Redemption for Misfits

At least once a week my clients ask me why I decided to become a counselor. I always give them a short answer about all the other classes I took before realizing social work was my path to helping kids, and this week I was asked if I ever wanted to be a teacher.

The truth is, before I was ever interested in counseling or social work, there was a time where I very briefly took some education courses during college.

I quickly learned that I was not gifted in the areas of arts and crafts or patience with large groups of children, and while teachers do so much more than this, those deficits of mine alone were enough to turn me away from a classroom.

Flash forward to today, many years post-grad, and those same deficits are the reasons that I have never thought I would be a good school counselor. I do group therapy multiple times a week, but even just the thought of working with groups all day and having to create therapeutic bulletin boards brings my stress level to an all-time high. I just don’t think that is where my strengths lie, and that is okay.

So earlier this week when I was approached with the proposition to decorate our entire secure facility, I was a little taken aback.

Anyone who has a conversation with me for longer than 10 minutes between the months of October and January quickly catches on to my affinity for Christmas and the entire winter season.

Ever since I can remember, I was collecting vintage Christmas sweaters, asking for Christmas-themed birthday parties, and planning “12 Days of Christmas” activities for me and my friends.

Some may say I am a bit of a Christmas fanatic.

Initially, I was flattered and a little bit proud of myself that my love for the holidays had earned me the opportunity to decorate the facility for my kids who will be spending their Christmases and New Year’s Days away from their families in khaki jumpsuits.

My excitement quickly disappeared as I was shown the materials I had to work with.

With only construction paper, a few wreaths, some rolls of half-used wrapping paper, and some ornaments, I was to be tasked with decorating an entire lock-down facility for the kids who need the most Christmas cheer.

So I went to the store, bought some tinsel and ribbon, and headed to my most-dreaded phone application for inspiration: Pinterest.

Nothing against the crafty types, but like I said earlier, I lack both the patience and natural artistic ability needed to be remotely gifted with anything creative or artistic, so what seemed momentarily as an opportunity to decorate for my kids quickly turned into a daunting challenge that I was beginning to dread.

On top of this, my cynicism about our lack of resources was quickly taking hold of me. I started to wonder if this facility is really where I’m supposed to be: I love my kids and the work I do, but I began to resent this extra challenge that took away so much time from my clinical work. “I did not get a license to do crafts,” I would tell myself as I struggled to find time to treatment plan and consult on my kids.

The reality is that I was turning into a Grinch because I felt intimidated, and I needed to be reminded of why this small task was so important.

When kids go to school around the Holidays, they are greeted with red and green bulletin boards, doors decorated with trees made out of handprints, and holiday activities throughout the month of December. I jumped on Pinterest and found what was doable, and immediately began to fail.

Idea number one of creating a fireplace on a wall failed from the start as I completely forgot to use a straight edge and my “bricks” started leaning left and right.

And yet, the kids walked by in their lines and jumpsuits and told me how wonderful it looked.

Idea number two of wrapping the columns on the main floor came to a halt when we ran out of the last of our wrapping paper, and yet the kids still stopped by to say they loved that “the walls look like candy canes.”

As I struggled to wrap and tape and reach high enough, I looked over into our small multipurpose rooms and saw two kids that have struggled to remain in population for weeks on end because of violent and defiant behaviors.

I asked to pull the kids out, received some crazy looks along with the classic, “Are you sure you want THEM to help you decorate” comments, and we started to get creative.

One kiddo would hold the wrapping paper while the other wrapped it across the door, and I would come to cut and tape it together (our kids definitely are not allowed to real scissors, and I actually agree with that rule).

As we struggled and tripped and laughed together, I couldn’t help but feel like we were the modern day version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and the island of misfit toys.

Here we were, the most artistically-challenged counselor this side of the Mississippi, and the kids who can’t seem to follow rues unless left in a room completely alone, and somehow we were the ones charged with turning this jail into a winter wonderland.

