The Camino – Day Four

Portomarin to Palas de Rei, 21 miles

Twenty-one miles today. Whew! This post is going to be a bit of a rambler so hang on!

I noticed early on today that it’s actually my gaze that directs my steps. Looking down at my feet may help me with my footing, but if you don’t look up and onward, you have no idea where you’re going. Be careful where your gaze rests. It determines our direction in life also. Proverbs 4:25-27 says this, “Let your eyes look directly forward, and your gaze be straight before you. Ponder the path of your feet; then all your ways will be sure. Do not swerve to the right or to the left; turn your foot away from evil.”

I slept 10 hours last night, and it must have done me some good because I got up feeling bold. I took several diversions today. Apparently, after 22.2 km yesterday, 24 km on paper didn’t look like it was going to be enough. Ha! Diversion is important in life also. Diversion bears fruit. Because it is respite or because it’s a mistake from which we learn, makes no difference. If it is a respite, we are refreshed. If it is a mistake, we’ve learned something valuable. Today’s first diversion was a mistake. I took a wrong turn. That happens in life, too. However, in this case, I took another wrong turn, ironically, in my haste to get it right (insert eye rolling emoji). Don’t let a wrong turn lead to another wrong turn. Speak, Lord, I’m listening! The second diversion today worked out nicely. Don’t be afraid to try again!

The third diversion was a visit to Vilar de Donas, a 12th century church. Interestingly, this church represents a lot of Gaelic and Celtic influences that were present in Spain during that time period. The architect included clover and hissop and many Scottish and Irish saints and symbology. The former rector was there. Now, in his 80s, he gave a wonderful tour of the church entirely in Spanish. I probably picked up about 60% of what he said, but he was fascinating all the same, so knowledgeable about the church and its religious history. At one time, the church was used by both Catholic and Arabic monks. They shared the space and worshipped peacefully side by side. Now, there is a lesson for modern times! Inside, there was a fresco painted in the 15th century. One of the images was of St. Peter and St. Paul. My Paul was named after the biblical Paul. The biblical Paul was a man living a transformed life, from a hated tax collector to faithful servant, after an encounter with God. My Paul, like his namesake, also lived a transformed life. Before I left, the rector asked what brought me to the Camino. I told him about Paul passing away, and suddenly, in perfect English, he said, “He is here!”

The local people are all farmers of one sort or another. They all have a small garden with greens and root vegetables, fruit trees, or grape vines. I noticed, though, that a portion of their gardens is allowed to go to seed. I am from a farming family, and that is something we just don’t do. You don’t allow your crop to bolt, or go to seed. So, this seemed very peculiar to me. I think it’s also very American of me. These local farmers don’t buy their seed in bulk from giant seed companies like we so often do. They cultivate their own seed by allowing the very best of their harvest to go to seed so they can use it to plant a future harvest. Think of that….they give up the best of their crop, the largest, most beautiful, most nutritious, tastiest produce so that they can succeed in the future. Interesting.

It’s Palm Sunday, the celebration of the Lord’s triumphal entrance into Jerusalem and the traditional start of Holy Week leading up to Easter Sunday. It’s so fitting that I’m here during Holy Week, a time when we remember the full promise of salvation and resurrection. It brings me so much comfort in the face of so much loss.

Yesterday, I was guarding my painful feet and knees, and growing blisters. That did not serve me well. Today, I am rolling into the pain, and my gait is better. I feel better. I feel stronger. Stop guarding the pain. It doesn’t serve us well.

Today’s takeaways…

Compression socks are a miracle. Get you some!

John Brierley’s guidebook to the Camino is a master work. It is so comprehensive. If you’re even thinking a little bit about taking on the Camino, get the book.

Most of the walk today was through forest land. The birds in this area of Spain are different varieties, in particular, the cuckoo. I have to say that it is not very affirming to have a bird singing, “Cuckoo!” over your head while you are attempting an extraordinarily challenging task like the Camino and feeling every step of it. I need birds that sing, “Yay! You got this! Yay! You got this!”

My Spanish is still improving. “Yo soy caminando solo. Necessito el bano, por favor,” is another phrase I’ve got down pat. While many walkers can pop-a-squat as needed with a walking partner to watch out for them, I’m relegated to begging for bathroom privileges in villages and hamlets throughout Spain. Never a dull moment!

