Happy Missteps & Glorious Mistakes

Have you ever lost a job? Lost a love? Lost your mind and tore your world apart to “get right” again?

Did you get a little distance from the situation and think, “Oh, THANK GOD!”

You’re my people.

There are several events I look to as pivot points for my life. Situations where – to my liking or not – I had to pivot and find a new path, a new outlook, a new way of doing things.

I won’t lie – in the moment, those events left me awash in waves of hot, dark hell crying for mercy.

But I did what I do best. I took the next breath . . . and the next . . . and the next.

Eventually all those breaths added up to minutes. Minutes turned into hours. Hours, days. Then, one day, from far away, I could look back at the man, the job, the meltdown, the (fill in your own blank) and say, “Damn – I didn’t like it in the moment, but that really changed me for the better!”

How do you navigate the change that comes from tough times?

Do you let it mold you and sculpt you into something better or do you get bitter?

Here are a few things I’ve learned about overcoming my Bitter-B tendencies:

I have to stop myself from making up a different story. I’m a writer and I’m southern, which means embellishment is one of the things I do best. So, when I’m going through a tough time, I remind myself to recite the facts, only the facts – without any “supporting details.”

Once I get my story “straight” I ask:

What am I REALLY upset about?

A lot of times, it’s not the actual thing that I’m upset about. It’s the ideas/dreams/stories I told myself about the thing that I’m upset about losing.

Now that I’ve reframed, do I want what I lost? OR, do I want a different/better version that’s more in line with my dreams and ideals?

This is where I’m able to gain footing. Most times, I don’t really want the actual thing I lost. I want the version of the thing that I had in my head.

What action steps can I take to bring me closer to what I REALLY want?

I’m a list-maker, so I pull out a pad and get to listing. Some of my ideas are shit. But, sometimes, I come up with something brilliant. (PSA: If you’re applying these steps to your breakup – stalking, whether online or in person, is NOT an action item. I repeat, stalking is bad, m’kay?!?!?!)

Of course, sometimes, I continue spiraling. And, when I look at it, it’s because I’m ruminating. That’s when I make a deal with myself to step telling myself “the story.” (Yes, read that again.)

I’ve noticed that it’s worse when I’m in the car. I’ll be driving down the road and my monkey-mind will be on chattering away going over and over and over what happened, what I did wrong, what they said, what I said, what I could’ve done differently, what they should’ve done differently, what I wished I would’ve said . . . and on . . . and on . . . . and on. Seriously, it’s like the crazy train pulls into the station and blows the whistle for all the nutty thoughts to come aboard!

So, I redirect my thoughts when I find my mind winding up the story box. Even if it’s just 15-minutes at a time. I’ll sing along to the radio or put on a podcast – I’ve noticed that when I engage with words, I disengage my internal monologue. But, if you’re in a story spiral, you’ll have to experiment until you find your key to stop the self-talk.

Finally, I seek forgiveness.

I’ve learned that I don’t have to have an apology – or even a conversation – to forgive someone. I simply get quiet and picture them in my mind and I say to them, “Person’s Name, I forgive you and release you. I wish you nothing but the best.” Then, I picture them getting lighter and lighter and lighter until they turn into a fine mist and they’re gone.

This isn’t a one-and-done practice, though. Sometimes, it takes several forgiving and releasing visualizations for me to let peoople go. But, that isn’t the hard part.

The hard part is to forgive and release myself. I let go of the ridiculous expectations I had for myself, I let myself off the hook for saying horrible things, I just let it go and feel the freedom from being released. When I’m able to do it, it’s quite a remarkable experience. I urge you to do the same.

Finally, I take responsibility for my story and my life moving forward.

Yes, that last chapter wasn’t so lovely, but I can turn the page and start penning something marvelous now! After all, I’m in charge of my experiences and you are responsible for yours! That’s why I’ve started making plans – both professionally and personally – to be active in drafting a bright future. Grab your calendar and put some fun outings and challenges on there! It’ll give you something to work toward and look forward to conquering.

Of course, if you’ve tried everything you can think of to get out of your own head and can’t stop the cycle, consider talking to someone. Do your research and choose a life coach or a counselor to help you identify some strategies that will get you through this roadblock and on the path to a better life.