You probably can guess where I’m going with this-

The seemingly most incapable bunch being tasked with bringing hope to a dark place like juvenile detention immediately reminded me that Jesus’ mother, Mary, also was tasked with bringing hope to the darkest of places when she was seemingly incapable and ill-prepared to do so.

Mary was sort of a misfit herself, and while her task required so much more than me and my two helpers taping walls and tying garlands, I could not help but recognize the familiarity of feeling hopeless when trying to instill hope.

The season of Advent is about just that: the anticipation of a redeeming love, peace, joy, and hope that will change the way things presently are.

The entire season leading up to Christmas reminds us that the story of Jesus is about God redeeming the people and things that the world continually deems too broken, too dirty, too violent, and too far gone.

In the midst of feeling inadequate and broken down, I had completely forgotten why the work behind the walls of juvenile detention is so important: in the same way that Advent brings redemption for the world, the kids that society deems too violent, too broken, and too far gone are anticipating redemption, too.

So me and my two misfit elves did the best we could. We made snowmen and trees with whatever we could find, and we used what little garland we had to write “joy” on the metal bars in our facility. I knew we did the best we could, and the joy they received from being able to help decorate may be the only gift they get this Christmas.

And the outcome was much like what I think Jesus would hope for: our kids and staff smiled and told us the facility looked great, and even “felt like Christmas.” A dark place was filled with a bit of light, and our kids began to realize that even if they were spending Christmas in detention, they were still important enough to get decorations.

The redemption I was initially looking for looked much different in my mind than some shambly decorations, but I imagine redemption looked like much more than a stable when Mary first realized what she had been tasked with as well.

So this Advent season, I am choosing to see how joy can show up in unexpected ways. Redemption looks a lot different than we imagine sometimes, especially for the kids in the juvenile justice system, but instilling hope can always change the narrative.

The holidays are difficult for so many because of the different stories of pain, isolation, grief, and uncertainty. You may not be sitting behind bars this Christmas, but you also may still struggle like my kids to identify a place that feels like home.

And if that is the case, I hope you remember that nothing is too far gone for redemption. Take the time you need to create new traditions, distance yourself from hurtful relationships, call the friends that you consider your family, and prioritize your emotions. If going home is too hard or is not an option, please remember that you are still worthy of love.

This year more than ever I can see so clearly the need for redemption in our world: in our criminal justice system, in our courts, in our institutions, and in the ways that we treat one another.

And yet somehow, this year more than ever before, I am also reminded that the anticipation of a new hope extends far beyond the manger at Christmastime. I think Jesus would gladly join the kids that society deems too far gone in decorating their jail cells, and I think he would tell each of us misfits, too, that we are more than enough.

I Will Never be a Role Model for My Kids, and That is Okay

It is not my job to be a role model for my kids; it has never been my job and it never will be.

My job is to care for children and to offer my time and ears to their stories of grief, trauma, fear, and courage, but I will never be a role model for them.

And I am okay with that.

I am a white, middle-class female with a master’s degree that means nothing on most days when it comes to working with kids whose stories and skin colors are nothing like mine.  

I work in the juvenile justice system in a country that detains a disproportionate number of black youth in detention facilities across the country for months on end, because they can.

I have little to nothing in common with the kids I spend time with each day, but this post is not about me.

At least, I want to say it is not about me. But here I am, writing a blog about my experience working with kids who look different than me, and all I can think of in the back of my mind is, “You are the problem.”

One of my worst fears upon entering the field of social work was that I would adopt a white-savior complex, or more truthfully, apply the complex that I already held because of my upbringing to the lives of the people I work with.

When I first became interested in working with kids in the criminal justice system, this fear only became more heightened as I questioned why me-a white, goody two-shoes white girl, would want to work with the kids society deems the most dangerous.

Now the truth is, I learned early on that JJ kids have little to no resources. Some kids in the social welfare system are easily said to have had a bad family or bad luck, but the children who commit crimes are just bad kids. They hurt people, and so people shut them out.