Finally, I have to say, y’all, this little, South Carolina Lowcountry, marsh walking, flatlander is suffering mightily from the altitude and steep inclines of the Pyrenees. The struggle is real!

But I persist, Malia

The Camino – Day Three

Sarria to Portomarin, 16 miles

A brief recap. I left home on Thursday, flew to New York, missed my connection, slept in the airport Thursday night. I spent Friday morning in New York, determined to make lemonade out of the basket of lemons I had been handed. If the Museum of Modern Art is not on your bucket list, it should be. I saw so many works of art that I had only seen in books, but this was the star of the show. I’m not ashamed to admit that when I came around the corner and saw this beauty, I let out an audible gasp(!).

I left New York in the late afternoon and arrived in Madrid at about midnight EST. I, maybe, had four hours of fitful sleep in flight. It was about 6 AM in Spain when I boarded another flight and arrived in Santiago at almost 9 AM. I took a private transfer to make the 2 hour trip from Santiago to Sarria, and then, I started walking.

This was definitely not how I planned it. I intended to have a travel day and a good night’s sleep before the first walking day, but God’s plans are greater! Let me add this. Sometimes God’s plan hurts, hurts physically, hurts mentally, but grows us spiritually. Remember the Holy 2×4 I mentioned in the previous post? Compared to the other walkers that day, I got a late start so finishing the first 22.2 km in daylight was a concern. In a way, the first walking day was a race, not what this pilgrimage was intended to be at all, but God was already working to slow me down. I am so stubborn, though, that He had to work at it nearly the whole day (insert emoji of woman slapping her forehead). I finally stopped for a moment after the first 6 miles. I was already in pain, feet and knees, and a blister was forming on my heel. I could feel it, but I refused to take my shoes off. If I saw it, that would mean it was real, and I couldn’t let my mind accept that. I still had too far to go. After a short lunch break with only a few local cows to keep me company, I continued on.

Somewhere around the 11th mile, things were getting rough both physically and mentally. I begin to cry a little, to think of Paul and all the adventures we enjoyed together, all the things I had seen and experienced on this journey so far that I wanted to share with him but couldn’t. I was getting pretty low in spirit. I asked the Lord for help. Within minutes, he sent a helper, a lovely gentleman named Jesus. Yes, Jesus. We greeted each other, and he was about to continue on by me when I stumbled over a rock. I lost my footing and nearly fell but recovered. Jesus was by my side from that moment on, and we were soon joined by his friend, Ada. Both had traveled to the Camino from the Dominican Republic. We shared the last 5 miles and blessed each other in many ways. We listened to each other’s stories about why we walk. Ada’s story, like mine, includes illness (cancer) and loss. Jesus’ story is about his desire to inspire healthy living through nutrition and sustainable land-use throughout the Dominican Republic. Read more about his effort here. I just don’t know if I would have finished this leg without these beautiful helpers that God sent just when He knew I needed them. Maybe, hopefully, they needed me, too.

Here are some other takeaways from today.

The Camino is very well marked with signs and guideposts everywhere, but you have to look. So, too, God, fills our lives with signs and guideposts, but we have to look for them. First, look for them by reading the guidebook He’s provided, the Bible. God’s Word points the way. Some signs may be obvious, but others may be hard to see. You might even miss them if you’re not looking for them. That’s why we have to constantly seek God for His guidance through his Word and through prayer.

Reward, or something that we value, is often preceded by difficulty. The greater the difficulty the greater the value. Not 30 minutes into walking, after 48 hours of travel, little sleep, and still wearing the same clothes I wore to work on Thursday, I thought, “This was worth it.”

Sometimes you pass people. Sometimes they pass you. It’s OK. They catch up to you later when you have to stop, and you catch up to them later, too. It’s OK.

When you reach a high point, don’t forget to look back. The vista is spectacular. You can learn more about your experiences by looking back at the broader view rather than letting your mind and heart perceive it as a series of hurdles, or challenges, you passed through.

When the road is smooth, it’s appropriate to pick up the pace, but when things are tough, slow down. When you slow down, paradoxically, you might meet goals that you haven’t met before. Sometimes you have to slow down to achieve.

