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I rarely refer to my college days when I write to you all. I'm not completely sure why, though it's probably because those years were such a time of immaturity and growth, cringe-worthy at many points. This week, though, I can't get those years or the people out of my mind. Especially Faith. She was the first "Black" girl that ever told me to my face what she and her friends really thought about me. 


 
 
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I heard someone say a while back that the thought of replying to every comment online is silly - that we shouldn't feel pressured to, and perhaps, that we shouldn't even want to. He was commenting on the chaotic state of our social media lives. While I agree with the gentleman to some degree, I propose that we should actually be commenting more often. Now stay with me a hot second...

 
 
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Week-after-week I plop my bum in front of this computer with the hopes of sending you something brilliant. Something useful. And week-after-week, I churn out stories about family, health, and relationships. In fact, I've barely missed a blog in two years (pats self awkwardly on the back). But I bet you wouldn't come around anymore if you knew that I'm a fake. A fraud. A mess. There, I said it.


 
 
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School days. The first (traditionally scheduled) week is flying by and Moms and Dads everywhere are catching their breaths. Transition. While some of our young ones pop up from beneath bedsheets and leap into action at the first beep of the alarm, others require being dragged out of bed by a leg.

 
 
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There it is, still sitting on the counter. Mocking me. Pineapple juice oozes over the side of the cutting board and onto the countertop. I picture the August sugar ants beginning to gather, arranging their formation march - up cabinet doors and onto the table top, following the scent of the delicious mess. 

My husband. He did this on purpose, probably just to spite me. I've never been so sure of anything in my life. 

 
 
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You don't own me...
I'm not just one of your many toys.
You don't own me.
Don't say I can't go with other boys.
Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Baaaa...

And don't tell me what to do,
And don't tell me what to say.
And when I go out with you,
Don't put me on display...


 
 
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Sometimes I don't know how exhausted I really am until I sit down at night. Before long, couch-blanket draped across my legs, my eyes start to feel heavy and I miss bits and pieces of any show that my husband and I attempt to watch. You know the drill: up before dawn, get kids ready for school (we're on year-round schedule), work, work, work, prepare meals, and exercise somewhere in between there. Pass out. 


 
 
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"But...is it OK that I'm different now? I feel like people just want me to go back to the way I was before." Tears gathering at the corners of her bright blue eyes, she waits for the answer. And then we talk - just like all the other talks that I've had before, with women who've asked personal versions of the very same questions. Women who've seen or done hard things and who can't undo them.

Am I acceptable even if I've changed?
Is it OK to refuse the veneered version of myself?
Will people still like me if I put my real self out there? 



 
 
Have you ever tried meditation? What did you think about? How did you feel? What did God show you about yourself? About Him? We'd love to hear about your experience!

 
 
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There's one kid running naked, protesting against the shower I'm trying to muscle him into. The other one knows better than to flee by foot, and unintentionally continues to smear black goo across the bathroom floor. He stayed to clean the mess they'd just made together. Grandma left her mascara in the guest bathroom and well, the rest is history. The dog's barking and darts in and out of my legs as I walk. Not even able to hear my own thoughts, I run back and forth between the two crime scenes a couple of times, uncertain about where to begin.