Danielle Leonard

As I laid in bed this morning, slowly stirring, the first words spoken to me were from my sweet Anna, “Why doesn’t Santa burn to death when he goes down our fireplace chimney?” I thought to myself, “Good question, kid. Random but pertinent.” Then I thought, “What has this kid been smoking?”

To be honest, a few short weeks ago I probably wouldn’t have listened or I would have half-entertained her with a quick answer. All of this would be if I hadn’t made the decision to stay home for a season to honor questions like the above and other pondering thoughts from a four and seven year old. This is a big, big, big (did I say big?) change for a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-at-mock-seven-speed kinda girl. It was out of left field when the idea was downloaded into my spirit and frankly, I have a ton of stuff to accomplish in the world. I really thought the Big Guy and I were on the same page. This bright idea of His threw me off my game a bit.

Of course, I can’t settle too much, so I am maintaining my go-get-em attitude with managing a calendar to accomplish some goals like getting certified in Chemical Dependency counseling, downloading info on how to write, seeking courses in Peer Mentoring, and so on. Going from 100-0 is a huge shift for a girl like me so I have to keep things moving to maintain some sanity. I honestly think it is an aftereffect of being an addict – an idle mind is a dangerous mind. There are a million other idiosyncrasies I suffer from but that is for another day and another therapy session. And we are back to one income so I don’t have the money for a therapist anyway.

So today was like every other day I have been having since I have been home. Routine coffee, routine workout, and taking my daughter to our routine lunch after the routine workout like we have done for the past 3 Wednesdays. But, today’s lunch was different. My routine eyes were awakened and I was ever so present in the moment. Like, in the moment, time stood still, kind of moment.

This beautiful child of mine with her baby doll size brown eyes and pretty plump lips full of God-ordained injections at birth, was looking at me from across the table and we connected. Time froze and nothing else in the world matter. It didn’t matter that we have to repair my car and it is astronomical in cost, we have some medical issues that need to be attended too, my kid is the Corps and we want to visit him at his Fleet before he gets shipped off overseas, and I could really use some new underwear and socks now that I think about it. The point is: the issues are minute. On Saturday my husband is shaving his head for St.Baldricks’s to raise funds for childhood cancer and awareness. Many parents have lost these precious lunch moments with their children and opportunities to answer 20 questions about service dogs and why we can’t touch them, hug them, or kiss them. Perspective can be quite intriguing and quite nasty at the same time.

As my daughter’s wispy hair clung to her spoon to get a taste of the Broccoli Cheddar soup she was raving about, I couldn’t help but feel like my heart was going to burst with love. It felt like a big red balloon full of so much air it was teetering on being a showy, obnoxious, “look at how big I can get” kind of heart balloon. I would be lying if I didn’t say I have been a bit whiny in my transition over the last few weeks. I’ve been pretty bi-polar if you will. One minute I’m all like, “This is ahhhmmaazzinngg. In my PJs at 9:30am. Woo hoo!” Then I’m all like, “How am I going to change the world in my PJs at 9:30am?! Boo hoo!” So you can imagine I was thankful for this precious moment in time to school me for a hot minute. Today is a gift. How are you spending the day? Are you taking a minute to smell Santa-burning roses? These moments in time are so sweet and tasty and I want to cherish them forever. Especially when I know that in a blink of an eye I will be taken down another course to accomplish what God and I have already decided I am going to do. Not today, not tomorrow, but in due time and I don’t have to be antsy about it. Just breathe and enjoy today.

As if my revelation day couldn’t get any sweeter my daughter had to go and do it. She had to break out in song at the lunch table and imprint a memory in the ol’ brain bank. She took a deep breath and started doing the wave with one arm, “I’m going back to Cali, Cali, Cali.” Took her other arm and started the wave across the ocean move again, “She said she likes….the ocean.” With the sweet voice of hers not caring if the other patrons could hear, “I’m going back to Cali, Cali, Cali.” Then a gentle whisper to end her performance, “I don’t think so.” The kid had to sing an LL Cool J song and take us back to old school. She basically was speaking my love language and we shared a belly laugh. The joy in her eyes and the smile on her face, her magical “mommy and me” moment, planted seeds in her heart that will grow infinitely. Even in the stillness we are changing the world.

Thank you for another “routine” day. I am putting this day in my back pocket. Also, if any scholars know how to answer the Santa question please give a shout out. I’m pretending she didn’t ask and wants an answer. This time it isn’t because I’m too busy -just stumped.