That is the true reason that I went into this arena of social work- because these are the kids people don’t care about. And truthfully, that’s the reason I see myself doing this work for a very, very long time.

But I would be lying if I did not admit that every once in a while, I meet with a kid that has been through all the programs and failed time and time again, only to end up in my office with my first reaction being, “I can make this time be different.”

I immediately begin to tell myself that this time will be different because I will listen to this child and let them know they are cared for. I imagine they will see that they have more potential than they ever imagined, and I will be the role-model for this kid because I showed up and told them that I cared.

And I say that to myself as if no one has ever said that before to this child.

I tell myself this like I, of all people, have the right to assume that this child’s family is not the best support system for them.

No, instead it is I, the white girl who went to private school and never knew anyone affected by community violence, who has the authority to remind this child of their worth.

Until I am gently reminded, by the words that they speak, of the privilege I have been afforded my entire life leading up to this point that allows me to sit across from them, and beyond that, the privilege I have to hear and learn from the stories of these children each day when they owe me nothing.

This week I have heard case workers tell children with no families that the reason they are in detention is because they “make bad choices,” instead of telling them the truth that they have no place for them to go.

This week, I have heard numerous children tell me that they will be vilified as soon as they leave our facility for carrying a gun in their community, but in order to feel safe stepping outside they must have a weapon on them. I have been told the truth that “Only white cops stay in the bad areas,” and that my kids cannot count on cops to stop violence in their neighborhoods any more than they can count on the judge to send them home.

This week I was reminded by my kids that the politics of their families and communities mean nothing in the court of law, and that there is no true safety to be found and so detention becomes a safe place, not a punishment.

This week I listened to the wisdom of teenagers as they shared their experiences with a system that fails them over and over and yet, they still promise to try their hardest to do right with what they are given.

This week I sat in my office and cried as I wondered how a person that I see every day has experienced a life story so completely opposite of my own, just because of their skin color.

This week I was taught about the losses in a community that I have only been a member of for a short time, and I was also reminded that my experience advocating for kids in the same community will never lead me to be in relationship with most of the people whom I say I am advocating for.

This week, one of my kids reminded me to be safe as I walked to my car late at night, and brought me to tears as I considered their concern for me as a privileged white woman, when they know their late night walks are far more dangerous than my own.

This week I challenged my clients to set goals for themselves and when asked what their time frame for achieving success was, I was told over and over again that it was the age of 18, because there is no guarantee my kids will stay safe in the community once they leave me.

I am a white woman who has nothing in common with the kids she works with besides the facility we meet in on a daily basis.

This week, some of what I would refer to as “the cool kids” in my facility (the ones who typically never want to participate in group or meet with me) finally filled out requests to talk with me.

And I will be honest, I was giddy with excitement.

As I shared my coloring books and opened up my office to hear their stories, I felt so deeply connected with these kids who finally decided to share some of their time with Miss Darcy.

On my drive home, I began to question why these kids would finally seek me out. I felt confident that they had seen me interact with other kids and saw they could trust me, and I was encouraged to think I was making a difference.

“Maybe I’m the first person to listen to them,” I thought, when I see their families come to visitation each and every week and wait an hour only to sit with their child for half of that time.

So I stop and remind myself that this is not about me. How foolish of me to assume that I am the difference-maker in the lives of these children who only know me for several months at a time.

Why do these kids trust me enough to share with me the fears of their hearts when I have nothing to offer them? I am not their families and I am almost nothing like them.

I truly believe it is because, to these kids, they find it more valuable to share their stories with anyone who will listen. They may not comprehend the power of their words, but I believe kids recognize that their words hold the kind of power and kindness that the rest of us just don’t have.

My kids know that their experiences have power, but they also recognize that there is the chance that sharing their stories with me will remind us both how different we are from one another.

And yet, they still choose to share their hearts with me, even though I have nothing to offer them, and they know that they owe me nothing.

So I sit, and I listen.

