Stay Here

Note: I have not shared my writing in a very long time. Since 2019, apparently. I find it comforting that my last post is incredibly similar in concept. I am uncomfortable that this is such a personal piece, but I feel compelled to share.

This past April, I signed up for a 50-mile mountain bike race in Vermont. I saw it as my exit from a never-ending loop of “maybe next year will be better.” I didn’t think, I registered. I had never ridden more than 16 miles on a mountain bike. This was way out of my league. 

But this was more than a race for me.

250 people lined up at the start. It was cold and drizzling. Gray sky sat low, thick around the reds, oranges, and yellows. They rang the bell, and we took off. Rough-cut, muddy trails and wet meadows sapped my legs. Glasses covered in droplets, fog on both sides, eyes straining to look over the top. I slowed down. I walked. I was only a couple of miles from the start.

In 2020, I was in my ninth year of teaching in a town-wide behavior program. I was incredibly passionate about my job, but the last few years were rough, cut deep, and left me struggling for air. The gray moved in, hung low and persistent. I began having panic attacks for the first time in my life, hands on my knees, gasping for air through uncontrollable sobs on the sidewalk outside of my classroom door. Then COVID happened.

The first 8 miles were the hardest. Steep, punchy, and sudden, I struggled to switch gears fast enough. I popped out onto the road and settled in for a minute. I settled into a pace with two women that became fast friends. We pedaled, swapped stories, snacked, and agreed to adventure over competition.

COVID was terrifying, overwhelming, confusing, and my escape. Schools closed, and I sank into home, into my family. We were scared but close. My bike provided a dose of normalcy, and I prescribed it regularly. I pedaled and processed and plotted a post-COVID life for my family and me. There was always a tailgate apres. My friend and I sat on our own cars and cheers-ed from a social distance. With nowhere to be and nothing much to do, biking and drinking were it.

Around mile 20, my husband and two friends met me around the first support station. Like a pit crew, my water was filled, chamois cream provided, and hugs shared. My friend grabbed her bike and pledged to join me for a “few miles.” She offered words of distraction through the rolling cross-country terrain, joyful “yews” and “woooohs” on the bermed-out downs, and a quiet vote of solidarity on the long, slow climbs. Her presence was powerful.

As COVID restrictions were lifted, so was my temporary solution of biking and drinking to self-medicate. The air felt heavy and gray again, now electrified. Surges of anxiety flooded my body while navigating how to transition into a new post-pandemic world. I returned to work, sent my toddler to daycare in a mask, and set my Kindergartener up remotely. The panic attacks morphed into something I didn’t recognize.

We pedaled singletrack, meadows, and roads, but mostly singletrack. I felt my body feeling things, and so I played tricks with my mind. I spoke out loud, “You’re doing great, body, this is hard,” “You’re just riding your bike, just keep riding your bike,” and “Good job, legs,” to which my friend added, “And brain! It takes all the things!”. My body responded, I looked up more often, the still-gray-sky made the yellows pop.

In the summer of 2021, I quit my teaching job. It was a huge risk, but one I had assessed thoroughly. My mind and body fell into step again, and I moved forward, saying aloud to myself, “I’m proud of you, you can still do scary things,” and “You promised you would always follow your heart, you keep promises.” I started a part-time position at my dream job and matched their grassroots energy to do good immediately. 

Around mile 27, I hit my crux. My quads twitched, threatening to cramp, my lungs stretched, and my back ached. I jumped off my bike and stood on the side of the trail. I told my friend, “My legs are about to cramp. I’m tired. I have to do something.” She ordered chips and electrolytes, and I plopped to the ground to take in as much as possible.

In December 2022, my husband and I sat in a private room at the G.I. Office, waiting for the doctor to join us. Slow, deep breaths attempted to settle the unease building in my stomach. He joined, and then he said, “Cancer”. My breath gone, stomach tight, chest clenched, a surge flooded my body, and then I was far away, watching us hear this news.

I got back on my bike, pedaling slowly, ready for the muscle twitch and feeling the stretch in my chest. “I’ll just go slow,” I told my friend. “I predicted this as my crux, I’m in it now.” She offered words of wisdom and encouragement, and we inched along. At the top of the hill, my husband greeted me with a huge smile and a hug. His pride in my steadfast progress fueled me on to the next leg.

