To Beautifully Belong

The greatest of human contentment is found not in the world around us but within ourselves - in a deep self-peace that is reflected within the beauty of truly knowing that we are enough just as we are. Knowing that we truly belong. Knowing that it is the very uniqueness of our journey that gives meaning to every breath we are given. 

Realizing such contentment and self-peace is a continuous journey. And at times, one that can be painful to endure and filled with adversity. We are in constant search of finding where it is we belong – questioning the beauty within every breath we are gifted. We unknowingly cling to distraction and immerse ourselves in the world’s chaos - a means in which allows us to live blindly within our own lives and avoid looking inwardly at the state of our own selves. Allowing us to numbly exist all while sacrificing our beautiful and authentically unique spirits. We cling to the stability of chaos and distraction - never able to find the place of quieted true contentment within ourselves, scared and unable to see the beauty in our own unique journeys.

A Quiet Stillness

As I sit beneath the expansive summer sky my mind wanders as it often does. There’s a sting of sadness that often surfaces when I’m left alone in such a quiet state of mind. It’s the silent side of CF. It is a plague unto my mind and heart when all is still. It appears when I am not consumed by the world’s chaos and engulfed in my own subconsciously created distractions – every minute given to something other than myself as a way to deny my own reality and cope with an ever–growing discontentment created by CF.

There’s a quiet stillness about this summer in comparison to other summers. Or, maybe I am just seeing my own reflection a bit differently in this season of life– acutely aware of time, purpose, and contentment. In such quietness lies an intense restlessness. A restlessness that is knowingly rooted in the silent side of CF and the uncertainty it perpetually stirs within the deepest parts of my being. It’s a restlessness born of stillness, the passing of time, inevitable change, and the uncontrollable circumstances of my unique journey with CF. But most of all, it’s a restlessness that disrupts my inner peace- making me question where it is I belong and the beauty of this unique journey I’ve been gifted.

Beautifully Enough

As times passes I realize more and more how different all of our journeys are. And seemingly I realize just how lonely this road less traveled can be. There’s something special in the sharing of what is familiar between people- an unspoken bond and deepness. It gives a reassuring sense of belonging and understanding. The pang of sadness comes not in living this unique journey I’ve been given with CF and all that comes with it, but it comes in knowing I will never fully share life in the same way with dear friends and family. The sadness comes when I realize that my journey will always seem so very different. So, I do my best to quiet this restlessness. Not by immersing myself amidst distracting chaos like I desperately try to do so often, but by sharing my honest self and most of all, listening. Hoping to vibrantly live and experience life not only through my own unique journey but through the beautifully different journeys of all those who fill my life.

I look to the summer sky and breathe in the warm air of my favorite season, a wash of reassuring contentment fills my quieted soul. 

Life fills my soul. 

In a brief renewing moment I am reminded that it is in our own uniqueness that we truly belong. That self-peace is found within the most honest parts of who we are – rooted in gratitude for the life we have each been given. Rooted in knowing we are beautifully enough just as we are. Rooted in the truth that it is through sharing each of our different journeys we truly live and experience the beauty in every breath. Love to you all.

Take a deep breath and look to today's summer sky. Fill your soul with the peace of knowing you are truly enough and this unique journey you've been gifted is breathtakingly beautiful. 

A Spring Storm

As the warm rays of sun cast a gentle radiating warmth upon my cheeks I can’t help but think to myself, “we made it.”  I can feel the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes and I have to tip my head towards the sun to keep the tears from spilling down onto my cheeks. We had made it through winter. Spring had arrived early and I was wrapped within its promising warmth. Spring meant new life, a renewed hope, and an inner peace budding deep from within. Again, resounding within every part of my being were the words, “we made it.” And I believed and celebrated it whole-heartedly.

But I was reminded how quickly the seasons of CF can change. How quickly a spring snowstorm can suffocate spring’s hope – reminding the innocent new life of its unforgiving power. Today, winter’s fury is forbidding to relinquish its control to the peace of spring. Yesterday was a beautiful 60 degree spring day here in South Dakota. Today, we await an unforgiving wintery snowstorm.

Winter’s Song

Upon returning home Monday morning from a most beautiful extended trip to the beach, I had a full afternoon and night of teaching scheduled. Early that afternoon, I went into my studio to warm up and get myself organized for the voice lessons that lie ahead. But something felt different and off. I thought maybe it was because I literally hadn’t sung a note in ten days – the most time I’d taken away from singing in over a year. As I warmed up and sang through a few things, I noticed how quickly I’d run out of air and how difficult it was for me to finish phrases that just ten days ago were simple. Within me I could feel winter’s gentle, yet unforgiving snowfall beginning to drench my being.  As I taught and sang with my students the rest of the day and night, I noticed how starved of breath I felt and how my lungs burned to take in more air than they were allowed.

