It’s month 4. I’m currently sporting my hat from the Eidomeni refugee camp, a long sleeved tee from a Colorado ski town, Nike running shorts I’ve had since high school, and the Birkenstocks my aunt gave me for my 14th birthday. I have a total of 8 bracelets on my wrists and ankles, nine difference piercings (none of which have matching jewelry), and my first tattoo appointment is scheduled for this Friday at 5 o’clock. (I’m getting a lion, but we’ll get to that later.) I often describe my style on the race as college-student-who-overslept-for-class.
Even with seven months left on the race, I’m already going over in my head what it will look like to return home. I’m sure to be different, and I was sure to warn my friends and family of this before I left in September. I also realize that they’ll be different, too.
You see, life at home doesn’t press pause when you leave for 11 months. It continues on, with or without you. And just because you’re here and not there, doesn’t mean you or your friends have to wait for one another to do the important things. That would just be ridiculous. Can you imagine if I FaceTimed all my buddies letting them know that I expected them not to go see the Sherlock theater special in January because since it’s only showing in the US and UK I’m not allowed to see it so of course they can’t either? I’d be disowned, most likely.
The thing that concerns me the most, however, isn’t change. I’m going to be thrilled to see how my friends have changed over these 11 months, how their lives look different, what they’ve chosen to let go of, what they’re spending their time with, and who they’ve chosen to surround themselves with now that the most important person in the world is no longer by their side. Kidding…sorta.
What I am concerned with, however, is what will be expected of me upon my return. Will others be excited about the changes I’ve endured, the experiences I’ve allowed to shape my character, the relationships I’ve built, even the tattoos I’ve gained? Will they see me as a new person in a good way? What I’m not worried about is being rejected. Trust me, the race has already taught me all about that. I am worried that because the past 11 months of my life will have been labeled with “the world race,” it’ll be something that’s expected to be explained in a matter of minutes or hours. Not days, weeks, months or even years.
I’ve started to develop a list of questions and phrases people are NOT allowed to say to me when I get home. Things like “how was it?” or “did you have fun?” “What was your favorite part?” “What’s the most important thing you learned?” Those questions are SO. DAUNTING. Pleasepleaseplease do not ask me those questions. You can, however, utter these gentle phrases: “I’m excited to hear about your experiences!” “What was your favorite country?” “I can’t wait to see how these 11 months have transformed you through normal daily interactions with you that don’t have a cloud hovering over them filled with atmospheric-level pressure to share every detail of every day from the past year of your life.”
Those statements, friends and family, are refreshing. They don’t have underlying expectations for me to tell story after story for the next three hours or until you get bored and stop actually listening. I can just picture bumping into someone at Chick-fil-A the day after I get back (because we all know that’s where I’ll be every day for at least a week next August). They’ll say something like “Oh my gosh! You’re back!” Strike one. Clearly, you haven’t been keeping up with my blog, Facebook, or haven’t talked to me recently enough to actually know when I’d be coming home. “How was it?!” Strike two. “Oh, you know. Fantastic.” “Tell me all about it!” Strike three. Then I’ll respond with some snarky comment like “How were the last 11 months of your life? What’d you do? What’d you see? Tell me all your favorite parts. GO!” Silence. Yeah, I thought so. Enjoy your waffle fries and lemonade, friend, then go read this blog and get back to me later.
In case you haven’t noticed, this piece of writing is far different from all my others thus far. This month, the women on my squad are in White River, South Africa while our boys are in Botswana for ‘manistry’ month (don’t get me started on that terrible word. Last time I complained about it, I was told my feminist was showing. I was proud). Since being here, I’ve grown close with a new friend. A brilliant friend who has the most raw form of talent for writing I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Each day, I see her love and passion grow and it’s an incredible thing. Far more entertaining than any Grey’s Anatomy episode (or am I just saying that because I haven’t seen Grey’s in over three weeks and won’t be able to until February and no I’m not bitter about it AT ALL.)