At the end of the day, though, what matters most is that you’re able to learn and grow from your experiences. Life should make you better, not bitter! Let’s drop our sad stories, let’s stop being victims and let’s embrace lasting change and renewed strength.

Cheers, dears, to the happy missteps and glorious mistakes that make us our most glorious selves.

Brandy Hammond1 Comment

How To Celebrate the Everyday

Get up. Go to work. Come home. Make dinner. Go to bed.

Get up. Go to work. Come home. Make dinner. Go to bed.

Get up. Go to work . . .

Do you relate? Do you feel like your life is on autopilot and that one day runs into the next, into the next, into the next?

Have you ever thought about slowing down and celebrating the everyday? (Yes, even the mundane!)

It occurred to me one night when I was making dinner. (Which I do NOT love to do, btw. I’m much better at making reservations.) I’m in the kitchen and think – I hate this, but it’s necessary. What can I do to make this hell task more enjoyable? How can I celebrate this moment, because THIS very second is all I have.

So, I went to the living room and brought back a candle. I poured myself a glass of wine and turned on some music. I took a couple of sips and by the end of the bottle I FREAKING LOVED cooking!!! (Kidding.)

I settled in and tried to find pleasure in the task – the colors, smells, movement, textures. Which, overall, made it more enjoyable than cursing every step of the recipe and my inability to “throw something together” like some people do.

Then, I wondered about the rest of my life and the 3,000 mundane things we all do on the day-to-day. How could I make each “chore” a little less “chore-ing” and a bit more enjoyable?

I added podcasts and audio books to my daily walks, because I never feel like I have enough time to read and listen to all the things I want. I turned on the deck lights every night – even if I don’t sit outside, I can see them through the windows and they make me happy! I threw things away and started a donate bag, because clutter makes me crazy. I painted my nails for #manicuremonday – because I like the way pretty polish looks when I type on my keyboard.

Basically, I’m waking up to the gift of each moment and encourage you to do the same. This is NOT a dress rehearsal, kids. And nothing brings that home more than the big birthdays and milestones. So, I beg you . . . use the “good” plates, take the bath, light the candles, drink the wine and soak up every minute of your gorgeous drudgery.

Because, celebrate it or not, one day it will be over. And, right now, I’m pretty confident that as you draw your last breath, you’ll never regret having made the most of every single moment.

Brandy Hammond2 Comments

BOOBIES . . . and other bits

“An iced venti bold with room, please.”

I took my place in the pickup line behind four twitching, scratching souls longing for their afternoon fix. It’s hot in Florida . . . and heat makes people do crazy things. As does caffeine withdrawal. Silent prayer – please, Lord, let us hold it together a moment longer.

“Brandy,” YES!!! I enjoyed a silent celebration (and inner victory dance) as I grooved past the 6-pump, double-shot, extra hot, half-whip folks. Their eyes sliced me from the side.

I grabbed a napkin (or five, because I’m a little clumsy) and stirred in my half-and-half (don’t judge, almond milk isn’t friendly in coffee!) and THAT’S when I saw her. The girl to my right – coffee half-lifted, stir stick dangling over the trash between fixed fingers – head tilted, mouth open, eyes horrified, brow confused.

OHHHHHHHH DELIGHT!!! What horrors hide over my left shoulder?!?!?

I put the lid on my coffee and took a sip as I turned. Then, I promptly doubled over and shot coffee out of my nose. The man sitting behind me was slowly – and quite happily – scrolling through an email of various, errrrrrr, ladies . . . and their bits. Midday. In Starbucks. On free wifi.

I still roar with laughter thinking about the absurdity. I feel horribly for the families who stopped for a summer respite . . . only to end up in an unfortunate conversation with their children. And what about the ladies, themselves? Do they know about their debut? Do they care?

Walking down the sidewalk I considered, is it be better to be physically naked or emotionally exposed?

A few years ago, I took surfing lessons with some of my best girlfriends. The first couple of rides were surprisingly successful. Then, I bit it . . . in a GLORIOUS way.

Tumbled under surf, scraped by sand, wrapped in seaweed, pummeled by shells . . . tethered to a board by the ankle. (Why did this sound fun?) I slammed into the shallows happy to be alive. Nauseous and confused, I jumped up from the water with arms overhead to see the worried face of my friend Lara.

