To Be Known Is To Be Loved

 First of all, I'm back. 2025 was the first time in 12 years I never once blogged. The only writing I did were book reviews and work emails. My self-talk shouted, "What's the point?" and I couldn't seem to drown out that doubt. The point isn't quality writing though. It isn't about the number of readers or if I have any original thoughts or ideas. Instead, it's about me taking the never-ending monologue in my head and releasing it. It's about giving myself an outlet to create rather than always consume. I attend a lot of author panels and the most common advie I hear over and over again from those authors is, "Just write anything. Don't stop and edit. Just write." And that's what I'm here to do. This post will undoubtedly meander and not be concise, but that's okay. 

I've always been the kind of person who is looking toward the reaction, not the action. At the movie theater, I want to watch my friends and family laugh almost more than I want to see the movie. I want to watch the concert-goers dance and sing. I want to see the sports fans jumping up and down. I want to watch the groom's reaction, not the bride in her gown. For me, the most beautiful things in life aren't the sights and the feats, but the emotions and the connections we make. 

Oftentimes, this can be negative for me. I can be so worried about everyone else and their feelings, that I forget to consider my own. But I think this "looking back" also helps me to know people. I remember what songs bring joy to my friends faces when we're driving in the car. I catch the smirk of my brother when he thinks no one is looking. I notice how someone leans into their partner to calm their nerves. The more I watch people, the more I love them. While we fear the things we don't know, we care more for those once we really see them. 

We, as humans, also love to be known. Some of us pretend we don't. We can close ourselves off and not share easily. There's no greater feeling, though, than someone remembering us. A text out of the blue, an invitation, a check-in after a difficult time or just taking the time to listen are such powerful actions that can make all the difference in our lives. I know I'm not alone in this, because I know how popular romance books are. Every romance book I've ever read involves a partner knowing something personal about the main character. Every single one. They might remember their favorite take-out food or take them to their favorite concert. They might buy earrings or a dress in their favorite color. Right now, Heated Rivals is the most popular show on HBO Max. Most of the viewers aren't gay athletes like the main characters, but we all relate. Why? Because the show is shot after shot after shot of them looking at each other. Them seeing each other and knowing each other and loving each other. Millions of readers and viewers eat these stories up. Because we crave to be known. 

I was recently asked what I am the most proud of. For years, my automatic response to that question has been either obtaining a Master's degree or the students I helped in my 7 years of teaching. And that's true. I am proud of my efforts and my work. But honestly, I think I'm more proud of the people I've surrounded myself with. So many people I know lose touch or fall away from friends, but I've tried to make a point of reaching out, noticing, remembering, and listening. I may not talk to some friends very often, but I am confident that if I really needed something, I'd have 15 people that wouldn't hesitate to help. 

As a single person, I have people concerned all the time about me being lonely or sad. I am rarely lonely and enjoy my own company, but I every once in a while I fall into this sadness about not having a person that knows me. No one knows what the last show I binged was or what song I am playing on repeat. No one knows my current snack obsession or my favorite scent. I don't have anyone to care about what keeps me up at night or how to calm me down when I'm feeling stressed. But I swear anytime I feel like that, a friend swoops in to show me I'm wrong. Skye sends a Marco Polo to say, "I was just thinking of you. How did ___ go?" Hillary snaps me with a simple "It's 12:34!" because she knows it's my favorite time. Bailey texts to tell me she is at my favorite restaurant in Lincoln and remembers I always ordered Pollo con Arroz. Someone in my book club chats to ask if I want to go to an event. Sarah texts almost every Tuesday to tell me that I work too hard then watch a horror movie "together." And those simple moments show me that I am known. I am loved. What a privelege. 

Losing a Grandma, Losing a Friend

Yesterday, I sat in a room listening to Elvis croon as I watched my grandmother take some of her final breaths. While she could no longer react to the music she loved so well, I like to imagine she heard his soulful voice as she drifted out of this world. 

I was blessed enough to grow up with six grandparents. Grandma Donna is the last to leave me and in many ways the hardest to let go. 