Tuesday morning between the normal adventures and opportunities that fill my life, I made a visit to my clinic to do a quick lung function test (PFT) - just wanting to check-in and see if there was any cause for concern. I was reminded of the unrelenting presence of winter amidst the beauty of spring. In just two weeks since my last PFT my lung function had dropped 10% to a FEV1 of 40%. So, Penny was called upon. Aggressively, both IV and oral antibiotics were started. The words “we made it” wept silently from the deepest parts of my soul. Disappointment threatened to replace spring’s eternal hope. Disappointment in myself and a disappointment and sadness I feared to see reflected in the faces of those I love. But within that disappointment is still something to be grateful for – I made it five months without IV antibiotics. That’s the longest I’ve gone consecutively in over 3 years. That is truly something to celebrate.

The Hope of Spring

This winter storm’s snow will melt into the earth, disappearing beneath the spring’s powerful sun and renewing warmth. This “storm of CF” will melt away. Today’s snow will give life to the most beautiful of springs. The seasons of CF will always change and its storms will rage but the hope of spring will dwell eternally within me, always waiting to be enlivened by spring’s warmth.

Amidst the pains of CF is the deepest gratitude and love for my CF Team. I am so thankful for each of them - their genuine care, guidance, strength, and reminding me that I’m never alone in this journey.  I'm grateful for my deep love of singing and the gift it gives me to combat CF and know when something is off. I'm grateful for each of you and the beauty of spring you each reflect into my life. Love to you all.

Think spring. 

Living Memory

The Fall season is at its prime.  Everywhere I look there are hues of beautiful yellows, reds, and oranges. You can’t help but be awe struck by the beauty of the season and its ability to be so vibrant.  

The past few weeks in South Dakota have been some of the most beautiful: endless days of sun-kissed perfection bookended by cool, crisp nights and mornings.  I wish they would never end.


I am so thankful for these warm days where the sun still kisses my cheeks and I am reminded of the beauty in which surrounds me.  The explosion of Fall color is a beautiful finale to the song that is the cycle of life.  Soon, the trees will drop their leaves, left barren.   When the wind whips through their branches there will no longer be the sound of rustling leaves, but only silence.   Rays of sun upon my face will be replaced with the bite of cold air as I anxiously await the first glimpses of Spring and signs of new life.  As for today, I will be grateful for Fall's embracing beauty and the brilliance of life it represents.   

A Life Lived

Sixteen years ago, at the age of 17, my brother, Nate, died of complications associated with Cystic Fibrosis.   It’s funny how days stick in your mind no matter how many years pass between.  If I close my eyes I can suddenly become that 11 year old girl again.  I can see the color of the leaves on the trees, the faces of my parents, the frost on the ground as we stood next to his grave, the sun trying to pierce through the heavy clouds, and I can feel the crispness of the Fall wind against my face.  I am filled with the same questions, fears, and guilt 16 years later.

Those years I had with Nate seem like a completely different life: they almost don’t seem real.  For a long time I pretended those years didn’t exist.  I still do to a certain degree: always keeping memories, questions, and emotions at a safe, manageable distance.   Maybe it has always been a way for me to live conveniently in denial about my own reality, and the deep connection I will forever have with Nate and CF.  It still pains me to think about those years: what I saw, the suffering, the guilt I still have in regards to my own health/life in comparison to his, and witnessing the deep heartache of my parents.

A Living Memory

As much as I have tried to silence that part of my life, it is ever present.  Nate is ever present.  His memory and life continue to live on long after he took his last breath.   When I look in the mirror I can’t help but see him staring back at me through my own eyes.  He is alive in the way I smile, my laugh, and in each breath I feel pass through my lips.  

The memory of Nate is still alive for so many people.  He touched the lives of so many: more than I ever could have realized.  Little did I know when I was a child just how lucky I was to have all those people in my life as well.   It's been incredible to realize how those who so impacted Nate's life have also shaped my life through the years: the nurses, the respiratory therapists, child life specialists, and our doctor who became such a vital part of our family.  One of the most amazing things about this blog?  Hearing the stories of Nate and how he impacted the lives of so many people: how his memory continues to live on.  It's been incredible for me to witness another side to the life I thought I knew so well: to hear and look at his life through the eyes of those whole loved him so, and to gain an understanding other than mine as an eleven year old child.

