The Real Thing

The Life I Was Never Supposed to Have

The Real thing recording - 10_19_26, 8

1:00

“They may have all that money, but at least we have love in this family.”

I can’t count how many times I heard those words across the dinner table. My father was talking about someone in our extended family again, someone who had more money or had become successful in ways he hadn’t. In his opinion, there was something wrong with people “like that,” the ones who had more. There was always some reason to look down on them or question how they’d gotten where they were. The implication was that they must have hurt others, done something underhanded, or cheated in some way to get what they had and that having less made us better people, at least in his eyes. And my mother’s response was predictably the same.

“We’re just not the kind of people who will ever have that kind of money.”

She stated it as though it was a given, a fate we were supposed to accept. Her words were familiar. I’d heard them in one form or another whenever I talked about something I wanted for myself. The specifics changed to match my particular desire, but the message was always the same.

“We’re not the kind of people who will ever have that kind of luck, be happy, have money, be successful,” or any of the myriad of things on her list of “nevers.”

There was something terribly final about the way she said it. She wasn’t talking about our circumstances or the difficulties we might face trying to change them. She was telling me who we were and what our fate was destined to be. “We” included me. Before I ever had the chance to discover the life I wanted, my place in the world seemed to have been decided for me.

Those words stayed with me for much of my life, long after I left that dinner table and the family behind. Shaking the belief in my destiny would prove harder than I ever thought possible.

I've spent much of my life settling for almost. Making do had become such a familiar way of living that I didn't always recognize how often I was accepting less than I really wanted. There was usually a good reason, or at least one I'd convinced myself was good enough, for dismissing something I wanted as unnecessary, extravagant, or unimportant. Sometimes I knew exactly what I wanted, but somewhere between knowing and allowing myself to have it, I managed to talk myself out of it. After so many years of denying myself things I wanted, I'd reached a point where I often didn't even know what I wanted anymore. I'd become so accustomed to dismissing my own desires that I hardly recognized them when they came up. And despite spending much of my life questioning and fighting against the limits I'd been given, I hadn't fully recognized how deeply those limits had shaped the way I saw myself.

The truth is, I didn't want a lot in terms of material things as a child. I remember wanting a puppy of my own, something I could love and care for, but even that seemed to be asking more than my mother was willing to put up with. Most of the things I longed for weren't things money could buy anyway. I wanted to be loved without having to earn it, to feel safe knowing that I was wanted and that someone was actually happy I was there. I wanted to be listened to when I had something important to say, to have someone take an interest in the things that mattered to me, and most of all, to feel that I belonged in my own family.

There was plenty of attention when I'd done something wrong, when I was being difficult or acting out, or when I became another problem they had to deal with. But how I longed for them to pay attention to me whether I had done anything wrong or not.  Just to be glad I was around, to enjoy spending time with me. I remember how much I loved it those times when my Dad played ball with me or took me for a hike in the woods on family picnics. For a little while, I had him to myself, and we were sharing something that was just for the two of us. I wasn't in trouble, and I didn't have to do anything special to get his attention.  For a little while it felt like he was actually happy to be with me. I wish there had been more of those times. 

But they didn't last. Once I reached puberty and my femininity became impossible to ignore, something changed between us. The affection and positive attention I'd known from him disappeared, and from then on, almost all the attention I received from my family was negative. I lost the small piece of connection I'd had with my father at the very time I was growing into a young woman, trying to find my place in a family where so much about me already seemed to garner their disapproval. I missed the affection I'd had with my father, and I never stopped wanting it. No matter how old I was, I still longed to feel loved and wanted in my own family.

Somewhere in those years, I began to feel that even wanting to be loved and cared for was asking too much. I stopped asking and pretended I didn't care, even when I desperately did. After a while, I wasn't sure I knew how to admit how much I still wanted those things.