When I was growing up, Grandma Donna was an enigma. Unlike more maternal grandmothers, she never baked me cookies, took me on a trip, or even showed me much affection. Her home was filled with Jeff Gordon memorabilia and craft supplies and Native American art. I was fascinated by her because she was so different than anyone else I knew. She still is.

Grandma had strong opinions. She told you exactly what she liked...and what she didn't like. And while this caused annoyance in the family at times, I often admired her directness. Recently, my sister said of Grandma, "She doesn't compliment you often, so when she does, you know she means it." I think there is a lot of truth to that. I took her feedback to heart and was often trying to make her laugh. She did love to laugh.

Also, when I think back to childhood, I often group Grandma Donna together in my mind with her mother, my Grandma Marj, because for many years I never saw one without the other. And while they seemed so utterly different in personality and interests, and they bickered constantly, it was so obvious they cared deeply about one another. In her final days, my mom and aunt witnessed Grandma Donna having conversations with her mother once again and I hope she now feels that strong bond again with her mother, who I know she has missed for so many years.

As I moved into adulthood, Grandma continued to be a family member I loved, but didn't really feel extremely close to. She sent me checks each month that I was in college and then called to reprimand me often when I didn't cash them in a timely manner and threw off her checkbook balance. I sent occassional emails and she'd send some back and that was the extent of our relationship. Then something happened. I can't pinpoint when or how it started, but for whatever reason I started calling Grandma just to talk. And then I called her more and more often. She grew from a person I was content seeing once a year to someone I was eager to call anytime I had something to share. Sometimes we talked for hours and I never felt a lull in the conversation. 

She has truly been my friend over the past several years and I feel so lucky to have had a friend in her. But losing a friend is hard. I'll never again be able to call her on a car trip and have her say, "Where in the world are you off to today?" I'll never hear her whine about her stupid phone that she'll "never get the hang of" (she was right on that account). I have a draft in my inbox of the latest "Sports Report" a weekly email I sent about sporting events to watch each week. It will never get sent. 

While I already miss Grandma Donna terribly, she will not be an easy person to forget. She loved Elvis and coloring and the Green Bay Packers. She gave the most ridiculous Christmas gifts. She loved the thrill of gambling or winning a game of bowling. She was very particular about things going exactly in the place she had assigned to them. 

And although my family likes to tease about her OCD habits and routines, she wasn't always as set in her ways as we'd like to believe. Until the very end, Grandma loved discovering new things. For a while, she was obsessed with online bird-watching. She toggled between several live nest feeds and always had stories about the current eagles laying eggs or facts she learned about the hummingbirds she was watching. A few years ago, she tried to learn Spanish. At over 80 years old. She got really into Ancient Aliens for a time. This past year, she decided she wanted to become a true NBA fan. She would ask me questions about all the players and kept extensive notes. I hope I always have that same curiosity until the end of my life, delighted to learn and explore new hobbies and interests.

While I have lost a friend and a grandmother, I am so grateful for everything I gained because of Grandma. She brought more color into my world. My life is better because of it.

A Toast to the Bride and Groom

 This weekend, my baby sister got married and I am so happy for her. Friday, April 12th marked the official signing on to the team. Just like Mahomes and Kelce on the team that brought them together, these two make great teammates. I look forward to all the games I will witness in the days and years ahead. 

I know personally that Brigitte is the very best teammate because she was my first one. My very first vivid memory was holding Brigitte as a baby. She was wearing some frilly pink outfit that she would definitely hate now and I was so proud to be her big sister. Some things never change. I never wanted to let go. As years went on, I kept her close, dragging her to play princesses and rock band and Power Rangers. Every game was better with her by my side. Unfortunately, I lost some signing-day battles for her attention as she often chose her big bro Josh's side in our hallway wars of Pokemon or Beanie Babies. 

Brigitte is such a good teammate, not just because of her willingness to take on any adventure, but also her ability to listen and sympathize. Although she might not always agree with your decisions or opinion, no one in the world has ever understood me better than Brigitte. She listens and remembers and I know she will do the same for Diego throughout their marriage. This also makes her pick out the best gifts. 

