I Don’t Always…
I don’t always know what to say.
I don’t always know what to do.
I don’t always know what to think, how to be, or what to believe.
But I do know I am here.
This is something that’s been carrying me through a tough time lately. I’m amazed at how I’m able to redirect my energy and thoughts toward something that brings me joy and exercises my mind, even when there’s a little truth haunting me.
It follows me around, tapping me on the shoulder as if to say, Remember, I’m here.
And I know it’s there.
At the end of September, I had my annual mammogram. It was actually a joyful experience. I even wrote about it in my article Childlike Wonder Can… I shared the wonderful energy I carried with me that day and the lovely exchange I had with the technician who performed my mammogram. I think I even referred to her as my boob handler.
A week later, I received a phone call telling me my mammogram was abnormal and that I needed to come back for another mammogram and possibly an ultrasound.
I took the earliest available appointment, which was yesterday.
The interesting thing is, all the way there, I was having conversations with myself about my work. I was exploring different ways I wanted to support women as they wandered through their lived experiences.
Between the mammogram and the ultrasound, I was taking notes.
The additional imaging didn’t provide a clear answer, so the next step is a biopsy. That can’t be done at the same facility, which means another two weeks of waiting before I might have some concrete answers.
And on the way home?
More conversations with myself. More notes.
I was thinking about creative ways to help women access their lived experiences in tender, inviting, and curious ways. Not to add anything to who she is, because it’s already there, but to enhance what’s already hers.
It’s like adding lemon to blueberries.
It brightens them. Expands the flavor.
That’s what I imagine this work can do. Expand the flavor, the essence, of the woman.
Now that I think about it, I’m fortunate to have had this beautiful experience of scaling back all the different iterations of my work to get to the heart and soul of what I feel called to do.
Walking alongside a woman who is curious about where she’s been, who she’s been, how she’s grown, and everything that makes her… her.
Being alongside her as she embraces her wholeness.
Not to heal. Not to reconcile. Not necessarily to be better.
But to know:
This is me.
She is me.
I am her.
I am here.
And to know that you don’t have to love everything you’ve done to love the woman who lived the life you’ve lived.
I don’t always have the answers.
I don’t always know what to expect.
I don’t always…
And that’s the beautiful thing about Threads.
It’s not asking for an answer. It’s simply handing you an invitation to get curious and explore.
One thread leads to another, and another reveals itself. Somehow, you end up in a memory of the Chattahoochee River, running beside someone who’s doubting their next step.
You’re reminding them that they’re moving oxygen through their muscles in a way they’ve never experienced before.
It’s new. It’s scary. And they’re doing so good.
They’ll get used to it.
Now, where did that come from?
That wasn’t an intentional memory. I wasn’t searching for it. My mind was opened by a thread of thoughts and suggestions, and there I went.
One thread led to another, and suddenly I was somewhere I hadn’t expected to go.
I don’t always know where my threads will lead or where they’ll end.
And I don’t need to.
Life continues, even when we don’t have answers. We can acknowledge the thread that’s tapping us on the shoulder and choose another to follow for a while.
Not to fix anything.
Not to forget anything.
But because there are other threads to explore, other moments to experience, and life is still happening.
I’ve shared a lot about me in this article. Now I’d like to hand the thread back to you.
There’s no right or wrong. No particular place you need to go. No ending you need to find.
Just me handing you a thread.
For you to pull.
Or not.
I don’t always…