She yelled to me, but I couldn’t hear or process the words. She swam closer.

“BOOBIES!!!”

“WHAT???”

“BOOBIES!!!”

I looked behind me, completely confused, “WHAT??? WHERE?!?!?”

“YOURS!!!”

In that moment, feeling rushed back into my body. Under the churn, my rash guard and bathing suit fixed themselves around my neck. And, when I popped up . . . I stood naked in the water.

Dip. Dress.

Our stomachs ached from laughter. Tears streamed down our already salty faces. And, here’s what I can tell you – it was far easier for me to be exposed physically.

I think that’s why I put off writing for so long. To hit Publish is to disrobe my soul.

Then, I must ask, beyond writing, am I able to be emotionally exposed? You know, as I ‘do life’ with people.

Am I willing to be vulnerable and open in the relationships that matter?

Am I able to stand “naked” in front of someone and say, “These are my beautiful scars and, in them, I carry the stories of my hurt, my healing and my strengths?”

I have to admit that this is unbelievably hard for me. I don’t like to show my struggle. I want everything to appear perfectly packaged. I don’t want to show that I’m paddling furiously beneath the water’s surface to stay afloat.

I don’t want to. But, somehow, I can’t not.

I feel an incredible call to be real and perfectly imperfect. For me, to be real means to show up – with my scars and scabs – asking to be loved and accepted anyway. Because, who among us has a perfect life? Who hasn’t had bumps and bruises? Who isn’t enjoying the continuous beat of an intricately scarred heart?

So, as you go through your day, look around. Really notice the family, the friends and the strangers in your life.

Who is saying, “Here I am . . . all boogers and bruises . . . won’t you please like me anyway?”

Who stands bravely naked?

Who allows their truest selves to be seen?

Are you one of them?

(To the teacher who had to see my surfing lesson in someone’s “My Summer Vacation” report, I sincerely apologize. *facepalm*)

Brandy Hammond12 Comments

EgoTripping

As I celebrated the beginning of my 4th decade I found myself in a most unimaginable situation. Single, jobless, alone and adrift. I felt like the universe wrapped a midlife crisis up with a giant bow for my milestone birthday.

Sitting with my ‘gift’ as the day came to an end, I thought back to the beginning of my adventure. I started this journey with certainty, passion and a heightened sense of direction and purpose. Things weren’t firing for me in Charlotte and I “just knew” this opportunity would be just the kick start I needed.

Turns out, it was a kick in the teeth.

As my world unraveled – a sick aunt engaged in her last battle, energetic turmoil at work, and an unsettled environment – my friend and soul sister called to check in. She could “feel” how frazzled I had become. “How did you know?” I asked.  “You are a vortex,” she said.

Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t realize my vortex was pulling negativity in on me with the energy I expelled.

It was only after the ball of yarn completely unraveled and lay in a gnarled and knotted heap did I take a long, hard, painfully honest look at my situation: no man, no job, no home that I wanted to go home to.

I checked my pride, broke lease and embarked on the life of a wanderer.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” became my theme song – with a refrain that sang, “This isn’t how my life is supposed to be!!!”

And that’s when the larger Voice I call God said, “But this is the way it is.”

This is the way it is.

Sitting on a dock, beer in hand, my utter exhaustion gave way to absolute acceptance.

This. Is. The. Way. It. Is.

Let me not lie, it took two weeks of wandering before my brain started to work again. My first day as a gypsy, I literally sat at a red light and had the conversation with myself as it changed, “Green means go, right? Yes, green. Go.” (BLESS!)

One of the most interesting things happening as I explore rock bottom is a reinterpretation of self. A revised definition of who I am. Because, how easy is it to say, “I’m Brandy, XYZ with ABC company.” How often have I relied on my career, wins and successes to create my identity? How long have I hid behind my job rather than relying on my most authentic self?

So the question became, “Without a label, without a job title, who am I? What do I do? What are my goals? Where am I going?”