Take, for instance, last week when the two of us were sitting at a picnic table by the pool together. I think I was reading or journaling, and Kayla calmly sits across from me. I looked up and could tell she was processing something hard. “I think my computer is dead.” No! I thought. No. No. NO. Anything but her laptop. Pleeeease not her laptop. But she was calm, so I tried to stay calm on the outside. “Oh?” I asked carefully as I leaned back, bracing myself for the panic attack that would soon be sprawling across the table before me. “Yeah. And weirdly enough, I think I’m okay with it.” With that last word, she looked me in the eye and gave a quick smile out of the corner of her mouth. Excuse me, what? Okay with it?! In that moment, I couldn’t even. I was sure I’d have to panic enough for the both of us. Did she hear the words that were coming out of her mouth?
Then I remembered, this is the girl who has a mind unlike any other.
I’m always playing catch-up because her imagination runs at light year speeds. Before she utters her next sentence, she’ll have an entire chapter of a book written in her head. She’s the girl who didn’t bring a phone, iPod, or digital camera on the race. She has one of those tiny MP3 players straight out of the 90’s to match her cute, choppy hairstyle, she has no need for a cell phone, and she brought a polaroid camera to capture those moments that are most precious to her. Beautiful right? Yeah, you’d think I’d have that in mind when she told me she was okay with not having a laptop for the next seven months. My mind went straight from that SUCKS! to how is she going to write?! to maybe we can fix it. We can fix it, right? But she wasn’t worried. And you know what she does now? She writes. She didn’t let it stop her. She writes what she feels, what she’s learning, what’s surrounding her, and the things she finds fascinating. A little laptop malfunction didn’t stop her. She’s equally content using pen and paper. Incredible.
That small moment in time was inspiration enough to let go of any fears I had about releasing my most true, unfiltered thoughts and just write. Then, as if that wasn’t a good enough gift, she recommended a book to me called Carry On, Warrior by Glennon Doyle. Please read this book. I started it yesterday and I’m almost finished. I can’t put it down. In one chapter towards the beginning of the book, the author explains that reading is her inhale and writing is her exhale. Those words stuck out to me like a neon yellow sign.
You know when someone puts the perfect set of words to something you’ve always understood to be true but never knew how to explain it? That’s exactly how I felt in that moment.
This woman is hilariously brilliant and her words have been like golden drops of inspiration seeping out of the pages and into my skin – as if you could receive inspiration through osmosis. She says the hard things and admits to her mistakes. She puts a voice to those horrible thoughts inside her head and makes you feel okay for having those thoughts too. She supports her beliefs about family, society, and relationships with Biblical truth and loves her children to no end.
Her unfiltered release of words have been the catalyst I needed to let go and tell more stories. I want to share more of those things I find scary to say out loud. You know, those thoughts the enemy tells us belong only to us, but really everyone has them? I want to make others nod and say “same, me too” just like Glennon Doyle has made me do about fifty billion times since I started her book. I don’t just want people to read my blog to see what I’m up to and what I’ve learned. I want them to be inspired and to know that even though I’m on the other side of the world from them, they can have something to relate to.
So, while others may shy away from setting up a list of expectations for their friends and family, as harsh as it may seem, I’m going to embrace it. I want to be fully and unapologetically me. Like a polaroid picture, I want to be observed and admired for the simplicity of just being who I am. No filters, no deleted comments, just me.
I ask for grace as I explore this new way of sharing myself. It’s terrifying enough to share these things with my squad mates while they’re sitting right across from me. Imagine how it feels to release this into the air not knowing when others will read it or what they’re reactions really are. I literally caught my breath as I typed that. It’s a really scary thing. But as I’ve come to learn on the race, the scary moments are the ones we should pay attention to the most. They’re where the most growth happens, and usually the bigger rewards come out of them.
Be encouraged, friend. Be encouraged to be fully you, because only you can. In Donald Miller’s book Scary Close, he goes through a similar realization. He experiments with being himself fully in his writing and presses in to the fear of the unknown. He says “the whole experience made me wonder if the time we spend trying to become somebody people will love isn’t wasted because the most powerful, most attractive person we can be is who we already are, an ever-changing being that is becoming and will never arrive, but has opinions about what is seen along the journey.”