When I was a little girl I dabbled in being a Brownie and eventually became a  Girl Scout. I remember so vividly slanging cookies door-to-door (before the risk of the evils of the world could swallow up an innocent child) and skipping down the street to sell a little piece of Heaven wrapped up in a Thin Mint. I cherish memories of sleepovers and meetings and events with such fondness. Some of the main goals of a Girl Scout was to master certain skills, do good deeds, and spread kindness to earn badges for their uniform sash. I remember how blinged out my older sister’s sash was and how I couldn’t wait until the day I would be able to carry the same honor resting perfectly on my neatly pressed uniform. As my badges grew I pranced around my room and it allowed me to taste what it was like to wear a sash center stage, smiling until your face went numb, and stumbling through the answer to the question, “What would you do to solve world peace?” Okay, so it had nothing to do with ‘Miss America’ but in my little brain, it was the closest way to feel like I was worthy of such a title.

Each badge represented integrity, skill, stretching beyond a comfort zone, and giving back to the community. I carried those badges with pride as a great reminder for all my hard work and making a difference in my world. Then the fear of judgment rocked my little 8th-grade self when I moved to a new town and I wanted to fit in so badly. I had an opportunity to join the Girl Scouts in my new hometown. Instead, I believed a lie planted in my mind when another girl said to me, “Um, Girl Scouts, in 8th grade is an absolute reputation killer. Only a “nobody” is in Girl Scouts.” Please go ahead and repeat that sentence in a “white girl from the valley”accent to give yourself a better reenactment. So, I tossed my uniform in the garbage and took residency in a place of seeking constant approval in all of the wrong places. As I grew older and more unsure of myself and lost complete confidence in anything I touched, I eventually earned badges of pain, despair, shame, abuse, addiction, and disappointment.

These badges hurt, sure as Hell weren’t as cute as my Girl Scout badges, and I wore them so long they began to chip away at my soul. These soul-suckers cozied up so deeply into the nooks of my heart and soon I had scars all over me. It took me years to overcome my adversity and pain. They were years of consistent work, self-reflection, and finding God to finally bring some clarity to my pain-filtered eyes. My journey of self-discovery and healing wasn’t always smooth. During those times I discovered that if rubbed Vitamin E on the scars I would eventually have been able to make them barely visible to the naked eye. Pretty much like a quick botox injection to rid you of those pesky lines in your forehead. I admit putting some vitamin E on things seemed like the better option and an easy way to hide the shame (the most painful of all scars), but after major growing up and putting big girl pants on, I finally learned that each scar serves as a beautiful reminder to me and all that I have overcome. I can trace my finger ever so gently over each one and be taken back to a place in time. What once brought great sadness and shame with each visit now becomes a celebration – a sweet celebration that turns my pain into purpose.

The scars that I wear do not define me but have simply refined me. 

Will you join me in celebration? What have your scars brought you? How do you perceive them? Vitamin E and botox won’t rid the permanency of a scar or major laugh lines that will never stop creeping up on your face; they will merely bring you a temporary fix. If you tap into resources, relationships, and dig deep into your pain it will bring you so much more freedom than you could ever imagine – kind of like a botox injection to the soul but way better, more permanent, and much cheaper. It will help you to see all of the goodness life brings in the most painful of times. It won’t be easy to visit each scar but I promise if you stick it through your life will forever change. Every visit that begins with crippling fear eventually turns to hesitancy and then becomes a visit full of sweet anticipation. And I hear at each celebration they have an unlimited amount of Girl Scout cookies to eat and you don’t gain a pound! Okay…I went too far with that.

Either way -will you join me in reflection, hard work, celebration, and giving thanks? It is way, way, way, way, way, way, way (did I mention way?), more nourishing to that beautiful spirit of yours than debating your feelings about Trump with your friends, family, and foes.

Do you remember when you were a kid and drew pictures of mountains? In my world at least, they were always drawn in a half moon shape, big fluffy clouds, and a sun hovering over in a big round circle with squiggly lines dancing on the paper. The sun ALWAYS had a big smiley face drawn on it, well because the sun is always happy. The sky was scratched in with manic looking blue lines from my crayon to finish off my masterpieces. Peaceful, happy, innocent – brainwashed as a mere child for sure. Mt. Kilimanjaro is NOTHING like that. Holy Crap! I’m not sure who wrote the ‘Easy Climb -Mt. Kilimanjaro’ brochure but they are grossly misinformed.

Of course, the mountain is majestic with lush rain forest in the beginning. Only to fool you, my dear. I was lured in with the promise of a small incline as I traipsed up the path. Soon the incline turned into steep rocks, narrow dirt path, and before you know it my calves were screaming obscenities at me. After a grueling 5 hours of your body getting used to walking you are rewarded with a night’s sleep. As innocent as a wee babe, I fell asleep thinking the worst may be over. Because, well, remember mountains are crescent-shaped (like the St. Louis arch) and that is easy. Right? See you tomorrow, smiley face sun dude!