I attempt to absorb every small truth and idea that my kids share with me. I promise them that I will never try to impose my beliefs or my story on them, because I have no idea what they have experienced.

And in return, I am given the gift of story. Stories of loss and of triumph; stories of trauma and resilience; stories of racism and discrimination and hate, and stories of the rising.

Kids don’t care about politics or where you went to grad school. Kids are concerned with honesty and safety and feeling heard.

The kids I work with are no different. It is not my job to speak for my kids or impose my brief solution-focused therapeutic approaches on them, because frankly, they’re not worth shit in a world where kids question if they will live to age 18.

It is my job to listen, and each day, I pray that I may also learn.

It is my job to be what I can for my kids- to listen when they are frustrated with the system that I am inherently a part of, and to apologize when they are treated unfairly by people who look like me.

And so, this week I was reminded that it will never be my job to be a role model for my kids because their stories are nothing like mine.

I will never be a role model for my kids because my limited life experiences and viewpoints will never allow me to come close to understanding what it is like to be a young black man in the juvenile justice system.

And still, these children welcome me into their space daily and share with me their stories.

I will never be able to repay the kids I work with for their gifts of story and humanity that they give to me freely each day.

My kids are my heroes, showing more courage and vulnerability with each word they speak than I will ever demonstrate.

I will never be a role model for my kids. My only hope is that one day my kids will look back and when they remember their time in jail, they will remember that there was one woman who cared to sit quietly and listen, because their stories were worth hearing.

That is all I hope to be.

Day 52: Thoughts on Grief from a Juvenile Detention Center

Sometimes in the world of social work and counseling, we can become so accustomed to talking about the hard stuff- depression, grief, anxiety, suicide- that for me, my tough conversations do not always hit me with their entire weight right there in the moment.

Sometimes, the emotions hit me in the car, right after I’ve left to go home, and my drive is wrecked by tears as I realize the weight of the children’s hearts from earlier that day.

And sometimes, it takes weeks for all the crises to pile up enough that I take time to stop and appreciate the grace in the stressful moments from the days before.

But every once in a while (and by that I mean almost weekly) a child speaks such a profound truth to me that immediately I realize that he or she has given me the gift of a new perspective.

These small moments, when something so powerful and striking is spoken into existence, remind me that the children who seem to have the toughest things going for them often have wisdom to share with us that can change how we see the world, if we are just willing to listen.

Today I had a kid come into my office and tell me he was sorry for causing so many problems over the last two months.

Honestly, I had not thought much about this kid’s behavior recently. Things had been smooth sailing, and a quiet day or week gives me time to follow my schedule and catch up, so his small write ups from weeks ago seemed like they took place in another time altogether.

So this kid asks to speak with me and apologizes from the start.

Right there, I was done. Words of apology from kids are my love language.

I immediately thanked him for apologizing and jumped to verbal praise because this child said sorry and sometimes when I run out of candy, words are all I have to offer.

No questions asked-you are forgiven. Let’s move on.

This child smiled and interrupted my praise to continue speaking. The thing is, my kid wasn’t done saying what he needed to say. Like I said, most of the time the kids who are “trouble makers” have something important to say if we just close our damn mouths and open our ears for a minute.

So I listened:

My kid proceeded to provide me with education on the stages of grief and loss (which I am not used to being on the receiving end of) in slang and straight-to-the-point language that I actually may borrow in the future because it really got the point across.

“Have you heard about grief and loss before?” he asked me.

Internally, I am wondering where this conversation could be headed. I prepare myself to have a hard conversation about losing a loved one, assuming this kid is about to tell me his behaviors over the last few months were in response to losing someone. As I listen quietly, my mind is hard at work preparing for the conversations are hardest for me personally. I tell myself that this child needs me to be strong right now.

I was mostly wrong.

“I’ve realized that when I first got to this facility, I started going through the process of grieving the loss of my freedom.” he tells me.

*Cue my jaw dropping*

“You know how when we lose something we go through denial, then anger or sadness or whatever, and then you just start to accept the bad shit that happens?”

