight. It may take weeks or days- I didn't come here overnight and I won't be able to leave the same way. I will stick to my therapy plan and I will force myself to prevail. This is a battle that will never end, but that doesn't mean that I am going to quit. Not tonight.

Bad Eyebrows.

Sometimes, depression can sneak up on you- coming out of nowhere to hit you like a semi-truck. It starts leaving its hints of its arrival days or weeks before it actually settles in. Little things like taking an extra 10 or 15 minutes to fall asleep or not really being hungry come meal-times. For me, there is one thing that always gives away the impending arrival of my old friend depression- bad eyebrows. When I start to fall into a low period, I find myself caring less and less about how I look- I won't take the time to do my makeup or fix my hair or most drastically, pluck my eyebrows. All of a sudden, I will look in the mirror and realize that those two furry caterpillars on my face are the sign that I might need to take a mental health day to take care of myself. How do I feel? Where am I on the scale- 1 being happy and 10 being depressed? Have I experienced any triggers recently? Have I been taking my medication?

They say (whoever 'they' are) that you should never take advice from someone with bad eyebrows. However, I am going to challenge that as I sit in front of my computer screen with some pretty terrible eyebrows that haven't been attended to in about 2 weeks and ask you to take some advice from someone who is still learning to figure out how to navigate the world of depression. Learn what the signs of depression are for you. Whether you have chronic depression or just tend to fall into small bouts of it from time to time, knowing what the signs are will help you get better quicker. You can step in front of the sadness, frustration, and apathy to start addressing what may be causing those feeling. You can can overcome.

Find your equivalent of bad eyebrows. It may make all the difference.

Beyond Brave.

It has been a little over a week since I told the story of my first suicide attempt at the Greenville show of 'This Is My Brave'. It has taken me all this time to figure out how to put my thoughts into words-the fear of backlash that had me holding my breath for days, the numerous stories shared with me as a result of the show, and the overwhelming support and love I have since received. In the audience at the show were several of my most favorite human beings- my mother, my father, my boyfriend, my boss's boss, and 2 of the amazing faculty I work with. While we rehearsed earlier in the day, I couldn't stop shaking and was so anxious that I actually thought about bolting from the room. I couldn't stop thinking about how risky this was- what if my story changes the way that people think about me? What if my parents are angry at me? What if my coworkers see me as incompetent? What if, like so many times before, the audience sees my story as a ploy for attention?

As the time to take the stage drew closer, I sat in the lobby of the venue, practicing my breathing exercises and repeating the silly manta I use to calm myself- you are the sun, you are the moon, you are the stars. I was surrounded by an odd medley of people- a Jewish rabbi with bipolar disorder, a 17 year old beauty battling anorexia, an anxious mother of 2 in whom I saw my future self. As we stood to go to the stage together, an overwhelming sense of calm came over me- I was ready to share my story and I was going to do it with the support of these amazing individuals around me.

Doing 'This Is My Brave' was one of the most daunting things I had ever done. Yet, from that experience, I feel that I have developed a deeper sense of understanding of my own disorder- it isn't something to be afraid or ashamed of. Instead, it is something to share with others, to use to help people suffering through the same diagnosis. There is so much power and strength in being able to talk about what haunts us- we are all battling demons... why not help each other overcome them?

Your story will save lives.

Since the show, I have been blown away by how many people have reached out to me to share their stories about their struggles with mental illness. 'This Is My Brave' opened the door for others to find their courage, to know that they are not alone, and to reach out for help through friendship. I have been touched by the love and support I have received. Individuals that I barely know all the way to friends that have been with me most my life have reached out to express how proud they are and want to know how they can help. My biggest fear going into the show was that my father would be upset by my story- a story that I kept hidden from him for nearly 7 years. Instead, 'This Is My Brave' allowed us to have our first direct conversation about my disorder, address some previous miscommunications, and grow closer as a family.

Finding the words to describe my experience has been challenging, but I think I may have it: 'This Is My Brave' isn't about finding bravery. Each and every performer on that stage found their bravery the moment they decided to get better, in whatever form that may be for them. 'This Is My Brave' isn't about sharing what makes us brave. For many of us, the stories we told are just a snapshot of what we are dealing with. Our battles will never end, yet we have the courage to continue to face them. 'This Is My Brave' is about challenging normalcy and helping others tackle whatever they may be going through by letting them know they are not alone.