On the second day, birds wake you up singing to trick you into thinking sunshine and blue skies ahead, baby! I’m sorry but a half hour in the reality sank in. Um, are we rock climbing? Yes. We. Are. Danielle. A long, narrow path up a rocky cliff, slowly creeping up above the clouds and there goes that silly reality showing you the “real” talk. Gorgeous views were thrown at me like confetti so I was drunk on the beauty of Mt. Kili. Your brain says, this is one helluva party! All the more to trick you, my dear. Did I forget to mention we did 7 hours of this?

Ahhhhh, day three starts out sweet and innocent batting the baby blues at you so you don’t really know what are behind those tricky eyes. The day of acclimating your body with hours upon hours of a slow baby step march up an incline as cold clouds roll in around you. I thought clouds were soft and fluffy and warm just like in the pictures I used to draw?! During the day we were honored with a break to eat lunch surrounded by huge lava rocks with chicken bones littered all over the mountain floor. Can I tell you something? It is quite liberating eating chicken like a Neanderthal on the side of a mountain, unshowered, with nails caked in dirt. For real. Not a care in the world. Me, my matted hair, surrounded by a beautiful team laughing at the absurdity of the mountain that tricked us all, as we talked about our poop. I have never talked about pooping this much in my whole 38 years. There is something raw and real about sharing poop stories with your fellow climbers. Forever bonded in our crap.

Day four – Barranco wall. Oh you, cheeky fool, you. In all honesty, my absolute favorite. Full of adrenaline and music blasting in my ear, I climbed this huge wall pretending I was wearing a Red Bull shirt because they endorsed my climb. Merely because this day surely deserves an endorsement from some major company for any extreme cliff climbing fool. This was also the most -punch her in the gut- kind of day as it sunk in how hard our porters worked for us. Porters are the sweet angels sent from Heaven to carry your over-packed duffel weighing as much as 40 pounds while carrying their own gear up and down the entire non-existent arch shaped mountain. Yep – a mountain with peaks, valleys, inclines, rock walls, and steep, steep, steep cliffs. Some carry bags on their heads, with non-sufficient gear, terrible shoes, and in the awful blazing heat to boot. They always gave a nod, followed with “jambo” (hello) and a “pole pole” (slow slow), as they passed by me panting and clinging on any unsteady rock within grasp. Bob, please don’t read that last part. A perspective punch in the eye that these precious humans work so hard to keep you alive and carry your stupid baby wipes and North Face gear for as little as $7 dollars a day to support their families that average about 5 dependents or more. But, they do so with pride, joy, and genuine smiles. We were also graced almost daily with dancing and singing by these men under the beautiful African sky. There is nothing more magical than hanging with 50 African men, singing and African booty dancing, laughing as you hear the song echoing around the mountain, in what seems like another world on another planet.

Full of dirt in every single crevice, master of the ‘go girl’ pee contraption for women, and teeth begging for a good flossing and a scrub brush, day five called me to hurry up and move! There was a ridiculous incline, rocky path, and a huge peak and valley calling me for dinner like my mom used to do when I was outside playing for hours and the sun was starting to set. It is chilly (then hot), hazy from the clouds rolling in around you, and long. Just for extra torture, a huge hill requires you to climb it before you can rest out your exhaustion at a camp with lunch waiting. The food is always outstanding and well worth the torture of climbing hours upon hours. We shoveled food down and prepared our time to climb a rock wall to Barafu Upper Camp (the friendly sister of Kosovo Camp). Friendly because most people camp at Kosovo and start their summit from there. Not us – we were blessed with the option to get to Barafu Upper Camp to set up camp for summit night and get the rock wall out of the way. Or shall I say “rock waterfall” because it was as if ages ago the rocks were a waterfall but now frozen in time. Basically, you have nothing to grip with but your poles and the arches of your feet. Try arching your feet in hiking boots. Good luck!

That is when the wave came crashing over me as we got past the rock waterfall and headed up the steep hill to the upper camp and the view became clear. There she was in all of her beauty and glory. The snow-capped tip of Mt. Kilimanjaro sparkling in the sun and wrapped in those big, fluffy white clouds I used to draw. So close I could almost lick the snow off the cap like a snow cone. Then He spoke (not that big booming voice like in the movies but with a gentle whisper), “Sweet child, from the side of a bridge to the top of a mountain. Our journey almost complete yet so much more to come. A chapter to conclude and a new one to start. A joy and adventure beyond anything you could ever imagine. My grace is sufficient to erase all the pain, guilt, unworthiness, and shame away from that precious soul of yours. My beautiful child – you conquered mountains bigger and harder and darker than this. You jumped from a bridge and I caught you with the team of officers I sent. Tonight, I am by your side as I always am.” Tears poured down my face like that stupid rock waterfall I just climbed. A moment so surreal and peaceful that it felt dreamlike. That or the altitude was still kicking my butt.