As a protective older sister, I have a very hard time thinking anyone is good enough for my intelligent, driven, funny siblings, so when Diego suddenly appeared in our apartment during the shut-down of 2020, I was probably not instantly the most welcoming host. I remember the first time I really understood that Brigitte had met her match. I was taking a nap in my room one afternoon when I was woken up by a loud noise. I opened the door to my room, irritated and ready to snap at them, but then I heard that the noise was laughter. Those two were laughing so hard that they looked like they couldn't breathe. They were leaning into each other on the couch with such trust. I never remember seeing two people so absolutely joyful in each others' company.

Over the years, I watched Diego jump in to every situation. I watched them play intensely competitive matches of sand volleyball and take Ollie for casual evening walks. I watched them work together and go on adventures. And obviously his cooking for me occasionally did not hurt my opinion of him. This weekend I didn't "welcome Diego to the family" as is often said at weddings. To me, he has been a member of our family for years now. But I hope we continue to enjoy each others' company...and maybe I'll practice speaking in Spanish with him occasionally to frustrate Brigitte. 

I hope these two newlyweds continue to embark on adventures and constantly compete to keep each other on their toes for the rest of their lives together. I'm thankful I got to be part of this beautiful weekend full of love. 

...And Remember, Grandma Loves You

My Grandma Velma passed away yesterday at the ripe age of 99. I hadn't seen her in quite some time, but the last time I visited we sat in her nursing home room for several hours. We talked about birds and the show on television and photographs on the wall. But mostly we didn't talk at all. She was tired and I knew she was forcing herself to stay awake for me. I suggested I could leave several times, but she pleaded for me to stay. I stayed as long as I could, but finally said goodbye. I leaned over her chair to hug her and she grabbed my hand (with quite a grip for her age), looked me in the eyes, and said, "Come back and see me....and remember, Grandma loves you." 

I knew, even then, I probably wouldn't be back to see her, but I did always know that she loved me. On the long drive back to Omaha that night, I remember thinking the visit felt so strange to me. At first, I couldn't understand the feeling, but it finally struck me that it was strange because it was so still. 

My grandma was 68 when I was born so she could have been considered an older grandmother my whole life, but I never felt that way because she was constantly in motion. I never remember a visit where she just sat. She was always running to get something from the kitchen or moving to clean something up. She always always wanted to go somewhere. It made me a little sad that the woman who was always moving couldn't move much at all anymore. I started imaging a day when maybe she could do all the things that gave her life again. I hope that time has come now.

I hope she has her car back. And she can drive to the grocery store or the drive-in or a friend's house just to chat.

I hope her hair is perpetually dyed and curled to perfection. Not a trace of gray. 

I hope she has a swimming pool and water aerobics are open at 5pm each day.

I hope there are always cookies in her freezer, packed in Ziploc bags to send away with anyone who's leaving her home.

I hope she's surrounded by photos of her family in which we all stand just right with no "goofy looks" on our faces. 

I hope she has an endless supply of Word Jumbles that she is able to solve at her table each day.

I hope she can call for Jack anytime and he will be there for her.

Most of all, I hope she remembers that I love her too. 

Sit Still, Look Pretty

When I was a kid, my grandma would often call the house on summer afternoons. My siblings and I would see the number on the caller ID of our home phone and sigh. "Should we answer? Are you up for it?" we'd ask each other. Usually, at least one of us would volunteer to take the trip to get ice cream. You would think kids would be chomping at the bit to get ice cream with their grandma, but that wasn't the case for us. Those trips to grab soft serve weren't a carefree afternoon, but instead a performance. I won't speak for my siblings or cousins. Their experiences may have been very different, but my ice cream afternoons always started with an evaluation. Grandma would look me up and down and make a comment on something with my appearance. Sometimes the comments were small praises. "Your hair is so pretty." "I like your shirt." "You look so thin." Other times, more cryptic comments. "You wear those flip-flops a lot." "Are you wearing your hair up like that because you are playing a sport?" "Is that a new t-shirt? It's different." I smiled agreeably. After we ordered ice cream, Grandma had us sit at a table near the door. She watched for any person who walked through the door and immediately intercepted their trip to the counter to place an order. "This is my granddaughter, Roxanne. She's in ___ grade. I'm just so proud of her" was a usual interjection. We lived in a small town and most people already knew who I was, but they politely would assure my grandma that I was a fine young girl and I would smile politely back and thank them. 