The next few days were gray, thick, slow, and wet with tears. We passed time in purgatory close to each other, leaning in. We learned the treatment would be a combination of radiation and chemotherapy, surgery, a temporary ostomy bag, and more surgery. The prognosis was good. We told our families. We told the kids through tight throats and forced smiles. We chose mantras, “It is what it is” and “We’ll do the things until they’re done,” and we dropped in.

Mile 27 turned into mile 37. While my body ached, my mind urged me to look to the end,

“We’re so close! What mile am I on? How long is this climb? When is the next break?” A response slowly formed in retaliation. “Stay here, stay in your body.” “Stay here, it’s beautiful, look around.” “Stay here. Things hurt, but they should. It’s ok.” “Stay here. This is what we do. We do hard things.” Snapped back to present—oranges, yellows, white birch, pedal, pedal, pedal. 

My husband and I share a love language of adventure. He is used to suffering, and that is what he did. He did what he had to do, over and over again, until it was done. I used my new goal and necessary training as my new self-medication. The air around me still felt thick. I believed in our mantras. The air was heavy. I believed he would be ok. Colors were dulled, everything was loud. I stopped and listened. My body knew what I had been ignoring for years. I went to the doctor and told her everything. I started on an antidepressant.

“Stay here.” I’ve developed and held on to many mantras in my life. Most of which have evolved from climbing, biking, and backpacking. My friend had to leave around mile 43. I waved, pedaled, and vowed to “stay” in the last 7 miles. Pickle juice and maple syrup shots at mile 47 fueled me on and up. The air felt lighter, I felt lighter. Thoughts morphed from “We’re almost there” to “Wait, it’s almost over.” Deep breaths through a wide smile, legs on autopilot, I coasted down the final hill. My husband was at the bottom, cheering, filming, and excitedly laughing. The tears came. For the first time in a long time, tears of pride, joy, and gratitude came.

I did it. And I did it with intentional joy. I did it with gratitude for the space I was in, for the beautiful scenery, for the people I was with, for those who made this event happen, for the cows and the chickens and the dogs I met along the way, for my husband and his pit-crew-love and energy, for my friend’s powerful presence, and for the power of snacks, and coca-cola, and maple syrup shots. I allowed myself grace. I was patient with my body. I listened. I took care of it. I honored what I knew and needed. I crossed the finish line. My husband hugged me. I did it. He did it. We did it. 

Stay here. Stay when it’s gray, let the colors pop. Stay when it’s cold, lean into each other's warmth. Stay when it’s heavy and walk, sit, go slow. Stay when it hurts, listen. Stay here.

Between Bolts: A short story about Self-Efficacy

Self-efficacy. "The belief we have in our own abilities, specifically our ability to meet the challenges ahead of us and complete a task successfully." if there is anything I have stood on a soapbox about, over and over again, it is my belief that when you push yourself in the outdoors, the skills you gain are transferrable to your every day life. When you get comfortable with being uncomfortable, when you're pushed beyond what you know and you have to adapt, when you reach your limits and you have to cope, all of this builds are self-efficacy.

Ten Sleep, Wyoming...

...the place that taught me to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. 

I started a new job this week (clearly, several weeks into the school year already); teaching 13 teenage boys in a self-contained classroom for behavior. I've been in the field for 7 years now but this...this is a challenge like no other thus far. I fought tears mid-day, used all of the coping strategies I've been teaching for years, and still cried after the kids left, in the car, and again at home on Monday and Tuesday. I kept questioning why I would throw myself into this kind of situation, at this stage in my life, when I had my previous program running like a fairly well-oiled machine. I was feeling trapped by my own "poor" decision to change jobs and wishing I could just quit and go back. I had so much "Why?" bouncing around in my head.

This afternoon I stayed late again to try and re-create my classroom and I was creating schedule cards when I suddenly pictured myself high up on a route, between bolts, in that oh-so-familiar state of panic. That moment where you find yourself white-knuckled and wanting to scream "why the FUCK do I keep doing this?? Whhhhyyyy am I UP here right now?!" Or when you want to yell to your partner, "I HATE rock climbing! TAKE! Put me down!" Then I imagined that hyper-focus that sets in when you decide to push on. That magical zen state that blocks out any more negative self-talk, any doubt, any fear. I thought about that feeling when you push through, clip the next bolt, keep climbing, hold that focus, clip the anchors, and that sense of "WOOOOH, I f*%$#^ EARNED it!" comes over you. And you're positive this is something you'll NEVER stop doing.