Never will I forget that moment when He blessed me with an immeasurable amount of His love and placed a princess crown on my dirty, matted, smelly head as I approached the final camp before we summited that evening. Still a beauty in God’s eyes even though I am forever a hot mess. An elixir of bravery, strength, fortitude, and stupidity washed over my body in preparation for the night’s climb only hours away.

We ate an early dinner, laughed, prayed, and talked about poop – of course. Headed to our tents to pack and rested for a wake up call at midnight. Soooooooo, did you know it is freakin cold as you get close to the mountain top? Well – it is. The wind beat against the tent taunting the Hell out of me and kept me awake for an hour. Midnight rolled up and gear check and water check and let’s roll. Oh, what sweet ambitious babies we all were as we threw on our head lamps and headed off to conquer the summit. Two minutes and reality gave us all a swift kick in the butt. It was freezing cold, the wind was relentless, and what looked like a slight incline in the daytime turned out to be the steepest, rockiest, zigzagged path straight up to Hell. It was dark and all you could see were lights blipping up the mountain in zigzag formation as we all marched to what seemed like our death. The wind beat against our faces, causing momentary deafness, and we could no longer hear each other’s words of encouragement or the cheerful military cadences that we shouted to each other over the last six days on the mountain. Isolated and alone, but still on each other’s heels, the realization of mental strength slowly dying inside was scary. I wrestled with thoughts of giving up and I’m pretty sure I was only 10 minutes in. Time stood still as we summited so concept of time was simply that – a concept. Then altitude sickness choked me out, just enough to make me dizzy and drunk, with a sprinkle of hallucinations to keep me entertained. Back in the old days hallucinating was fun but lost its luster when I got sober and grew up. Yet, I’m pretty sure my ability to push through the dizziness and hallucinations without panicking was my only saving grace and the only benefit from my old, reckless days of partying. Seriously. I’m pretty sure anyone would have lost their mind in that condition on the summit for that many hours straight.

Hour two of “mountain drunk debauchery” was becoming unbearable. I said to myself, where is the red tap out button? All I have to do is tap the button, heating blankets, and an escalator will surely appear, right? Then sanity came back and I remembered – girl you are on a summit in Tanzania, Africa, and there ain’t no magical helicopters showing up to rescue you. I prayed. And prayed. And prayed for five hours straight. We had sporadic breaks and Oda (my guide) shoved sugar down my throat. I shouted, “Oda, am I going to die?!”  “No, Daniella, you not!” Good to know, I thought. At one break, he pulled out a bottle of Coke and told me to chug. I burped my whole way through it and then got ticked off. The image of me chugging a bottle of Coke in below freezing temperature and tortuous winds on the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro will never make it to the Coca-Cola commercial circuit, and I will never be able to cash in on the royalties. I’m going to try and write the CEO at some point because I’m pretty sure I deserve some sort of Medal of Honor presented by the Coca-Cola company. At least I deserve to get a free case of pop or something (even though I don’t drink pop). Without a doubt.

When we reached Stella point and the sun started to rise it was as if the Heavens were opening up. We started at 1:15am and 6:30am came in with the fresh promise of hope and the romance of light to warm our souls. WE MADE IT ALIVE!!!! We all are going to conquer this mountain! Wait – oh – 45 minutes to Uhuru peak (tip of Kili) up that incline and over those rocks?! No problem – as I shook my frozen fist up at the sky! Forty five minutes of torture later the real celebration began. Hugs and tears and pictures and more pictures were taken. I wandered off a bit and got down on my knees and cried. I placed my rocks (gathered at the bottom of the mountain) of shame, unworthiness, guilt, and impatience (and my husband’s heavy rock of fear) on the ground and prayed over them. Finally released from it all. From the side of a bridge to the mountain top to lay it all at His feet and no longer carry the burden after 17 years. Left on the mountain for God to carry and I will never have to look back.

It has been a life-changing experience and describing with words found in the dictionary seem sophomoric and don’t quite do the experience justice. I am still wrapping my brain around everything, the words spoken over me, conversations with fellow climbers, and things that came to fruition in my heart. I don’t have all of life’s answers but I sure can appreciate the beauty of life and the promise of today. There is no guarantee how long life will be for any of us, in our human brains we try to control the longevity of it. Our egos put a time stamp on what we expect our lifespan to be. Today I’m going to be in the moment and soak in the beauty of it all and let Him handle silly details like expiration dates.

Don’t even ask how we got down the mountain – or shall I say how we skied down quicksand for three hours straight and ate dirt all the way. Stopped for a short lunch and hiked another four hours down a jagged hill to another camp. That is another story for a different day. I have a lot more to process in my brain. Thoughts to gather and ways to articulate them. In the meantime, I’m going to pass time drawing new mountain pictures because my childhood drawings are grossly negligent to educating society about God’s majestic mountains.