This journey we’re all on is not easy. You might even be injured or wounded along the way. That’s part of the process. Accept it.

Don’t be an ass. I’ll leave that one right there.

Until the next update, Malia

The Camino – Day Two

Good morning, fellow travelers! It occurs to me this morning, or is rather blatantly obvious, that there is an element of trials and deprivation in the pilgrim’s path. As usual, I am overachieving! But, then again, I don’t think it’s meant to be easy. So far, I am certainly deprived of sleep, comfort, and convenience. The Lord is breaking this pilgrim in quickly. A pastor friend of mine calls this the Holy 2×4.

A significant airline snafu has set me back, and I was delayed overnight in New York. When I missed my connecting flight to Madrid, I told the very helpful but full-of-bad-news lady at the counter, “I have no idea why I am smiling because I’m in big trouble, and I need help.” I think she rolled her eyes at me, but I’m not sure. It was very late at night, and I don’t blame her one bit. I was standing there gawking just like one of my students who has tested my last nerve. To find out why I was still smiling, I turned to James, and found this jewel in Chapter 1:12, “Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.” Wow! Just wow!

I love that everyone praying for me has prayed for peace and safety. They haven’t prayed for it to be easy, worry free, or mistake(!) free. And, no, it hasn’t been easy. I have made rookie mistakes that have impacted my air travel, but it’s OK. I’m OK. I am peaceful and safe, and thankful.

I am also taking advantage of this opportunity to have a very New York moment. I am visiting the Museum of Modern Art this morning. I am thrilled to have a chance to see art work that I have only admired in books.

Anyone who knew Paul knew what a gift he had for finding humor in most, if not all, things. In that spirit, I will share this little nugget from my trip through security. Apparently, my fiber gummies aroused the fear and suspicion of the TSA agents. They unpacked half the contents of my suitcase, and, wait for it, swabbed my bottle of fiber gummies for explosive residue. I kid you not! I could not make this up!

Next stop. Madrid.

Onward! Malia

The Camino – Day One

In a previous post, I shared that I am going on a pilgrimage. I am going to walk the last 110km of the Camino de Santiago through northwestern Spain to reach the tomb of St. James, the Apostle. My trip starts today, but this journey started, well, years ago. Grieving is a spiritual journey, and God set me on this path from a very young age. My mother was killed in a car accident when I was twelve. That is when my journey with grief began. It’s a tough road to be sure. Grief is wrought with challenges, but I’ve come to understand and even value that grief offers us the opportunity to know ourselves, and God, more fully.

God put this trip on my heart months ago. I am really interested in this idea of travel as an element in the healing process. What is it about travel that has the capacity to soothe the soul, offers clarity, and lays the ground work for moving forward? Does travel provide some sort of filter or framework for understanding and processing? It certainly does provide a time out from our everyday lives to focus on healing and recovery.

It wasn’t long after my husband died last year that I began feeling like I needed to get away (read run away!). I felt like I needed a retreat, to be quiet for long stretches of time, to reflect and contemplate, and to explore the inner world in order to take a complete emotional inventory. A pilgrimage is the perfect way to do just that. The idea of a pilgrimage is nothing new. People have known throughout history the value of walking for the maintenance and growth of our spiritual selves and our personal relationship with the Lord. They have walked across Europe and around the globe to visit sacred sites. I will be following in their footsteps.

It is said that the true purpose of a pilgrimage is to find who we are in the eyes of God. It’s also true that I have wrestled with my identity throughout the grief process. I am eager to use this trip as opportunity to see myself, my new identity through God’s eyes, who he wants me to be moving forward. The fact that this trip involves a lot of walking is appropriate. I had always related walking to exercise but have learned that walking is a powerful activity for the mind and spirit as well. It has been an important part of my healing process. In an early post, I mentioned a daily, mindfulness walk. The mindfulness walk gives me time to focus my thoughts on gratitude, areas where I am falling short, and prayer for areas of need. It also gives me time to enjoy memories and rejoice. I find strength with each step and finish feeling refreshed and empowered.