EARNED it.

I realized I'm between bolts right now; legs shaking, arms pumped, scanning the wall for the next jug, calculating the moves to that next bolt. Picturing myself in that familiar state of semi-panic brought a sense of calm over me. I thought, "I've been here before. I know this place." And then I didn't cry today. I felt a sense of commitment settle in. Instead of hearing repeats of "what have you DONE, Lauren?!" I started hearing, "This is what you DO, Lauren. This is ALWAYS what you do because you love it."

Self-efficacy. "The belief we have in our own abilities, specifically our ability to meet the challenges ahead of us and complete a task successfully." Challenge-based adventures lead to overcoming failure, pushing past self-doubt, and learning that YOU. ARE. CAPABLE.

I'm in it, so on to the next bolt.

💩 as a Means of Communication

Everybody poops.  There is a book with this title.  There are several other books that attempt to teach, motivate and inspire children to join the masses and poop happily on the toilet.  You can sing about it, you can rhyme about it, you can watch Elmo rap about it.  I knew this.

What I didn't know is that my life would soon revolve around poop, the presence or absence of it, and it's use as a form of communication among family members.  💩💩💩

As I'm sure you have already guessed, we are potty training the two year old.  She made the call at the end of July and we followed her lead (isn't that how it always goes with these tiny dictators?)  We did this despite the fact that we had a newborn on our hands.  What I bet you haven't already guessed, is that even the dog got involved.

Our tiny leader nailed it with going number one on the potty, but has since used the refusal to do number 2 as a way to slowly destroy us.  Days go by and she stands strong, refusing it, fighting it, holding it and melting in to this truly shitty version of herself.  (Pun intended).  

Little brother has the opposite problem.  He uses poop to express himself by expressing it all over himself, you and anything within a 5 foot radius.  The kid has poop power like I've never seen before.  He smiles his toothy grin at me while I remove a clean diaper (what? how?!) and then clean the liquid yellow from his toes, back and neck.  We now have a designated poop bowl where we hand-wash his hand-me-downs.  At least the ones that don't get directly deposited in to the garbage.  

Then the dog caught on.  Feeling generally neglected and kicked to the curb she began using poop in place of the middle finger that she lacks.  I imagine her thought process went something like, "Oh, you're finally going to take me on a walk are you?  Too little too late."  She would then move to the middle of the road, lay down some heat, and watch me sweat with a toddler screaming "why she poop in the road?!?!  GET IT MAMA!!" and an infant struggling against my chest as I lean over to scoop up her steamy pile with my hands.  The ultimate doggy diss.  This became a regular occurrence despite my efforts to win back her love.

We have found ourselves making plans around whether or not poop will happen, has happened or needs to happen, and whether or not we will have the supports necessary to sustain either occurrence.  I am holding out for a new form of communication to evolve within our family unit.   Until then, I will give thanks for cheap princess undies, hand-me-down outfits and wine.  Lots and lots of wine.

Mom of Two: Truths and Tactics

So this happened.

We welcomed "Nolan-Baby" in to the world on June 26 (I know, over a month ago now!). Since then, we have been navigating life as a family of four.

Transitioning from Mom of One to Mom of Two has been one of the biggest challenges I've ever been faced with.  I often think I can just plow my way through things.  If I try hard enough, if I don't rest, if I just suck it up...  I was humbled, yet again, at how intense this experience is. 