I mean really. I absolutely would have slayed it with my ‘Cover Girl’ poses and taken full advantage of the model lifestyle. Who wouldn’t want a closet full of some pretty dope outfits (yeah I’m a 90’s teen) and prance the streets of NYC, Paris and Rodeo Drive, baby. I admit – my love of food would probably have hindered my career at some point – especially when there is dessert sitting on the counter. I’m not sure a diet of cigarettes, coke (diet), and apples would be sustainable for a girl that can slaughter a pint of ‘Ben & Jerry’s – The Tonight Dough’ in one sitting. People have witnessed it and it isn’t pretty. Sorry, Bob.

When I was younger I used to create images in my head when falling asleep in hopes to manipulate my dreams. I would lay in bed with my eyes closed and pretend to look like Cover Girl model, Niki Taylor. Sometimes it would be Brooke Shields and even Christie Brinkley (when her face used to move) for the throwback nostalgic days of 80’s modeling. I created scenarios in my head and hoped it would be enough to spark my dreams and live out the fantasy of being one of the great beauties of the world as I drifted off to sleep. I wasn’t tragically ugly as a teenager but I always believed that those girls had a much easier path in life being beautiful and let’s be real – who doesn’t want life to be a little easier minus the muffin top and love handles? Looking back now I feel a little sad about that girl who struggled so much with body image and self-esteem that she tried to manipulate dreams to escape reality for a night (or two) if she was lucky.

Those were the beginning signs of a tormented child who would eventually take a sharp turn and veer down a very long, hard, ugly road of destruction for many years. “I know, God, I get it.” I was (still am) a ‘Cover Girl’ and I know I was breaking your heart because I was fearfully and wonderfully made in your image. Somewhere and somehow I stopped believing in myself – and your truth – and stopped listening.

This year you challenged me to shed my old skin and go through a rebirth. Of course, I was instructed to do it publically because it needed to be authentic and required accountability. I know why. People needed to hear my story. There are so many out there suffering from mental illness, addiction, depression, and hopelessness. I shared my story – a very raw, unfiltered, unedited, and unapologetic story. “You know it would have been waaaayyyyyyyyy easier to be discovered at Great Northern mall sipping on a Frappe and be approached by some LA Model Talent Agent scouting in the Clevelnd area!!” Now that’s a story – don’t ya think?!

Nope. Not today and not tomorrow. I know I will never get to work with Calvin Klein and I need to hang up my modeling towel (well it never existed but whatever). It has been hard being real. Understandably most people sweep their dirty secrets under the rug for fear of judgment and the chokehold of shame. It is way easier to filter our junk and Instagram the crap out of our lives. I am a Rocky River mom with kids in the school system and I even dabble a bit in the Early Childhood PTA. That has to mean something and I got a reputation to keep up. I see these people at Target (always without makeup and looking like a truck hit me – of course) and Heinen’s. “Are you sure you want me to talk about my suicide attempt and the struggles of addiction I once battled?” Yep. You made it loud and clear. I understand it now. Over the course of the last 9 months since I first shared my story, there have been numerous conversations. People have reached out to share their struggles and clink glasses along with me because we all know someone that is struggling with something, or has suffered the aftermath of suicide loss in either a direct or non-direct way.

You are a ninja, God. A stealthy, miracle ninja, always pulling out the stops when least expected. I know it isn’t by happenstance that I am leaving for Africa today and this past week leading up to my takeoff has been ‘National Suicide Prevention Week’. I find it no coincidence that yesterday was ‘World Suicide Prevention Day’ and you are sending me the very next day to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro to share my story and continue to inspire hope over the course of the next 11 days. I know I have to continue writing, talking about, and sharing the goodness of your grace. I know that some may not understand why my story continues while many have had a final ending written into their stories. I don’t understand it either and I don’t anticipate that I ever will on Earth. I do believe we aren’t capable of understanding all the layers of your work in our human brains. Not because we aren’t intelligent enough but because you are protecting us with your great love. In the meantime, I am going to continue to push forward and get uncomfortable at times and continue to share my story.

There are way too many people out there that matter, struggling, and need to know that they are not crazy, alone, unloved, or unwanted. People need to know that change is possible and hope is not just a word in the dictionary. That HOPE is real and can penetrate the hearts of people so desperately seeking it. I’m okay with being a person that takes the stigma off of suicide talk and stimulate open conversation and allow questions to be asked. I’m finally okay with being one of the all too many faces of ‘National Suicide Prevention Week’ and I think I wear it pretty damn good. Thank you for choosing me.

