Always. Choose love.

Dear 16-year-old Dani,

Happy birthday a day late! And let me just say right now that you completely and totally ROCK that hair cut. Seriously. Enjoy it. Don’t listen to people who tell you that they’re afraid that it makes your face look fat. It doesn’t. You look amazing. You won’t have hair that short again for a really long time, and you won’t find a style you like as much as this one for even longer, so savor it (even though you’ll get convicted in a few months that you’re disrupting God’s order by having short hair. I wish I could say don’t do that, but we both know that time travel doesn’t really exist).

This picture, ten years later, embodies for 26-year-old-you all of the sheer awesomeness that you possessed at that time in your life. Sophomore year of high school was your year, though you probably don’t realize it. You have a group of friends with whom you hang out regularly. You’re almost popular — at least, the popular kids no longer make fun of you. You are at your musical height — I wish I had your vocal range, and man do I ever wish I was as fantastic of a pianist as you are. Your biggest regret is not-quite dating that loser who swore to you that his girlfriend wasn’t actually his girlfriend and you believed him. You’re doing pretty great. You will look back on this year of your life with tremendous fondness and longing.

There’s so much I want to tell you. Like your current crush really isn’t worth it. (Really. I promise.) And homeschooling is not going to be a good experience for you. Even little things, like don’t get your cartilage pierced at Claire’s…twice. Seriously. Don’t do it.

But if there’s one thing and one thing only that I could impart to you right now, it would be this:

choose love.

Always. Choose love.

When something’s not okay: pondering reconciliation & relationship.

What forced forgiveness often feels like. Photo credit.

I wrote recently about one of the most empowering things I’ve learned recently:  that it’s okay to not be okay.

Today, I’m going to touch on a related topic that has been equally empowering (and very confusing): I don’t have to pretend that it’s okay for people to do bad things.

In which I have stories to tell.

I’ve been taking a bit of a break from writing, investing a lot of my time into self-care and survival. It’s been a good time. I feel like I’m starting to discover the joy of simple living and being. It’s been healing and wonderful.

But there’s been this nagging guilt in the back of my head. After all, I just resolved to write more — more often, more freely, more honestly, more brokenly. And after only four posts, I’ve felt emotionally exhausted and mentally spent. There’s been a lot of introspection about this seeming flakiness of determining to write then taking a break so soon into the new year.

It’s not that I don’t have stories to tell. It’s not that I don’t have a voice that deserves to be heard. It’s that I feel like I don’t have words with which to tell my story.

Prismacolor brush-tip illustration marker.

The other week, Paige came over and we had an art night. It was thrilling to pull out our stock of art supplies, rediscover things we’d long forgotten we owned. I decided to look through a quote book for something to letter so I could practice with my newly-found brush-tip illustration marker, and I came across this phrase. It grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let me go. Four little words that buoyed my soul and freed my spirit and helped me sink into the couch a little deeper, breathe a little more easily, relax into the moment instead of worrying about life.

Four little words told a story that refreshed my heart. And so I wrote them down. I told myself the story that I most needed to hear.

Michael began a project this year in which he is completing one drawing a day. Sometimes it will just be a sketch, and sometimes it’ll be a full-blown art piece. And something in my soul stirred as I watched him create artwork after artwork.

He is telling stories through pencil and marker.

So I joined in ever so hesitantly. I’m used to drawing portraits with pencil, taking my time and getting things perfect. I decided that life was messy, and so my art could be messy as well. And so I ditched the pencil and opted for markers – something a little more permanent, a little quicker, a little messier, a little less precise. I drew my friend Jes, and watched her face fill with delight when I presented her with my work. I drew Lindsey. Emily saw my drawings and asked me to choose her next, and I was able to add some hand-lettering to her portrait. Then I decided to try to do something more than a sketch, something more like a piece of art, and so I drew Alyssa. Each drawing is a story. Each drawing has a voice – my voice and the voices of these beautiful, strong, vibrant, wonderful women.

Sometimes telling a story and sharing your truth doesn’t have to be done with words. Sometimes it can be a silent practice, a wordless offering, that sparks conversation and brings health.

And so I’ve decided that I’d like to share with you all my voice, in all its iterations, on this blog. My stories, all of them, in words and pictures.

I hope you join the conversation wherever it happens.

Because the best thing about stories is the community around them.

On stunting emotions.

You know, this is a post I meant to write when I was feeling stable and secure. But maybe my panic will somehow magically aid my writing. Give it that “realness” that people praise me for, though that always baffles me beyond belief.

Elizabeth Esther wrote a great post this week that kind of inspired this line of thinking. She and Hännah of Wine and Marble talked about purity culture, and how the conservative Christian culture in which they were raised taught them to strip themselves of their emotions. And it got me thinking and beginning to analyze my relationship with emotions over the entirety of my life. Then I stumbled upon this post of Elizabeth’s entitled “We Will Tell You How To Feel” and I sort of emotionally and mentally went into a crazy spiral of panic (which is really nonsensical considering the post is awesome).

Panic. Honestly, that is the single driving emotion of my life. It’s the constant. I can’t remember not being afraid. My earliest memories are chronic nightmares and coping mechanisms I had for calming myself after a nightmare.

Sad thing is, I still have chronic nightmares. I still employ these 20+ year old coping mechanisms.

Why? Why? Why am I afraid?

I’ve always been afraid of feeling too much.

Existential perfection, problematic cultural systems, and being okay.

I am completely and utterly overwhelmed by the response I’ve gotten from “The body I have.”

On the one hand, I keep checking my stats with ever-widening eyes and a grin that I can’t quite get rid of. “People…are actually reading what I wrote? They like what I had to say?”

Then my introversion comes out, and I think, “I’ll just hide under a rock for a while until they all go away.”

And then my depression and anxiety kicks into high gear, like it has right now, and I frantically feel like I’m a fake and everyone will hate me if I’m discovered — until someone brings me back to planet earth with a reminder like this:

@danileekelley I know this was rhetorical, but my admiration of your piece isn’t contingent on you being existentially perfect. — evil fizz (@evil_fizz) January 5, 2013

And now I can breathe a little easier.

Why did I write that piece in the first place?

I’ve been asking myself that a lot.

I think it boils down to me being sick of our culture.