I nod. “Yes,” I respond, to show this kid I’m still with him, although internally I am attempting to keep it together because I am thinking, “This is the kid who GETS it! He absorbed some form of therapy like a little sponge and is applying it to his life!” I automatically think to myself that this kid paid attention. He want to therapy and remembered something, and for any therapists or counselors out there working with adolescents, you know the feeling when it seems like for once a kid actually listened.

The only thing that could possibly make me more excited in that moment was if this kid told me this while simultaneously starting to meditate or do some other silly coping skill we talked about in group earlier that day.

“I think when I first got here, I was grieving the loss of my freedom. I’ve been here before, and was grieving the loss of my goal to not ever come back,” this child continues to tell me.

And for some reason, that perspective made me see it: sure, this kid has listened, but more than that, this kid has taken a really tough situation and decided to make sense of it. This kid did what I fail to do each and every day- take the hard experiences and feelings and sit with them until they make sense.

“Then I think the reason I was acting out and stuff was because I was angry. I was sad, too, because I don’t like being alone and the more angry I acted the more I couldn’t be with the other kids,” he continues.

This kid was opening my eyes in that moment more than he will probably ever know. I’m guessing he had no idea how hard I had to work to hold back my tears as he continued to pull back the curtain and share his heart with me.

“Now I think I’m getting to acceptance. I’m just tryna chill until court and accept whatever happens.”

As one might guess, I’m a little shocked at this point. I smile and tell him how impressed I am with his perspective, and try to muster up some small response worth this kid’s time.

I ask this kid if he knew he was experiencing grief of the loss of his freedom as he was going through the process, to which he responds,

“Nah Miss Darcy, that’s the way grief works. You normally don’t even know you’re grieving until you get to  acceptance. Isn’t that whack?”

I had to laugh, and agree that it is indeed whack that grief works that way. Aside from the daily wisdom kids instill upon us, I would be lying if I didn’t mention how much I appreciate them keeping me young with the slang and lingo they remind me is cool every day.

This client/resident/inmate/child had just opened up the door for me, the “professional”, to see grief within this environment in a brand new way.

This kid had no idea how intelligent and capable he was. We spent the next thirty minutes with me repeating over and over just how wise and self-aware this kid is, with the hopes that he would begin to see all the great things he is capable of.

I made it a point throughout this session to affirm this child. This child has been told over and over again throughout his life that he makes bad decisions, that he’s just a “troublemaker,” that he will never make it out of the system, and that he does all these outrageous acts just to get attention.

And sadly, that’s what most of our kids hear. Kids in the child welfare system or juvenile justice system have experienced so much trauma, and too often they are told that their decisions define them.

So for a kid that’s been labeled things like “bully,” “high-risk,” and “dangerous,” it makes sense that he would begin to believes those labels define his future.

When really, the truth of the matter is this child was far more self-aware than most high functioning adults are on their good days, and has more than enough skills to be successful if someone would just pay attention.

So that’s what I told him.

“You are so capable.”

“You have some of the best self-awareness I’ve ever seen.”

“You really spent time checking in with yourself during this tough time, and it shows.”

And you know what the outcome was? This kid left my office today with the goal of identifying the times where it is hard to make good decisions, in hopes that he will continue to grow and achieve his goals.

This kid left my office today with the understanding that at least one person in this world really believes he will be successful every time he can, and when he can’t he just might not have the skills to face that challenge in the moment.

And we ended with laughter about the play dough on the floor and in his hair, because sometimes kids need a chance to just be kids, even in detention.

And so I guess all this is to say that I don’t think I really taught my client anything today. He knows far more than me about suffering and will always be the expert on himself.

But I did learn something from my client today: grief can take many forms. In the world of trauma-informed care, we love to address the research that shows out of home placements, foster care, divorce, detention, etc. can cause trauma. A thought I had not considered before today was just how much these events can cause our kids grief as well.