I did bring some background knowledge with me from Round 1 (a.k.a. Marge) that helped in the initial phases;

• how to hold a newborn (including the transfer from one set of arms to the other)
• staying awake...for days (because no baby sleeps in that stupid plastic bassinet)
• digesting hospital food
• 3 a.m. swaddle-ninja moves
• getting dinner down the gullet in the middle of a circus of chaos and confusion 
• one arm-ing everything/using my feet as an ape might

Secondary phases such as; re-introducing toddler to your hospital-family-of-three, heading home as a family of four, and creating a new "normal" that works for all members of the family (even the furry one) presented me with a new set of challenges.  I found that I was lacking some very necessary skills;

• maneuvering diaper changes with boy parts 
• managing my daughter's newfound tyrant-like personality
• accepting how fast 6 years of experience and a Masters degree in applied behavior analysis goes right out the window when you're chasing your two year old down, leaping over furniture, while nursing your newborn and yelling "I said take it OUT of your mouth!"
• cleaning up after my dog who started taking spiteful shits in the road on walks with a toddler in a stroller and a newborn on my chest
• managing the absolute and complete loss of personal space

There were moments of panic, I won't lie.  Here are some tactics that helped me cope while I fumbled through skill deficits, shifting identities and lack of sleep.

• texts to my tribe of ladies; sometimes cries for help, sometimes looking for inspiration to stay awake at 3 a.m. and sometimes just looking to justify my crazy
• reading a book called "Toddlers are Assholes".  Don't act offended.  Just read it.
• FAMILY.  Oh man, SO much family.  They are my village.  And man does it take one.
• Humor.  Humor via Snapchat, texts, phone calls, in person (for those brave enough to join their crazy with mine)  Understand that this is Type 2 fun.  Laugh so you don't cry.
• Mantras.  I read a book called "Deep Survival" that was all about what makes a person a survivor.  Mantras were frequently recorded as a tactic used while stranded at sea or lost in the wild.  They keep you focused and moving froward while blocking out any doubt.
• Mama mantras might sound something like; "I am stronger than a toddler", "this will be funny later", "there will be wine", or for my adventure mamas, "this is the crux, don't bail"

Overall, it's been a big, fat, beautiful mess of learning new ways to love.  Nolan-Baby is happy, healthy and settling in.  Marge and I have come to an understanding of this new, evolved, mommy-daughter relationship (a.k.a she doesn't hate me anymore).  D and I are still standing.  "Mom of Two" and "Family of Four" is the new norm and I dig it.  

How a Semi-Dirtbag Goes Full-On Mom: Part 2

"You will need other people and you will need to be that other person to someone else..."  Man have I ever lived and breathed that line.  But it's not always easy to open up, to accept help, or to step up and be that help.  Traveling, climbing and overall adventuring has always done a great job of cracking me open to allow for these things.

This is the second part of my two-part post.  These are a few philosophical standpoints that I feel are the foundation for both types of adventure (semi dirt-bagging and mom-ing):

• Breathe.

Breathing.  First and foremost.  I am convinced that what I learned from a combination of yoga, climbing and travel is what got me through my hours of labor and then the first few weeks of motherhood.  If you've not breathing in Bikram, you're passing out.  If you're not breathing through the crux on a climb, you're peeling off the wall with pumped forearms and shaky legs.  While on the road, if you don't stop to breathe when things go completely off the map, you're crying on the curb in a parking lot somewhere.  If you're not breathing during labor, you're testing new limits of pain.  If you're not breathing while your newborn is screaming one inch from your face at 3 a.m., you are most certainly crying alone in the dark.  Breathing is the answer to everything.  Forever and always.

• Embrace the chaos.

This is absolutely essential.  A plan is necessary.  This may include your general direction, activities you'd like to partake in and the gear necessary to make it happen.  That being said, the most important thing to take with you is the true and genuine understanding that you can not, and will not, control everything to fit your plan.  This is where the spirit of adventure lies.  Flexibility.  Shit is going to go wrong.  Campsites are booked.  Roads are blocked.  The hike in is grueling.  Storms roll in.  Your dog gets Giardia while you're living out of your car.  You wake up to a minor crime scene at the Motel 6 you've stayed in.  It's dark, you're tired and you have nowhere to sleep.  You wind up on decks, bare mattresses and in Wal-Mart parking lots.

Learning to embrace the chaos; to expect it, adapt to it and laugh at it is what gave me strength and endurance in those early days of motherhood.  Sleep is elusive.  Your body is not your own.  Demands are high.  The little one controls all.  You notice a pattern, which means that pattern will immediately change.  You'll forget the diaper bag.  You'll forget your partners name, the day, the date.  But you will learn fast.  You'll accept new "norms", you'll form new rules of partnership, you'll laugh and love bigger than you ever have before.  Thats how you'll see the beauty in the chaos before it all settles and fades away.