I never understood why those afternoons bothered me so much. I got free ice cream. I didn't have to do any chores. But twice this week, a song called "Sit Still, Look Pretty" by Daya popped up on my randomized playlist and, for whatever reason, both times I thought back to those ice cream days and even the memory made me feel drained. I think what bothers me was the lack of worth outside of being pretty and obedient. I wasn't a "fine young girl" because I was intelligent or well-spoken or kind or funny. My grandma (or the many people that walked into that dining establishment) didn't know if I was imaginative or hard-working or brave. They never asked me anything about myself. I was only "good" because I didn't speak at all. I was valued for my appearance only. 

This feeling wasn't isolated to interactions with my grandmother. I was a "great student" at every parent teacher conference, not because of my innovation or leadership, but because I never spoke up and complained or made problems at school. Teachers liked me, not because of my actions, but instead the lack of them. My parents would get compliments from doctors or waitresses about how "well-behaved" I was. I learned early on that silence and complacency were praised and I would feel overwhelmingly guilty every time I would cry or make a mess. I didn't want to be a burden to anyone in any way. I was more worthy of love if I didn't cause anyone any inconvenience at all, right?

Unfortunately, I have taken those standards for myself into my adult life. At work, I can't remember a single time that I met with a manager or boss that I spoken up and said anything except to answer a question. I always smile and nod and tell him/her that everything is great, even when it's not. I don't want to create problems. I want to be a "good" employee. In almost every job I've had, I've been assigned more tasks than I can juggle, because each time I'm asked if I can do something, I smile and say, "Of course." 

Even with friends and family, who I know love me for much more than my appearance, I often try to make myself still or invisible. I'll have the urge to call a friend and tell them about an experience, but then convince myself they don't want to hear from me. I'll vent about something to someone and then immediately feel terrible for not shutting up and just keeping my feelings to myself. I regularly tell myself that it's okay to take up space and that my feelings are important too, but I'm not very good at listening to my own voice. I hope I can get better. My voice matters. Yours does too. We don't have to contort ourselves to fit what others prefer to see. We can be loud. We can move. And I think we'll still be pretty.

A Lifetime of July 4ths

 Tonight I am sitting on my 4th floor balcony, watching fireworks light up the city with the mountains in the background. Nothing too special on this Tuesday evening, but with a warm breeze and a cold beer, I feel content. My favorite fireworks are those that start out as a small golden spark. I love the anticipation of them. Will their explosion be blue, green or yellow? Will they be big or small? A short flash or a lingering crackle? There's no real way to predict. You just have to wait and see. That's a lot like my Independence Days. I can never predict them from one year to the next, but they always turn out spectacular in their own way.

The first 4th of July I remember was in a park in the tiny town of Bloomington. I sat on a blanket. I remember it was so loud and so smoky, but I was so enamored that I wanted to cry when the booms went silent. I think we probably went to this show more than once, but this is the only memory that lingers. The warm night, the grass, the smoke, and the feeling of never wanting to leave. 

In high school, Independence Day took on a new purpose for my family and me. My mom took initiative and started a firework business out of our shed. For the week leading up to the 4th, I woke up every morning, grabbed the cash box and a book and walked barefoot across to the shed to open up for business. While I didn't enjoy the spectacle of fireworks in this season of my life, I enjoyed many things. I will always remember those afternoons sitting on a picnic bench as my sister meticulously organized and reorganized the shelves and my brother and dog chased bunnies. I'll remember when we were slow and I walked around, grabbing a drink from the garden house or picking pears off the tree in the yard. I'll remember the days when my grandpa brought Casey's pizza over for lunch and we all complained about the mosquitoes. I will always be thankful for those memories as well as the money we earned that helped make my college experiences possible.

Speaking of college experiences, I ended up spending one Independence Day in Scotland as I studied abroad. I remember that the residence assistants felt bad that this group of students from the U.S. were missing the holiday and set up a tea party with plates of scones decorated with American flags. We thought a tea party was the least patriotic thing we could think of and laughed about it, but the thought was nice. We threatened to throw all the tea into a nearby loch, but the RAs didn't appreciate that idea.