When we were little and growing up on doses of ‘Family Ties’ we were fed a bowl of cheerios with a spoonful of sugar…er…or two. Thank God I was an 80’s kid and lived life with sugar added to everything –even my strawberries- and my head was still allowed to hit the pillow without any guilt of impending brain explosions or clogged arteries. Sure they brushed upon hot topics like teen issues, bad relationships, and temptations. They sure as heck didn’t cover topics like weeding your flowerbeds constantly, cleaning up everyone’s junk all the time, and attempting to make dinner while your 3 year old’s head spins as she vomits green goo out of her mouth. Not really, but that is what I visualize when she flips her lid because I gave her the wrong color plate for dinner. In all seriousness, they battled some serious issues but with a laugh track and typically a conclusion in less than 30 minutes and with a serenade of closing music. Man, this is easy. Sign me up!

As I am writing I am looking around at my house and in every corner there is misplaced articles of clothing and baskets of clothes to fold. There is an action figure still in a stance to battle a crazy bad guy trying to kidnap Barbie and take over the world (or at least the house on Chrisfield lane). Toys, books, art supplies – EVERYWHERE. If I look out my window the weeds are out of control and I am currently waiting with bated breath for a pink slip from the neighborhood busybody telling me to take care of my yard. “Who the heck picked the corner house anyway, Bob?!” It takes everything in my power not to fall into the depths of guilt and shame because my house isn’t up to Pintrest standards and my walls are still beige (not slated gray) with hand prints smeared all over them.

Adulting is hard. Like, super duper, hard. A constant balancing act of juggling life, kids, husband, dumb teenagers, and house chores. The Keatons didn’t tell me I was going to have to grocery shop every week and do laundry. Okay, I don’t do laundry every week and I sure don’t iron clothes, but that is an issue I can deal with at my next therapy session.

Last night my daughter screamed for 45 minutes before going to bed. Holy cow – her voice is piercing. I admit, I lost my patience for a hot minute and had to walk away (or shall I say I was escorted away by my husband). I envisioned ways I could leave her at the end of my driveway and put a sign that says “Free 3 year old kid – take if you like living life on the edge” but I resisted. What? I would let her take, Mr. Bear, for the love of God – I’m not a savage!! Did I mention that my teenager was moody when he got home and raged about our spotty Internet for 45 minutes? Where the heck is my laugh track and when are we wrapping up this episode? Hasn’t it been 30 minutes yet?

It is hard. It is okay to complain that life is hard in the midst of our #firstworldproblems. Let’s be real – there are seasons. Seasons of gut-wrenching adversity and seasons of grass that needs to be mowed twice in one week!! Disgusting, I feel you. The beautiful thing is we are all battling the same stuff. Same stuff. Different day. Different week. Different year. So, next time you pass that mom trying to muffle her screaming kid in Target toss her a nod of understanding. Throw up your suburban mom/dad gang sign and tuck a Starbucks card in her back pocket. When someone invites you over tell them, “DO NOT clean your house or get out your special China for me. Seriously. It is all good.”

Life is hard. Even for us pampered folks with the blessings of a toilet that flushes. We all know one moment the toilet is flushing and the next moment a spouse lost a job or some medical diagnosis is looming over you like a black cloud. The only way we can get through this roller coaster thing we call “life” is to show a little grace for each other. Show grace when your friend doesn’t call you back for two weeks or even let a person cut in line because they are in a hurry. “Lady, I’m in a hurry too you know!!” Sigh. I’m still working on showing grace for people who cut in line. Just ask my husband.

Anyway, be the laugh track in somebody’s life -even when your laugh track is missing. Learn to play an instrument for the closing credits to help someone transition out of their 30 minute episode. Adulting is hard but we don’t have to let each other do it alone. Let’s tip our cups in solidarity for each other and navigate this crazy life together. After all, we can live in the hopes of another episode just around the corner.

I have done things. Bad things. I have stolen things. Lots of things – money, credit cards, possessions, and the answers to tests (blasphemy). I neglected my infant baby on more than one occasion to get high. I’ve lied and cheated. I used to bank at ‘Check into Cash’ because my credit was so low banks wouldn’t even let me set up an account. Embarrassing..huh? I’ve lost my temper. I have envisioned pushing people who have cut in front of me – whether it is in line or driving in my car. I’ve used excuses to get off the hook when I have failed at something or didn’t want to do something. I have had the audacity to judge people in their walk even though I was walking the very same walk at the very same time. Gross. I know. It made me feel better and that is all that matters. Am I right?! I have seen the inside of a jail cell (more than one occasion) and it wasn’t because I was working on the production set of an episode of ‘Beyond Scared Straight’ on the History Channel. The list goes on and on.

I know what you are thinking. “Why is this chick sharing these things? She is a wife, a mother, for the love of God, she works at a Church!!!” I am sure you are sitting there a little uncomfortable – shifting a bit in your seat. I get it. I’m a little uncomfortable writing it myself. But, I had to share because my six year old wouldn’t wear his vest yesterday while he was visiting the Seneca Caves with his camp group. That is why. For real.