The Bible has a lot to say about walking. Genesis describes Adam and Eve hearing the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day. Can you imagine that? The Lord God himself walking in the garden, walking in our midst. In Deuteronomy, we are encouraged to walk in His ways. Isaiah says to walk in His paths. In Jeremiah, the same encouragement comes with an added condition and promise that if we walk in all the ways in which He commands us, it will be well with us. Micah reminds us to walk humbly with God. Ephesians and Colossians implores us to walk in a manner worthy of the calling with which we have been called and to walk in a manner worthy of the Lord. In the Psalms we are told to walk in His truth and walk in the light of His countenance. Finally, in perhaps the most well-known Biblical reference, also found in Psalms, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” This rod and staff business has always interested me. When I read rod, I think of the old saying spare the rod, spoil the child. So, if the rod is the rod of discipline, then how does it comfort me in this context of death, mourning, and grief? Very interesting. When I read staff, I think of a walking stick, or Moses’ staff, the staff that sheep herders use to support themselves as they walk but also to guide and protect their flock. Very, very interesting. So, God is going to comfort me through the grief process with discipline, support, protection, and guidance. I like it.

Psalm 126: 5-6 “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seeds to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.”

Friends, I have sowed in tears. I have gone out weeping. I am carrying seeds to sow, and I am leaning on God’s promise that I will return with songs of joy bearing the fruit of a closer walk with Him.

Much love, Malia

You did what?!

I jumped out of a plane. That’s right. I jumped out of a plane. I went skydiving!

To say that my friends and family were shocked is an understatement. The most common response was, “Why?!” It was a difficult question to answer. I am adventurous but not a thrill seeker. It was just this urge. That’s the best way I know to describe it. An urge, not an impulse. It was more lasting than that. I was talking to my son on the phone one evening, and I said, “You know what I want to do?” He immediately responded, “Go skydiving.” Dumbfounded, I said, “What! How did you know?!” “Because I want to, too” he admitted. I had no idea that he had also been thinking about it. As it turns out, it’s a bit of a phenomenon among people who have experienced a tremendous loss. When I told my sister-in-law that we were going to go skydiving, she said she had heard a story on NPR about something very similar. You can listen to the story here. It’s about a mother and daughter who go skydiving after the death of their husband and father.

Life is too short. Right? That’s what everyone says. Well, everyone says it because it’s true. Eat the cake. Buy the shoes. Seize the moment! Go skydiving! Heck, there’s even a country song by Tim McGraw that nails it. The refrain says it all.

“I went skydiving, I went rocky mountain climbing, I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu, And I loved deeper, And I spoke sweeter, And I gave forgiveness I’d been denyin’, And he said someday I hope you get the chance, To live like you were dyin’”

With everything I had just been through, I felt like there was nothing that could scare me anymore. I was ready to live like I was dying. My particular thought process was a) I will be closer to Paul and b) if something happens, I get to be with him forever. In my mind, it was a win-win. I want to clarify the first part. I didn’t feel I would be closer to Paul in the sense that I would be up in the sky where heaven is. That is a cultural depiction of heaven not a Biblical one. I felt that I would be closer to Paul because I would be closer to death. There. I said it. For me, jumping out of a plane was as close to death as I could be. I thought that perhaps in those seconds between leaving the plane and arriving back to Earth that I could pierce the veil between here and there and be with Paul just for a second. I thought it was worth the risk. Never before in my life would I have even considered doing such a thing, but in that state of mind, in the aftermath of such a stunning, life changing loss, it was worth the risk. I wasn’t even scared. I did have one fleeting millisecond of heart stopping anxiety when the instructor I was attached to opened the door of the airplane. He grabbed the door handle and pulled hard. In one single, confident motion, he slid the door open. The suction created by opening the door shot a jolt of electric terror through my body, but I still didn’t hesitate. I was ready to go. Ready to go. I stepped out onto the strut, and then we were effortlessly airborne.

Now, I realize that all of this is the madness of grief. I can write about it, explain it, and try to justify it to no end, but it really is the madness of grief. The surprise, the unexpected gift of the experience was that it was a little turning point for me, a moment of empowerment. It was a launch both literally and figuratively. I felt different after that day. I felt stronger. My family was there, and we celebrated with a champagne tailgate in the parking lot. We laughed and smiled and celebrated life and living. I will never forget that day as long as I live. As long as I live.