So maybe the kid talking out in class really doesn’t have good communication skills, or maybe he’s just grieving the loss of a parent to incarceration and is letting his anger out in the place that feels safe for him.

Maybe that girl in your church really is fighting her peers because she doesn’t have emotional regulation skills, or maybe she does and is just grieving the only way she knows how after her mom moved out.

Kids will always impress us with what they know if we allow them time to talk and offer our ears to listen. Adults do not always know best and we can not hear the words of the children in pain around us if we don’t take time to sit in the silence and hear their stories.

Today I am thankful for the opportunity to celebrate with kids when they want to celebrate, but I am also thankful to grieve with them through life when they need to grieve.

Above all, I am thankful for the kids who remind me each day that ups and downs look different for each of us, but showing support most always looks the same.

“For everything there is a season,
    a time for every activity under heaven.
2 A time to be born and a time to die.
    A time to plant and a time to harvest.
3 A time to kill and a time to heal.
    A time to tear down and a time to build up.
4 A time to cry and a time to laugh.
    A time to grieve and a time to dance.
5 A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.
    A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
6 A time to search and a time to quit searching.
    A time to keep and a time to throw away.
7 A time to tear and a time to mend.
    A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
8 A time to love and a time to hate.
    A time for war and a time for peace.”

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Introduction

I’m not quite sure what first pushed me in the direction of mental health. Today, I am a qualified mental health professional actively pursuing licensure. I don’t know when this exact vocational route became clear to me, but it has seemed that for as long as I can remember, I wanted to be in a profession that helped people.

When someone enrolls in any entry course on social work, counseling, mental health studies, or applied psychology, the topic of what drives people into helping professions is standard syllabus week conversation. I vividly remember sitting in my intro to social work class and reading a slide put up by my professor as she explained that a large portion of professional counselors and social workers seek out this field because of some personal experience with social services or mental health.

I thought to myself, “Yes. This is why I want to do this. I’ve seen the hardship that comes from mental illness and I will be the difference.”

Growing up, children often perceive their reality to be normal unless otherwise introduced to different environments that operate differently.

So as a child, it never seemed odd to me that I had an aunt who seemed slightly obsessive with animals or who had difficulty maintaining a job or living independently. To me, she was just part of my family.

Growing up, I never thought twice about alcohol or the way it could be used as a coping skill. To me, it was just part of what was kept in the kitchen cabinet for adults.

It wasn’t until I grew older and began to become immersed in the lives of my friends and their families that I realized that some of the things that I assumed to be normal about some family members might not actually be normal.

I was 15 years old the first time I tangibly experienced the impact of mental illness personally.

I was 15 years old when my maternal aunt took her life after living with mental illness for years.

I’m not sure if I knew what to expect following the loss of this family member. I guess I knew my family would mourn, that we would need time to process, but feelings weren’t spoken about much in my family and so again, I just assumed the following months were normal.

I was also 15 years old when I began to experience my own mother’s battle with depression first hand. At the time, I had no idea what my mother was experiencing in the wake of her sister’s death. I was a teenager. I was focused on overachieving in my AP classes, making enough time for basketball and yearbook, and still having time to spend with friends.

So when my mother began to experience grief, and then depression, I did not know what to do. I lashed out. She lashed out. I began to worry about the stability of my small, nuclear family and take control in the only way I knew how.

And so it was also at the age of 15 that I went to therapy for the first time.

Bombarded by questions about why I would lie about eating. Hit over the head time and time again by professionals who told my mother that the lack of deep relationship with my father was the root of my purging behaviors. Guilt tripped into believing that somehow it was my fault that I could not make myself live a healthy life.

I sunk into myself. I began cancelling plans. I began hiding away in the safety of my bed sheets each opportunity I was given. I began exercising more, eating less,, and throwing up when my plans failed.

And yet again, I was 15 the first time I met anyone who introduced themselves with their name along with their mental diagnosis.