We were recapping his adventure yesterday while driving and he was excitedly sharing some things he learned. His voice was confident and his eyes flickered with excitement as he shared fun facts about the discovery of the caves. It was a little choppy if I must be honest….something about two kids, a dog, and some hole the dog fell in followed by an apparent rescue. Sounds like he was recapping a ‘Lassie’ episode but we will roll with it. Then came the moment when he got quiet and lost confidence. His voice wavered a bit as he struggled to confess the sins of a six year old. “I didn’t wear my vest.” What?!?! The vest we were both excited to find in the store? The one where you stood up in the cart and tried on a few times? The same one that Anna threw a fit over because we couldn’t find one in her size? Uh, yeah, sorry about that people of Costco. “Andrew, why?” Brace yourself for his response, people, brace yourself. “Because…well…I didn’t want them to laugh at me.”

Stab me in the heart right there. My kid was worried what kids were going to say. The fear of judgment already warping his pure, good, sweet, beautiful soul. “I was afraid because no one has a vest and they would make fun of me.” Seriously, forget my heart, stab me in the eyes, brain….anywhere. “Andrew, Honey, who cares. You rock that vest. You be that trendsetter. Don’t EVER worry what people are going to think. You be you and you are freakin’ awesome!” I am sure his little brain is still trying to dissect what it means to “rock a vest” but I planted the seed of confidence and that is all that matters for the moment.

Yet, it reminds me how hard we have to continue to fight the enemy of shame, judgment, and embarrassment. It starts so young. So very, very young. How do we fight it? Honesty…truth….confession and a dab of compassion. Stop isolating people into a category and labeling each other. No one is perfect. You aren’t and I sure the heck am not. We all have done some stupid things. Some more than others. Nasty, ugly, yucky things, like pretending we didn’t see that person running to catch the elevator we were standing in. Hurry! Discretely push the ‘close’ button!! Then shout as the door is closing and only a mere crack is left, “Sorrrrrrrryyyyy! I tried!!!”

We have to fight. Fight hard against every single thing out there that wants to tell us we aren’t good enough, pretty enough, fit enough, skinny enough, successful enough, rich enough, creative enough, or funny enough. I’m talking to you Grammar  police. We are bad. We did bad things. We are undeserving of grace and redemption. Society wants to isolate us into thinking we are alone and no one understands what we are going through. This is so far from the truth. Dividing us is such an old, tired tactic and frankly, as boring as Pokemon GO. Sorry, I know, I’m sorry but I can’t even deal.

I’m breaking cycles in my family and I am breaking them by sharing my story. I am breaking the enemy of judgment and the evil of shame. How can I lead my children if I don’t put it into practice? We all have been there in some varying degree. Instead of hiding it go ahead and share it and say, “Me too!” And do it while rocking that vest.

“Wait a minute. Stop. What do you mean Alex quit the Air Force? I’m sorry, but I made it ‘Facebook Official’ so you know that means it is set in stone. I bought all my gear – USA visor, USA Hip pack, a ton of American Flags, and a bumper sticker that says “Air Force Proud Mom”. I plastered about 10 pictures on Instagram and Facebook. We went to two ceremonies and a ribbon-cutting ceremony. I booked my hotel in San Antonio. You do know I can’t cancel the reservation. Okay, I can, but I don’t want to (insert stomping feet here). I am quite sure there is no going back after all that. He is not allowed to quit. Do you hear me, God?!”

It crushed my soul when Alex announced he was withdrawing from the Air Force right around May 15^th. I begged him to reconsider. I cried a whole lot. I did what every millennium mom does and sent motivating texts, angry texts, desperate texts, and so on. “He can’t quit! Um, graduation party on June 18^th and I already sent the invites out. What are people going to think?! The horror!!”

I did everything to stop it. I made him talk to seven adults, people in the military, and even our Youth Pastor. I prayed a lot. I dabbled in other practices out of desperation. I performed ablution to pray 5 times to Allah. I repeated mantras to Buddha. I pleaded to everything I could think of – even our dog, Honey. I grabbed her face and said, “What is he thinking?” I threw powder in the air like LeBron because if that is what gets him to the next level then surely it will work for me. I did everything short of sacrificing a baby lamb. I was this close but they are so darn cute.

“I failed as a mother. Didn’t I? Is it because I did a really crappy job when he was in his formative years? I wasn’t there to guide him during the most important times of his life and teach him how to follow through. I couldn’t protect him from things when he needed protection the most. He is only 18 years old and I set him up for failure. I set the tone and he is going to quit everything he does. I’m sure of it. I’m sorry I failed him and I am sorry I failed You.”