I often find myself playing with the "ifs" of life: wondering what my life would be like if he were still alive, if CF had never entered our world.  Would we be close?  What would holidays look like?  Would he be in love?  Have children? What would our childhood have looked like without CF?  How differently would both our lives have played out?  How different would we be as people?  What if he had been given the same life saving chances that I have been given?  Would that have made any difference? Will my own journey with CF follow his same path?

The Beauty

There is beauty in every life: every breath that has been breathed.  The leaves may soon fall, exhaling their last vibrant breath as winter steals their radiance, but the memory of their colorful Fall beauty will live on, having touched each of us. The magnificence of each color is a reminder of the brilliance of our own life, lives of those we love, and the memory of those we've lost along our journey: each different, but each just as beautiful.  I am thankful for these sun stained days, the vibrant colors of Fall, its finality, the gentle reminder of just how beautiful life is,  and to passionately love every breath.  Love to you all.

Here's to you, Nate. 
Whose beautiful memory still lives on in you?

Alive - Part I

What have you done lately that has made you to feel really alive?  I mean the type of alive that sends excitement for living coursing through your veins and your mind racing with possibility for the future?  At those very moments it seems nothing is impossible: you start dreaming big dreams, making plans for the future, and setting sights on adventures yet to come.

That feeling of being alive awakens you from the lifeless state of just existing.  It's amazing how quickly we can become so consumed by our daily commitments and schedules, forcing us to forget what it really feels like to be alive: each breath exploding with excitement and possibility.

Lost Time
I have been PICC free for over two weeks.  Where has that time gone?  Have I been living or just merely existing?  What about for those 68 days of IV's?  Was I just numbly getting through the days, or was I really "living" out each of them?  I am always so amazed at time and how quickly it seems to be flashing before me.  When I begin to think about time and how quickly it goes by, I begin to feel pains of desperation and panic.  I feel as if time is sand pouring through my fingers: the tighter I try and grip the sand in my hands, the more I lose.  I find myself these past two weeks hesitant to write these words or even speak them out loud because I know they can all change so very quickly.  And that is my very worst fear.  Those words?  I feel alive and the best I have in a long time.  There I said it, and I can hardly believe it myself.  Of course, my body still reminds me daily of the CF lurking beneath, but I feel truly alive.  To be honest, feeling this way terrifies me.  I know, it sounds crazy.  I feel so good that I feel I need to make up for lost time, that I need to squeeze every ounce of productivity out of my day because it might all change tomorrow.  I think back to the last two weeks and all the living I have been doing: the places I've gone and the activities I have done that I haven't felt like or had the energy to do in a very long time.


Limitless 
I catch my mind running loose with dreams for the future. At that very moment of dreaming I don't feel bound by the realities of CF. I feel invincible.  For just a moment I am making plans of traveling: going to all those forbidden places, riding on an airplane or metro system and not thinking about wearing a mask to protect myself,  and exploring a new city by foot without worrying about how exhausted I might be at the end of the day.  But then something brings me back to reality.  I realize that my life will never be that way: there are forbidden places, there's a serious risk of any confined space with people and wearing a mask is a reality to keep me safe,  and my body gets fatigued quicker than my mind wants it to.  My dreaming doesn't stop there.  I find myself dreaming about having a family.  I catch myself thinking, "I can do it. I will show CF, myself, and everyone else I can do it." I dream about what Christmas morning would be like for Mark and I, or what it would be like telling my best friends and family that we were going to be starting a family.  I dream about my future as a musician, a teacher, and all the things I wish to accomplish.  But then I am brought back to realities of CF and how they impact all these dreams and make some of them impossible and dangerous.  For that one moment though my mind is racing with possibility and I feel absolutely alive: nothing seems impossible, and I forget about the treatments, the doctors appointments, the bacteria last cultured in my lungs, and how it all affects the people I love.

Will I stop dreaming and searching for those moments that make me feel so alive?  No, but I do have to bring myself back to reality at times.  It's a delicate balance between not allowing myself to be bound by reality and being reckless and irresponsible with my life.  Today, I feel great and I know it will be a day of dreaming:  knowing I could wake tomorrow morning reminded of CF and its ruthless presence in my life.  Today, I am going to cherish every beautiful moment and each wonderful breath I have been given.  Love to you all.

Do something that makes you feel alive today.



This is Part I of a three part series.