Treatment facilities, especially for someone who grew up not talking about mental health, can be a very frightening place for a teenager. The terminology, hoards of doctors, and new faces can be quite traumatizing for someone who is new to the world of therapeutic intervention.

From day one, I was thrown into a room of strangers both older and younger than myself. I bounced from art therapy and something about cognitive behavioral approaches to  meetings with nutritionists and my family and a psychiatrist, and it was all a blur.

For the first time in my life, I was listening to people share their pain in an open space. Stories of grief, obsession, fear, impulsivity, and perceived inadequacy poured into the air among groups of women that I had never met before. I questioned why: why were they so open, so willing to admit the things they didn’t feel good about?

And so at the age of 16, I first began to resent mental health.

I was tired of being checked on. I was tired of feeling like I had to share about my life when nothing seemed broken.

I was tired of arguing with my family who could just not understand why I couldn’t eat like a normal person since I seemed to be just great at everything else I did.

And at some point along the way, I guess I realized that even if I resented those people, they had shown me a kind of vulnerability that was so new and invigorating, that I wanted to be a part of it.

Fast forward to a year after receiving my master’s degree in Clinical Social Work, and I had made it.

At the age of 23, for the first time, I felt like a real, functioning, “has her shit together” adult.

I was working in the field of social work and loving it. The work was hard, but rewarding. I was helping people. I was doing something that was beyond me.

Somewhere along the line, I had simultaneously decided I wanted to do therapy work one day, while also deciding I did not need therapy. After all, seeing four therapists in a row who told you the reason you didn’t eat was because you wanted more time with your dad or because you weren’t praying hard enough was exhausting. (I may have only been 15 and not have known the real reason why I didn’t eat, but I still knew it wasn’t because my dad didn’t give me enough attention. Literally who cares).

But here I was, 23 years old and doing something that I loved, when I found myself on the bathroom floor again, asking why I was falling back into the patterns that would surely not sustain me.

So I found a therapist. I found a therapist who would help me with “generalized anxiety and disordered eating” because that’s what was wrong with me. That is what I had been told was wrong with me since the first time I had experienced firsthand the effects of mental illness on my family and myself.

Luckily, this therapist found the cynic within me and opened up the doors to conversations I had been needing to have for so long.

My friends had told me that I needed to go deeper. I myself  had questioned the real reasons why I felt like I needed to have control over everything, including my body. I always knew there was something else there, but could never take the leap to ask what it really was.

Until I had this person. A person who barely knew me, yet somehow could connect the dots so seamlessly to create a picture of myself I had never seen in a mirror. What I thought I was going to therapy for- to address restricting and binging and purging and anxiety- turned into an exploration of my heart and the reason why all these “normal” things were so hard for me.

It’s been less than a year since I started therapy for myself, and as I look for a new therapist, I still constantly have to remind myself that this work is not easy.

I jokingly brag about “me time” or “self-care for the caring,” but the reality is that this work is hard.

It is hard to be vulnerable to a stranger.

It is hard to weep at the realization of your darkest fears being darker than you ever imagined.

It is hard to make time and prioritize something that so often feels like work (because it is).

This work- of prioritizing mental health and taking care of ourselves- is not easy. It takes time, emotional energy, and often resources that are not available to so many.

But I urge any person, and especially those who spend their lives caring for others, to invest the time. It is worth it.

Today is World Mental Health Day, and it felt like the right day to share a little bit about myself.

So today, at age 24, I am finally acknowledging that mental health is a huge driver behind why I do what I do, but it’s also a huge determining factor in how well I can do what I do.

Today, let’s be intentional about the ways we take care of ourselves. Our lives depend on it.  

Everyone Deserves to Dance

Lately it has felt like the weight of the world’s problems are too heavy to
bear. Too much sadness. Too much disappointment. Too much pain from the
news and the pain in those we love from watching the news.

I’ve felt tired, heavy, and doubtful of if any of the work I am doing makes a dent.