When my brain started to function again, ideas came flooding through. I started having lovely conversations about great opportunities. My energy level keyed up and I went on a great walk where I was having the internal dialogue with myself, “Omigosh . . . I could do this and this and this and I talked to so and so and so . . . and just WAIT until I tell LMNOP that DEF wants to work with me . . . he’s going to be so proud and . . . “ [screeeeeech] HOLD THE FUCK UP.

I stopped mid-stride. This is the ego I read about.

Yes, it’s great to have amazing partnerships and projects on the horizon, but these things do not define who I am.

And I damn sure shouldn’t be using them as a worth-bait for catching the interest, respect and admiration of other people. Let that sink in . . . worth-bait.

Stop.

Breathe.

Disengage the ego.

Ask, “Who am I without the labels?”

While I would love to wrap this story up with the tidy ending of a hallelujah choir, I can’t do that. The only answer I have is, quite simply, “I don’t know.”

I don’t know who I am, where I’m going or when. But, I’m learning. I’m observing. I’m growing through confronting the stories I’ve told myself for so long that they’ve become my truth.

I’m reconsidering. I’m re-imagining the story of me . . . and the rewrites are in pencil.

It’s scary as hell.

In religion, there is a period of darkness that precedes an awakening or rebirth . . . a dark night of the soul. So, is this my path to enlightenment? Perhaps.

Is rock bottom a kickass place to rebuild a strong, redefined foundation for a brand new life? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Now, it’s time to get on with it.

Has anyone seen the map for navigating around this ego trip?!?!?

 

 

 

 

Brandy Hammond2 Comments

Beach Blessings

I went to Girl Scout camp. I hated it.

I love NOT camping. Give me a comfy bed and electricity any day of the week!

So, to go away for a week in the middle of summer heat, sleeping in an XL tent with spiders and a communal shower was my idea of hell. Absolute hell. Even as a kid.

Naturally, the homesickness set in. And, being a resourceful little shit, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I plotted, lied and schemed to make my big break via a single wall phone outside the nurse’s office.

And it was a phenomenal success . . . until I got home. Then, I had chores as my punishment for lying to grown-ups. Oooooopie doooooo.

Homesickness is a funny beast. I visited family for weeks at a time, I had marathon sleepovers with my girlfriends, I went on vacations with and without my parents – without event. But, when I was outside of my “comfort zone,” (aka: Deliverance) my psyche absolutely rejected the experience.

“Danger, danger Will Robinson . . . abort mission . . . abort, abort!!!”

Naturally, when I found myself among apocalyptic storms and the daytime hooker, my psyche gave a similar response. I desperately longed for a yard full of lightning bugs and my ears ached for the sound of katydids, tree frogs and crickets. The difference this time, however, was recognizing the source of discomfort and the consolation of knowing my ability to weather all with a little sidewalk therapy.

I set my morning alarm for 6 and sought to re-embrace my morning walk. I figured getting back into a routine would be the best thing for me. I needed something that felt familiar.

When I got to the beach, I heard the most amazing sound . . . a southern accent. I almost burst into tears.

I started a conversation and we fell into step. As it turns out, he was from Charlotte. Sparkles and stars and happiness!!! He shared the details of his work function and I told him I just moved away from North Carolina.

As we were chatting, a lovely woman with dark chocolate skin, light brown eyes and a head full of beautiful braids came up to us. “Excuse me, this is going to sound strange, but I felt called to come over here and speak a blessing over the two of you. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence we’re all on the beach together this morning.”

I almost burst into tears because I, too, stopped believing in coincidence.

I cupped my hands to receive her words of love, health, happiness, peace and abundance. I poured the words into my heart and thanked her for her generosity of spirit.

On my way back to the little pool cottage, my feet were lighter and my heart beat with a noticeable fullness.

It’s funny that, sometimes, it’s a tiny hit of home that helps ease homesickness – like an accent that wraps around your eardrums like a cashmere blanket.

And, other times, it’s a whole lot of God working through a wonderful Haitian woman speaking blessings over strangers on the beach.

Brandy Hammond1 Comment

The Daytime Hooker & Other Encounters

I moved to Florida sight unseen. Admittedly, not my best choice in the history of ever.

After a 10-hour drive, I got out of the car and burst into tears because I managed to land right in the middle of a “neighborhood in transition.” (Pro Tip: If anyone shares that phrase about an area you’re considering, run. Run like hell. Don’t look back.)