• Emotionality

You're gonna cry.  I promise.  You're gonna cry when you've moved across the country and you miss your family.  You're gonna cry when you have fallen in the same spot on a climb over and over and over again and you feel weak and defeated and embarrassed.  And you are going to cry when you've been home for a few days with your brand new little one and suddenly everything falls away and you are overwhelmed.  And it is going to be an intense, overwhelming, whole body cry.  It's ok.  Just do it.  Embrace the mess.  Feel all the feels.  Don't hide.  Ride it out.

Now for the most crucial element when pushing yourself in the outdoors and when surviving motherhood as a whole.

• Other women.   

For a long time, I spent a lot of my time with very few girls and large groups of boys when it came to pursuing outdoor activities.  Then climbing introduced me to several strong, brave, inspirational women who lifted me up to a whole new level of independence, pushing my limits, and getting after it.  Women need women in the outdoors.  Seeing one of my female friends crush an intimidating route, attack a downhill on their mountain bike or carving through powder in the backcountry, is the push I need to feel like "I want that.  I can do that too."  It eliminates excuses.  It gives strength and power in knowing we are capable.  There is an undeniable bond between females pushing themselves in the outdoors.  They will be the ones to push you, coach you, mentor you, and to lift you up.

 

Same goes for motherhood.  You will need women.   You will need to be honest.  Be real.  Put it all out there.  Ask crazy, scary, gross, unthinkable questions.  Air your crazy out with them.  Laugh at it, at yourself, at each other.  Don't be shy.  Tell all.  You need them.  You are not alone.  If you've thought it, feared it, wondered it, doubted it, so have they.  Nothing is more important and necessary for the survival of a new mom than feeling a part of something bigger.  You are a part of a tribe of bad ass women who have endured the most intense, chaotic, overwhelming, indescribable thing in the entire world.  Find them, reach out to them, hold on to them, and be them for each other.


Here's to my fellow semi-dirtbags living the Mom-life strong.  Here's to needing your tribe, whether it's on the road, at the crag or on the phone at 3 a.m. with your newborn in your arms.  Here's to being ok with knowing you're down.  Here's to leaning on each other.  Here's to lifting each other up.  And here's to dry shampoo, headbands and earrings and laughing at the beautiful chaos we survive over and over again.

How a Semi-Dirtbag Goes Full-On Mom: Part 1

I love this quote.  It's super timely resurfacing inspired a two-part post.  This is Part One, the invitation to "believe in better things", to see the humor and the practical in the crossover from semi-dirtbag life to the full-on mom life.  (Part 2 to follow).

In preparing for our first child, and my inauguration in to motherhood, I held on tightly to the idea that all of my traveling, climbing and love for the outdoors had equipped me with skills that would most definitely support me in my new role.  Turns out, I was right.

Margie taking in the beta.

When you're in the throws of motherhood, especially early motherhood, things can get ugly.  Emotions are ricocheting off the walls and anyone standing close by.  You are running on the fumes of sleepless nights and blurred-together days.  You're learning on the job.  Your heart is bigger and fuller than you've ever felt before and you don't yet have the tools to manage it.  You are different.  And now there is this tiny human you've just created and he or she is demanding the very best of you, every moment, every day, all the time.

It's wild.

My tiny human and I in one of my favorite moments.

When I was far enough out of the early days, and starting to see straight again, I started writing things down.  Here are some basic survival tips that this semi-dirtbag took directly from the outdoor life and inserted in to her new mom-life:

• Dry shampoo.  Still conducting research on just how many days this is a viable substitute.
• Baby wipes.  Ha!  Look at that.  Perfect crossover, made for wiping baby bums, obviously.  Maybe less obviously, also good for tent-baths and "dirtbag showers".
• Quick, hurried and slightly panicked bathing sessions.  In the outdoors the water is icy enough to take your breath away and promote flustered soap-ups and screaming dunks.  In the early days of motherhood there is a baby waiting, or screaming or needing you in some inexplicable way and you will rush just the same.
• Headbands and earrings.  A good headband and some stylish studs can take the feminine up a notch, or two, no matter the layers of exhaustion, dirt and/or spit up.  
• Pumping.  On climbing trips we stop while dirty, exhausted and starving to pump for water.  In mom-life you hide while dirty, exhausted and starving, to pump for milk.  
• Packing.  On my first road trip, I learned quickly that organization in the car is essential to preventing hanger, lost gear and overall disorientation.  Same goes in attempts to leave the house in your new mom role.  You better know where that pacifier is, have wipes stocked and enough outfits to cloth a tiny army of babies.  
• Snacks, chapstick and water...everywhere.  On road trips, in tents, at the crag and in your house.  These are staple items for surviving the outdoors and the first weeks of days running into days and moo-ing your way through the hours when mom-ing.