Soon, I will embark on another launch of sorts. I am going on a pilgrimage. I am going to walk the last 110km of the Camino de Santiago through northwestern Spain to reach the tomb of St. James, the Apostle, and I am going by myself. God put this on my heart. I have felt called to do this and to do it alone. As I have planned for this trip and read about the challenges it entails, there have been times when I have thought, “Lord, help me. I don’t even own enough underwear to go on a trip like this!”, but I am determined. I just know it is something I have to do. I am appropriately anxious, but I’m not scared. I am ready. This is an important piece here. Don’t miss this because I believe it has everything to do with grief and healing. A critical aspect of what I have learned through my grief experience is to be bold in the face of adversity. I have learned to lean in and develop a bit of a bring it attitude.

In his book, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago, John Brierley reminds us that we are spiritual beings on a human journey, not the other way around. That really resonates with me. It comforts me because even though the human version of ourselves is temporary, our spiritual identities are eternal. There are many Biblical references to walking. Some pretty amazing and powerful things have happened through the simple act of walking. Jesus’ ministry was a walking ministry. He and the disciples walked from town to town to spread the good news of salvation. The Apostle Paul’s conversion experience began with an encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus. I’m not necessarily expecting an encounter with the living God on this trip, but I am expecting to have time to reflect and contemplate, to draw closer to the One who loves me like no other. 2 Corinthians 5:1-10 has been close to my heart this past year because I have walked by faith like never before and because it provides comfort as we groan and are burdened in our earthly tent that we have the gift of the Holy Spirit with us, our guarantee, and joyful assurance of our eternal home.

Safe travels to you on this journey through life, Malia

Being a parent without a partner

“It’s day four. I woke up crying this morning, and I can’t stop. It just comes in waves. Aaron is asleep on the couch downstairs, and I just keep seeing over and over again in my mind the image of him, a full grown man, curled up, tucked into his daddy’s arms and shoulder, crying as he found out that his daddy has stage four cancer. That image will never leave me. Paul cradling his precious boy.” – February 16, 2018

My son is twenty-three. I am hardly a “single parent” in the modern sense. I am not raising young children by myself. I am so grateful that Paul was with me through all those years, but there are times when, as a parent, I feel the loss of my parenting partner. Even adult children come to crossroads in their lives, their job, their relationships, having kids of their own when they seek out the counsel of their parents. Parents. Plural.

A couple of weeks before Paul passed away, I awoke during the night at the hospital, and Paul was not in his bed. Panicked, I strained to look through blurry eyes around the dark room. My gaze landed on the movement of a figure bent over my son who was sleeping in a fold out chair. It was Paul. Unbelievably, even with large amounts of pain medication and sedation, the impulse to be Aaron’s dad could not be diminished. Paul was out of bed, with IV tubing stretched half way across the room, and he was pulling a blanket up over his sleeping boy. I told Paul he had done well, that he was a good father, and then gently guided him back to his bed.

No matter what was going on between me and Paul, we were always on the same page when it came to parenting our son. If we were not completely united, we always agreed to at least have the appearance of being united. We were always able to set our selves aside in order to provide as much stability and emotional safety for our son as possible. This was particularly true during transition years when our son was changing schools and when big, pivotal decisions needed to be made.

Making preparations for his launch from college to full on adulthood has certainly been one of those transitional phases, and I have missed my parenting partner immensely. It’s not that I don’t feel capable of helping our son navigate this phase, or that I doubt the guidance I am providing, it’s just that I am alone in this process now. It’s lonely. I miss the small moments most, the quiet, late night conversations about what to do next. We made another human, together. I feel deeply the full weight of the parenting process now. I am blessed that it is something I have never had to do on my own. Yes, there are others in our lives who care about our son and in whom I trust, but they don’t, they can’t know the full story of our life together as a family, and they never will. Because our son is an only child, there simply is no one else who participated fully in the family dynamic that produced him.

Our Family

My husband was a good deal older than I am. He had been married previously but had no children of his own. He was nearly 40 years old when we had our son. The day we arrived home from the hospital I was downright scared. I felt safe being at the hospital with a newborn. There were people all around me who knew what to do, but when we got home, I was suddenly overwhelmed. Paul was amazing. While our son still lay sleeping in the car seat, Paul settled me into bed and then brought our son to me. With a big smile on his face, he said, “Here. Hold him! Hold your son.” I took our son in my arms, and all the fear just melted away. I was no longer worried that I wouldn’t know what to do because with Paul I felt safe, supported, and encouraged.