The house itself, gorgeous. I found a lovely compound that consisted of a main house, a pool cottage and the most charming tropical garden hugging the patio and pool area for wonderful privacy. As long as I stayed inside the fence, life was sweet.

However, living inside the safety bubble isn’t realistic. One must get out and about. So, I did what any good southern girl would do . . . I went to church. A 90-minute sermon and an overly-enthusiastic hug from a stranger later, I fought the urge to stop exploring.

Get out and try, get out and try, get out and try rang in my head. I wanted to learn to love the place I was planted.

Along the streets, rehabbers, junkies and dealers danced a dangerous waltz between sobriety and addiction.

At the grocery store, broken souls in shabby clothes shuffled outside, asking for money and help.

For the first time in my life, I looked around and realized that I was the minority.

These encounters served to illuminate my simple abundance – a place to live, a car to drive, a closet full of nice clothes and a wonderful job to fund it all. By comparison, I have nothing to complain about. I am not greeted as “different” or an “outsider” when I walk into most places . . . and most of these people have been labeled nothing but since moving to this country.

I tried out shops and restaurants, my friends and family came to visit and I took walks to soak it all in and figure it all out . . . but I wasn’t ready for the reality I had coming.

One Saturday morning, I woke up early with the distinct need for sidewalk time. I laced up, grabbed a bottle of water and popped in my earbuds. For the first time, I was a bit more at ease. I walked over to the beach and took in the salt air, smiling at faces of every age and heritage.

Then, she happened.

As I approached the drawbridge on my return home, a slip of a woman emerged from underneath and shimmied through hedges onto the sidewalk. She wobbled on weak, pencil-thin legs a few yards ahead of me, yelling over the guard rail to the man below. I slowed my pace and tried to assess what was happening in front of me.

Was she a junkie? Did she fail recovery? Was she yelling to her husband below?

When I got close enough to hear the words, she was definitely not yelling at her husband below. She was working.

Approaching, I tried to make plenty of noise so I wouldn’t startle her and be shoved into oncoming traffic.

Clothes-hanger shoulders balanced a mass of gnarly knotted hair . . . not quite colored, not quite not. It was evident she hadn’t had the luxury of a shower in several days, if not weeks. And, just as a deep-seated sympathy began to dance with fear of the unknown, I announced “Coming by on your left.”

Her head whipped to face me. I met the hollow blue eyes that earlier spilled tears which turned her mascara into water color rivulets, pooled and puddled into the lines of her worn face. Red lipstick smeared from mouth to ear, temporarily distracting from the black and yellow snarl of rotted teeth.

Compassion and terror clashed at my core as a guttural growl escaped her sunken cheeks. On one hand, I wanted to take her for a Clorox shower and to feed her a decent meal. On the other hand, self-preservation urged my feet to take flight.

But not without paying a mental price.

What defined the desperation that drove her decisions and landed her there? How old was she? Who taught her her worth? And how far away are any of us from doing the things we think we would never do?

In my world of non-answers, I know one thing for sure . . . none of these people – the junkies, the dealers, the homeless or the hooker – none of them asked for this. Not a single one of them said they wanted to be these things when they grew up. They had dreams– to be teachers, astronauts, firemen and parents. Then, somewhere along the way, life happened.

Life happens.

And the life that happens outside the bubble is starling in contrast to the life of friendly neighbors, new cars and unlocked doors that I left behind in North Carolina.

Since my initial arrival I made another move to a town that gives me a greater sense of security and safety. But, those initial encounters will linger forever.

Where are you today? Have you offered thanks and shown your appreciation for the people and circumstances that brought you this far?

After all, you never know when the tide might change, running you into the rocky shore that bursts your safety bubble. And maybe having your bubble burst isn’t such a bad thing. Because seeing life, people and circumstances from a vulnerable perspective has a sneaky way of opening the heart and softening the mind.

So, to my family and friends – all of you who cheerlead me, listen to me and love me in spite of my truest self – I appreciate you. To those of you who let me swim in the bottomless pool of your sweet fellowship – thank you. I love you, I need you and I want you in my life. I know without doubt that I can’t do it solo.

Brandy Hammond22 Comments