Be brave. Always be brave.

Family Secrets.

When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder in September of 2009, I made the promise to myself that no one would ever know. I wanted everyone who met me to think I was perfect- an unattainable goal that no one can ever meet. A mental illness would mean that I wasn't perfect; that I was broken and flawed, a reject from God's assembly line. The shame of having a mental illness would drive me to great extremes, including lying to friends, family, boyfriends, and bosses. If my depression chained me to my bed for a day, my excuse was that "my car wouldn't start" or I had "caught a stomach bug". If I couldn't contain my emotions- sadness, anger, anxiety- then I was "just on my period". This sham went on for nearly 6 years. I was afraid that, if people found out about my mental illness, then everything that the depression and anxiety had been telling me would be true. No one would love me. My friends would leave me. My family would be embarrassed of me. As the years (and therapy sessions) went by, I started to overcome this fear and became more and more comfortable with sharing my story with others. First, my sorority sisters, then boyfriends and other friends. But I could never find the courage to talk to my family about it.

I am so very blessed with two of the most amazing parents on the planet, a sister who is both my foil and my soulmate, and an army of aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins, and people who aren't biologically related, yet absolutely part of my family. I was so deeply ashamed of my diagnosis- the idea that I could possibly bring shame to them was paralyzing. Mulan had nothing on me...

"Dishonor. Dishonor on your whole family. Make a note of this- dishonor on you. Dishonor on your cow." -Mushu to Mulan, Disney's Mulan (1998)

The thing that truly scared me the most was that I was afraid that they would blame themselves. That they would see my depression as a result of something that they did- that they weren't loving enough or didn't give me enough attention. Often, when trying to process mental illness, people seek something or someone to blame. I was terrified they would think it was their fault, that it would hurt them, or bring them guilt. That would be the farthest thing from the truth ever possible. I had an amazing childhood. I come from a family that bubbles over with love for each other. Although far from perfect, my family is perfect to me. The idea that they may feel like they were to blame for my mental illness felt like it may kill me. I couldn't bare to think of it.

So I decided that they would never know. The manager of our insurance account, my mom knew I was seeing a therapist and that I was struggling with anxiety and some depression- but what college student isn't? She would get the bills from my doctors, so there was no use trying to hide everything from her. But my dad and my sister? I couldn't let them know. I couldn't let the facade of the perfect daughter and sister drop.

That is, until I decided to start this blog. While home for Christmas break this past year, I knew I needed to tell them myself rather than let them read about it secondhand. I sat down in my father's office- him behind his desk, I in the recliner across from him and my mother on the bench next to me. I remember that my mom was doing laundry in the adjacent room so I could smell the clean, fresh scent of detergent- I thought "please help me clean this air, make this easier". Through tears, sobs, and snot, I explained to my parents that I had been struggling with a mental illness for years and that I was going to start sharing this story, my story- with them and with strangers. My dad's response?

"Okay. You know I love you and am going to support you no matter what."

It felt so anticlimactic. I had waited nearly 6 years to tell them that I was sick and the response I got felt so easy and relaxed. Like I had just told them that I was starting a new job or buying a new car. That's when I realized that it didn't matter that I had a mental illness, I was still me. My depression and anxiety had never defined me, thus my family saw me for who I was. I was the one who had built up this idea that their love could be swayed by the revelation that I was not their perfect daughter or sister. Their love would never change- mental illness is no match for a family's love.

And for that, I am most thankful.

This is My Brave... Almost.

Next Thursday, I am taking my first leap of faith and sharing part of my story with strangers at the Kroc Center in downtown Greenville. The show is May 5th at 8pm and tickets (plus more information) can be found HERE.

April Fools.

"Am I a fool? I don't think I'm a fool. But I think I sure was fooled." - Kenneth Lay

This year, I almost got through April Fools without incident. That is, until about 6:00pm, when I received a text message from my boyfriend (who happens to be a pharmacist at a children's hospital) that explained that he was involved in a medicine error that caused a child serious brain damage and could have cost him his job and license. Looking back, this was probably hysterical as I texted him asking if everything was okay and then sent a slew of expletive-riddled tirades about how mean he is after he broke the news that it was all a joke. I mean, any logical person would have probably seen through his ruse because how likely was a 1-in-a-million error like this to happen on April Fools Day.