We weren’t eager to leave our son at daycare nor could we afford it. Paul opted to be a stay-at-home dad, and he was so good at it! He was great with our son, calm, tender, doting, and patient. He was even more patient with me. It wasn’t any easier for me to be the one going to work than it was for him to be the one staying home. I had a terrible case of mom-guilt, and it came out in me being a little over-bearing about how things should be done, a desire to control all aspects of caring for our son, but Paul didn’t push back. He understood. He understood better than I did and just let me work it out for myself until I felt more comfortable in my role. He was so generous that way.

Soon, we will have a lot to celebrate, but each celebration will be bittersweet. We are moving into a time period in our son’s life when he will make some of the biggest decisions there are to make, graduate school, moving to a new city, long-term relationship decisions (read engagement!). And all of those decisions come with big moments, graduation, first day of work, first home, creating a family of his own. I am confident that the right decisions will be made, but I miss my partner and I hate that Paul’s not with us to see the fruition of all of the parenting work that we did together. I want to make sure that I find ways to include and infuse Paul’s memory into all of it. I think being thoughtful and intentional in the planning is the way to do that. Our son is the product of both of us. I intend to represent us both and seize opportunities to share Paul’s memory from a place of strength and gratitude.

Be blessed, Malia

Spring is here. Paul is not.

That gasping, gulping sound is me. Being pulled under. Again.

It’s been quite the week. In nearly 27 years of marriage, I had never been away from Paul for even three or four days, let alone months, or a year! It was also his birthday this week. He would have been 60 years old. His birthday is now a grief anniversary. John Pavlovitz talks about grief anniversaries in his latest blog here. My feelings about the passage of this first year without Paul are mixed. In a way, it seems like it went by so fast that it’s a blur but also like the longest year of my life. There were times that I didn’t think I would survive the first year, and now I’m starting to get the sinking feeling that the second year may be even harder than the first, and I just want to scream.

Initially, the grief did come in waves. More lately, I have found myself being ambushed by grief. I feel as if I am being stalked by grief. It’s waiting for me around every corner, creeping up on me. The tears come hot and fast, and full of anger. The works. Grief is not linear. It’s not a start-to-finish, straight course race. It’s a steeplechase with hurdles, jumps, thick hedges, and water obstacles. So I’ve had setback. It’s not the first one. That “I don’t want to do any of this” feeling is creeping in again. Thoughts press in uninvited. And the sadness is so heavy. It weighs me down. It’s like a train that just has to roll on through. I’m stuck at the crossing watching it rhythmically advance steadily by, and I’m not going anywhere. I find myself retreating more and more to the safety of the house, hibernating, being in the position of having to force myself, make myself get out and do things when all I really want to do is disappear. This is dangerous territory, and I know it.

I am fully aware that my perception is distorted. I know that, and yet that realization does not diminish the experience. I actually wish sometimes that I didn’t have this insight or awareness. The insight leads to frustration for me. It is maddening. Sometimes grief feels like madness.

I am not eating. I am not sleeping. I am not getting to work on time. My boss looks at me sideways but says nothing. I don’t like being late (we’re talking 5-10 minutes here folks), but I just can’t manage in the mornings most days. The struggle is REAL. I don’t know what to DO about it except throw my hands up and accept that I am a work in progress, and at the moment, this is the best I can do. I don’t know what to SAY except that my husband died a year ago, and this is what my life is like now. In the weeks immediately after Paul died, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to go back to work at all. I wasn’t sure I could do my job anymore.

Us.

Paul took care of me. We took care of each other. Some days, sometimes for stretches of weeks at a time, I’m not being very successful at taking care of myself. There’s good deal of research that looks at a lot of different causes, but reports seem to agree that there is about an 18% increase of mortality in widowhood. Yes, you read that right. We are a vulnerable population.

So, I have to go back. Go back to my Griefwork Toolbox and get down to business. When I get like this, my counselor always reminds me that I can recover. We’ve been here before. It can get better. We know it can get better. We know I’m capable because I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.

Malia