The following year, I spent July 4th with friends. I was so excited to get back to Lincoln after weeks at home for summer break that I actually left my entire suitcase in the driveway. I had to make a trip to Walmart when I arrived in Lincoln to get the necessities. I remember I bought a $5 sun dress to wear to the house party we went to. It didn't fit right and I spent the whole night adjusting it, looking completely ridiculous. That's why it was so funny that after way too many red, white, and blue jello shots, a boy at the party told me I looked "lovely" in my dress. He then proceeded to kiss my neck like a very sloppy vampire. Hillary, always the best friend, decided maybe now was time to go home. Unfortunately, I proved just as sloppy as my vampire friend as I pranced around and spilled macaroni salad all over her parents' driveway. Hillary has never let me live this moment down.

After college, Hillary once invited me to Seward, Nebraska, 4th of July City. After hours of walking around booths and watching the parade, we took a break from the sweltering heat and popped into the air conditioning to watch a movie at the local theater. As the sun finally set, we headed to the park. As I sat on the grass, I watched the smoke fill the dark sky and was taken back to that moment in the Bloomington park long ago. 

This Independence Day may not be a core memory like those I'm remembering tonight, but it's beautiful nonetheless. Each year, like each firework, brings something new. I know my future Julys hold many memories full of new locations, different people, and experiences I can never predict.

Happy 4th of July, all!

...So I Go Alone.

 I went to a concert tonight and as I slid into my seat, a single seat between two couples, the girl next to me asked if I was riding solo tonight. I said, "Yes, I don't let a lack of a date hinder me from having fun with Kelsea." (Kelsea Ballerini was the concert we were at).

She laughed and we talked for a while about concerts we'd been to recently. Eventually, she said, "You're so brave coming alone. I made my boyfriend come even though he doesn't know any of her music because I couldn't show up by myself."

This is not the first time I've heard this sentiment. Friends tell me I'm "brave" for going to movies or hiking or restaurants alone. In fact, it's quite the opposite. 

Ever since I can remember, I've suffered terribly from social anxiety. I never felt like my classmates or my cousins or even my siblings wanted me around. This may have been a false perception, but I'd get so worked up with worry in social settings, that I discovered coping mechanisms. Sometimes I'd take on tasks that made me feel helpful; volunteering for classroom tasks or handing out drinks or desserts at birthday parties. Sometimes I found solo activities. I would spend recess reading or swinging alone.

I wish I could tell you I have become more confident in my 31 years and handle social gatherings better, but I generally fall into my usual patterns. I start to panic. I begin to feel overwhelmed and unwanted, so I tell myself to be helpful or to get out of the way. At my brother's wedding rehearsal, I started greeting people at the door and directing people to the bathroom. No one asked me to...it just made me feel less awkward and out-of-place. At the reception, I couldn't find any tasks or any corner to hide in, so I probably drank too much to calm my nerves.

I do activities alone not because I'm confident and brave and don't care what people think, but because I care too much. Going solo means avoiding rejection. Going solo means not spending the entire interaction anxious. When I do actually go to movies or restaurants or hikes with others, I spend the entire time wondering if they are happy. Have you seen the scene from New Girl about Jess worried about others' feelings? (I'll share it below). That's me. All the time. And it's exhausting. So to avoid it. I just go alone.

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8e9cVjJ/

People aren't always how we perceive them to be. I once worked with a woman who I admired greatly. She seemed to exude confidence. I'd watch her teach or even walk through the hallways and thought she had it all together. I wanted to be just like her. Then, I went to grab a drink after work with her once, and I realized how much she relied on external validation. She was telling me stories asking me to assure her she did the right thing. I later noticed she posted good deeds on social media to incite compliments and went out of way to impress our principal. It didn't make her a bad person. It just made her more relatable.  

We're all human. We all have insecurities and flaws. I'm not "brave". No one has it "all together." As Kelsea Ballerini said at the concert tonight:

I'm doin' my best
I'm lettin' the rest roll off my shoulders, baby
Don't always get it right
Hey, and that's alright
That's what I'm learnin' lately, I keep
Growin' up, I keep
Rollin' up my sleeves and I think
That showin' up is good enough for me