As fast as my words tried to guilt me into my perceived failures, my heart settled and peace washed over me after a month of torture. I released all guilt because it wasn’t about me. Well, what do you know – it isn’t always about me. Guilt has no resting place within these walls. What I had to do is let my baby bird fly. I have to let fear take over his body and cripple his decisions. He has to “fail” and “quit” and make “bad decisions” in life. I can’t protect him (or so I think I’m protecting him) from every single thing he will face or go through. One of my favorite quotes is “from our biggest failures come our greatest successes”. I’m pretty sure I made this quote up but I haven’t Googled it yet to confirm this. I learned this time after time and now it is time to pass on the torch. Time to trust the process and release it from my hands and give it to Him. Alex is going to be fine and will do great things. He won’t be perfect and it is going to be messy at times. There will be ebb and flow, pain, adversity, and downright difficult times. Don’t worry though because the “comeback” will blow our socks off. He will rise to the occasion (I’m sure of it because it is in our blood). There will be a time to overcome followed by tears of happiness! He will grow, stretch, and flourish. Then there will be opportunities to bring home the championship and slay it in the 7^th game of the series.

I can’t wait to watch it all unfold because I live in faith (even when I try to test it) that everything is going to be okay…

“Wait, what is that? Alex is joining the Marine Corps?! Like, he got sworn in today, July 26th, at 1:00pm?! Crap, now I have to retrieve all my gear out of the garbage. Where is my credit card? I have to book the hotel near Parris Island. I’m going to go ahead and make it ‘Facebook Official’ if that is okay with you.”

Hey, Internet Bully, yeah you, the one that told me I have no “self-worth” and you hope I “fall hard – fall real hard down the mountain”. The one that called me an “asshat” and said I’m not bringing hope. Yeah….you.

I lied. I admit – your words sucked for a hot minute. Sucked so much now you got me writing about it (thanks, dude). I read them at 6:30 in the morning as I was preparing for my workday at church. I responded to you with love and grace and it was hard. Man, the old “Danielle” would have slaughtered you with a verbal assault. She would have ripped your soul out, stomped on it, spit on it, and kicked it in the gutter. That girl was angry – wait – no that girl was broken and sad and that showed in angry ways. She was always on the defense because her heart was broken, her spirit annihilated, and ugly words were etched in her skin. She no longer exists, though, by the grace of God. Her heart has been repaired and beats stronger than ever. Her Spirit flourishes and radiates a soft glow. The words carved in her skin have healed and you can look as closely as you want and I promise nary a scar can be seen.

Actually, I know of you. In fact, we share some of the same “friends” on Facebook. Your brother is pretty prominent in Cleveland and owns some pretty successful businesses. He seems nice and recently shared the “Circle of Love” event held yesterday to inspire love and peace in the city of Cleveland. I saw the picture of you and your family at a wedding. Everyone looks quite lovely. Your parents (I assume they are) look really kind with smiles beaming from ear-to-ear in the picture surrounded by all the people they love so dearly. I bet you all celebrate wonderful holidays together. Then I saw you in the forefront kneeling down next to a little girl and holding her hand. You had a joyous smile on your face and you even posted, “Great times together. I love my family.”

Sadness washed over me immediately. I wonder if your family knows the ugliness you are capable of. Like, when your Mom hugs you goodbye does she realize her son shamed a stranger on the Internet and told her to fall off a mountain? You told a woman she has no “self-worth” and she should be disgusted she is sharing her story. Does Mama know this as she prepares a home cooked meal with you sitting at the table as you recap your day? Did you include me in your recap of the day? Does your brother know you are spreading hate at the same time he is trying to spread love in the very city streets we all walk on? I wonder what his customers would think if they saw the ugliness you try to spread on the Internet? Perhaps your family does and they are trying their best to help you. Or, maybe they have no clue because you live a double life. Regardless, I am sorry.

I am sorry you are hurt and broken. I’m sorry you suffer from pain and you don’t love yourself. See, we were once the same. Instead of being angry at you – I’m going to pray for you. Obviously, you cared enough to write something to me because I struck a nerve. Maybe you see anxiety, mental illness, addiction, and hopelessness as a weakness because you suffer from those very things. I’m sorry. It breaks my heart for you because I know how you feel. It sucks. You are not weak. In fact, sweeping it under the rug and pretending it doesn’t exist will end up destroying you. My prayer will be that one day you will experience internal peace and it will radiate to all those around you. There is so much ugliness in this world right now and even though you are just a “number” if each of us can overcome whatever we are battling, our numbers will grow, and we will eradicate hate and anger together.

I am bringing you up the mountain with me. I am. I am going to write your name on a piece of paper and carry you with me the whole way. Even when you feel like you want to quit – I won’t let it happen. I am going to say your name out loud at the very top of Mt. Kilimanjaro and declare God’s will over your life. No need to thank me – it is the very least I can do. Heck, that is why I share my story so boldly – to help those like the old “Danielle”. God gave me a second chance and it would be a disservice if I swept my story under the rug because I was full of shame. I will not live my life in vain. Nope. I will continue to share it and share it proudly because there are too many people out there that need to hear it. People just like you.