However, there is something different with an anxiety brain. Instead of thinking "oh, he must be joking", I immediately jumped past the thought of April Fools and started running through every worst case scenario in my head- how would I support us both financially? What about the dreams that we have created together?  How can I manage my depression and the inevitable depression that would come from a situation like this? What if he becomes suicidal?

As I sat in my living room- waiting for the punchline, my stomach twisted into knots, I felt like I would vomit, and I started breathing exercises to avoid a full-blown panic attack. None of this is logical, yet it is something that I experience often. An email that come across as scolding, a text message that seems too short, or a frustrated glance can trigger feelings of anxiety- what did I do wrong? Is there something wrong with me? Is everyone mad at me? Am I annoying? April Fools Day is my least favorite day throughout the year, as it seems to play into my anxious mind and thus turns me into a hot mess express headed towards dysfunction junction.

My poor, sweet, amazing boyfriend then felt the needs to apologize over and over again, as he never intended to trigger my anxiety. He felt bad that he upset me; I felt bad that he was feeling bad. This amazing human being, who supports me through thick and thin, loves me for all of me, and tries his best to understand my mental illness, tried to play a little joke that (on anyone else) would have been hilarious and my anxious brain turned the entire thing into an ordeal.

One positive thing has come from this whole experience- forgiveness. Although salty for a few hours, I did forgive the datemate for freaking me out. He forgave me for the harsh things I said in a state of anxiety. But most importantly, I forgave myself. Many times I have found myself replaying similar situations and getting angry at myself for being overreactive or overemotional. I have anxiety- it is going to cause some awkward situations, but that's okay. My anxious brain doesn't control me- I can forgive myself and I can live a life bigger than my mental illness.

Dream Big. Do Bigger.

I have always been somewhat of a "head in the clouds" kinda person- imagining the world how I would like it to be and the person I hoped to become. When I was in 1st grade, I was actually nominated for & won the Disney "Dreamers and Doers" Award for enacting positive change in my community. As a 6 year old, I had no idea what that truly meant- to be a dreamer and doer- and yet, that has become such a huge piece of who I am today. As children, we all have crazy dreams. I wanted to be a figure skater, country music star, crime scene investigator, wife by 21 years old, and mother by 25 years old. None of that really worked out and I am REALLY thankful that it didn't- I am sure as hell not ready to be a momma and I pass out at the sight of blood so CSI definitely wouldn't have worked out well. Dreams evolve and grow, they give us vision for the future, and are the driving force in helping us find our path.

Somehow, between becoming a figure skater and landing my first job as a fraternity/sorority life advisor, my dream became to help, inspire, challenge others through the power of storytelling. Today, that dream came true. Today, I joined ForCollegeForLife as a professional college speaker, dedicated to breaking down the stigma surrounding mental illness and advancing fraternity/sorority life. A dream that seemed so unreal, so impossible came true today.

For years, I have told myself "not yet, you aren't ready, you can't do this". I have sifted through doubt, fear of failure, and self-set boundaries. The one thing, the only thing that can help overcome this overwhelming feeling of "I can't" is a deafening, resilient, unwavering sense of courage. Courage to dream big and do bigger. Where's your courage? What would YOU do without expectations, boundaries, or fear of failure? Do that.

"Have the courage to touch the butt" -Finding Nemo

What's in a Name?

Curiosity, Courage, and Cake. Sounds like a new show on TLC, doesn't it? Unfortunately, for those of you that still have a hole in your heart after the cancellation of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, this isn't a new TV show. Its not the latest cupcake cookbook; its not the tagline of the next Alice in Wonderland movie.

It is a way of thinking that has helped me overcome some of the most difficult challenges I have faced in my short, but chaotic lifetime. I created this website to help others discover how a little bit of curiosity can change your entire life... a whole lot of courage is necessary if you are gonna make it out there... and there is nothing, NOTHING that can't be made a little bit better with cake.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." --Maya Angelou

Every experience, interaction, moment in time helps to define who we are and where we will go. Sharing stories is how we, as a society, shape our reality. Sometimes, it is easy to boil all of what has shaped us down into three little words- curiosity, courage, and cake- and other times, it take a novel. This is my story.