It can seem sometimes like there are too many worthy causes, and not enough
energy. I want to end poverty AND help kids in the criminal justice system
AND make sure survivors of sexual assault are heard AND that kids with
pediatric illness have a chance for more birthdays.

And it can be exhausting.

The propensity I have for pouring into others makes it difficult to feel
like any small act of kindness makes a difference, because it is never
enough.

I can never feed enough people on the freeway.

I can never be in ten places at once at work to make sure every child has a chance to talk
about why they’re upset.

I can never give enough money to the causes that I care about.

But today I was reminded about the good that every day advocacy can
achieve, and my two passions collided in a way that made me remember why
the good is worth fighting for.

In juvenile detention centers across the country, kids are spending most of
their day in some sort of unstructured time. I’ve worked for facilities
where kids spend 4 hours in school, and I’ve worked in some where kids go
to school for an hour. Aside from these times, kids get varying amounts of
leisure time in the gym, common areas, and most of their time in their
individual cells.

Kids become bored in detention just like anywhere else, well, because
they’re kids. I often wish that more programming was available, and while
our facility does a great job holding groups and trying to engage the kids,
it just seems that most days, my kids do not get to act like kids.

But today as I walked across the floor I saw movement out of the corner of
my eye that was different.

As I walked over to the window to a group of
kids, I started to hear the growing sound of a catchy, jumpy, poppy song.
It was music therapy day, and I had forgotten.

Today was not like most music therapy days. Typically, you hear the kids banging drums and laughing, which they enjoy-but you also hear them begging for “real music” to be played.

But today when I looked through the window, I saw my kids dancing in unison with the small, frail
volunteer who dedicates one Tuesday each month of her time to helping our
kids be kids.

I could not help but smile with everything in me as I watched these goofy,
joyful, childlike residents of mine bounce around and dance with this
small, elderly volunteer.

In that moment, I would have challenged anyone to step inside that room and
doubt the unique childlike spirit in any of those kids.

Yes, they are wearing jumpsuits.

Yes, they are anxious about court next week.

Yes, they have made decisions that will likely take away a large majority of their
childhood with their families.

But in that moment I was reminded that at each of their cores, they are still just kids.

They are children who yearn to run and jump and play. They are fearful kiddos who cry themselves to sleep wondering what their futures have in store for them.

And suddenly it hit me-

The fears and hopes of these kids who are moved in handcuffs are the very
same as the kids that I love who sit in hospital beds awaiting positive
news about their conditions.

The kids who are not sure if they will spend their next birthday outside of their hospital beds are not that different from those who wonder if their next birthday will be spent behind bars.

Children’s Miracle Network and the Dance Marathon community have been so
close to my heart since I first entered college. As I entered the world of
social work, I felt my heart being torn in so many different directions.
Like I said, it always just felt like there was too much to do and not
enough opportunity.

The kids who long for assurance of more birthdays have always felt like
they hold a special place in my heart. When I began my work with the youth
in juvenile detention a little over a year ago, it felt right. It felt like
this group of kids was who I was supposed to be working with, but I could
never quite put my finger on the reason why.

This week, my passions for kids collided in the most beautiful and surreal
way as I was brought to tears watching my kids dance. In the same way that
we stand for the kids who can’t in hopes that they will be able to leave
their hospital beds and dance one day, I stood in the halls of detention in
awe at how badly I wanted my kids to dance like children.

As its read in Ecclesiastes, there is “a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4); the past few weeks
have felt like so much mourning has needed to take place, but today my kids
reminded me that it is soon time to dance.

Every child, in handcuffs or hospital gowns, deserves the chance to dance.

In a line, with friends, with arms high to the sky, off-beat, to pop or hip-hop, good or bad- kids, and everyone for that matter, deserves to dance.

Maybe advocacy this week means dancing for joy over small victories for our kids and families. Maybe it looks like dancing in the kitchen as we say a prayer for the oppressed and the sick who can’t shake their hips with joy like we can at the moment.

And on the days where it feels too difficult to do good, I will remember
that there will always be a time to dance.