These are just a few of the essential crossover skills that kept me afloat in my transition from semi-dirtbag to full-on mom.  Recognizing them and even writing them down at 3 and 4 a.m. kept me feeling grounded and in touch with a version of myself that I was familiar and comfortable with.  It gets hard and we all need that "invitation to believe better things" are ahead, but most importantly, are happening right now.  

A Moment for Motherhood and Mountains

There was a moment in Wyoming when I realized I wanted to be a mom.  I mean, I always knew I wanted to have kids, but this was the day I realized something bigger.

It was the summer after D and I got engaged.  I had commitments (including my own bridal shower) that required me to shorten my climbing trip out west, so I flew out to meet my adventure-partner-in crime, Meg, in Ten Sleep, Wyoming for a few weeks.

He made me clean his route before he proposed...

The summer before, D, Meg and I had circled through Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, and Colorado for a month and half of camping, climbing, and taking massive rest day hikes. I started leading routes that felt bold and exciting to me, pushing my limits and feeling the rush of adrenaline balance with the zen of finding that flow.  I was sending, taking big whips, and going for it. I fell completely in love with Ten Sleep Canyon.

The climb that lit a fire in me for taking the lead...

This time, I wanted all of that again.  But everything felt different.  I was struggling to climb routes I had lead the year before.  I was over-gripping in fear of falling, I was opting to top-rope instead of leading, I was backing off climbs that should have been warm-ups.  I was frustrated, distracted and stuck in my own head.

The moment came to me slowly at first, but then quickly became heavy, real and unavoidable.

We hiked up to a route I had lead and loved the summer before.  I pretended to be psyched to lead it again.  I started to rope up...and then I started crying.  Meg asked what was wrong, told me it's ok, encouraged me to sit it out and regroup.  I mumbled a bunch of nothing about how I couldn't focus and was scared and frustrated.  Then I sat and stared out at the canyon.

A view that can crack you wide open

I talked with Meg and a fellow climber as we packed up our gear.  He asked, "Are you worried about getting married?"  I had an easy and immediate answer to that, "No!  I'm excited!"  He asked, "But are you worried things will change when you get married?"  I explained that wasn't it either, that D and I are passionate about the same things, that we want the same lifestyle.  He looked at me quietly for a minute.  Then he said, "You want kids, don't you..."  That was it. "That will definitely change things."  It all sank in...and I felt lighter.

I need these moments. Moments in wide-open canyons, in the mountains, roped up to a good friend, crying to strangers, in conversations around campfires. These moments bring me to think deeply, dream big and love fiercely. I need to go to extremes, to live big and to be fully immersed in the things I love to be the best version of myself. And I was battling with the possibility that I might have to let this all go.

Then, the bigger realization. These are the moments I want for my children. I wanted to be a mom, but more than anything, I wanted to be a mom that loves her life because she didn't leave it behind in the wake of motherhood. I wanted to be a mom that teaches her kids to live passionately by example and not through old photos or stories from a past life.   

Back on lead and projecting to end the second trip

As we prepare to welcome our second child into the world, I feel ready to push on as a family of four.  I still dream big of cross-country road trips, summers in canyons, deserts and mountains, days of throwing myself at rock, roping up for heart-pounding leads, bathing in icy rivers, spending night after night under the stars, sitting around the campfire and crawling into a sleeping bag happily layered with dirt and exhaustion.  These dreams are the blueprint for whats ahead, I do not doubt it at all anymore.  I intend on turning these dreams into very real moments for myself, and my whole little family, for a very long time.

Thank you, Wyoming.

Meg watching the last of the sun across the canyon before another head-lamp-hike out