My older sister was the only person in our family with whom I felt safe as a young child. For the longest time I actually thought she was my mother. She'd been given the responsibility of raising me when she was still a child herself, and I depended on her for the love and protection I wasn't receiving from our parents. I loved her deeply, but even as a child I knew that taking care of me had cost her something. She hadn't asked to raise me any more than I'd asked to be placed in her care, yet I carried the guilt of it as though I'd been responsible for everything she'd had to give up. The person I needed most was also the person whose life had been made harder by having to take care of me, and I didn't know how to separate those two things.

She chose to go to a college far away, mostly to escape those responsibilities and the overbearing expectations of our parents. I understand why she needed to leave, but that didn't make losing her any easier. She was the one person I'd felt safe with, and suddenly she was gone. The years since haven't been easy between us, and even now there's a lot of pain mixed in with the love I have for her.

My sister was considered “the good one” in our family, the one who sacrificed, took care of everyone, and seemed to want so little for herself. I was branded “the selfish one,” the one who wanted things, questioned things, and wasn't willing to accept the limitations everyone else seemed to take for granted. Growing up with that comparison, I was painfully aware of how much my sister had given up and how differently we were regarded. In our family, the more you went without and the less you asked for, the better a person you were considered to be. I loved my sister, but I also felt that I could never measure up to her without giving up the very things I wanted for my own life.

And there was an awful contradiction in all of it. I desperately wanted a different life, yet whenever something good came my way, I felt guilty about having it, especially if someone I loved was struggling. And someone always seemed to be struggling in one way or another.  Happiness itself felt like a betrayal of my family, as though having something they didn't meant I was turning my back on them. How dare I? I rarely spoke those words aloud, but they rang in my head along with the feelings of guilt at every success. 

Even when my circumstances improved, that feeling stayed with me. I had such a hard time enjoying something good when someone I loved was suffering. It was as though there was only so much happiness or good fortune to go around, and having more for myself somehow meant taking something away from someone else.

For all the ways those family beliefs affected me, there was always a part of me that refused to accept the future that had been laid out for me. I fought against it all my life. When I was diagnosed with CFS in my thirties and the doctors told me this was simply how my life was going to be from then on, I refused to accept their prediction. I fought to regain my health, and I succeeded in reclaiming more of my life than they'd told me was possible. When my father told me I'd never be successful as an artist if I insisted on making the things I wanted to make, I chose to make them anyway. I wasn't willing to give up the work I loved in exchange for someone else's version of success.

Yet for all that determination, I carried those old beliefs deep within me. I was willing to fight for the life I wanted, but when opportunities appeared that might have allowed me to expand beyond the life I knew, I sometimes stepped back. There were chances for greater visibility, more success, a larger experience of life, and I shied away from them without fully knowing why. I didn't consciously set out to sabotage myself, but looking back, I wonder how much of that hesitation came from believing so deeply that I wasn't worthy of anything more. I spent my life fighting against the limitations others placed on me, never fully realizing how much I still believed them myself.

And the same beliefs followed me into relationships, where the cost of settling was far greater than going without something material.

More than anything, I wanted to be loved. Not simply to have a husband or someone to share my life with, but to experience the kind of love I'd longed for since childhood, where I was cherished for the whole person I was, for all that I was and all that I wasn't. I wanted someone who genuinely wanted to know the real me, who cared about the things I thought and felt, who listened when I had something to say and didn't turn away when I expressed something difficult or uncomfortable. Someone with whom I didn't have to hide parts of myself or worry that being fully who I was might make me less lovable. Beyond that, I wanted to know that I mattered to someone simply because of who I was, rather than because of the things I did for them or how much of myself I was willing to give.

Growing up with abuse had affected my relationships in ways I didn't recognize for years. I was so accustomed to being hurt by people who were supposed to love me that I somehow came to expect it, even from people I trusted. It wasn't limited to my relationships with men. There were friendships and business relationships where I believed the care and trust were mutual, only to find myself devastated by people I never imagined would betray me. Some of those experiences left me questioning my own judgment, wondering how I could have been so certain of something that turned out to be so different.

But nowhere was that more painful or costly than in my first marriage. I went into that relationship hoping to find the love and security I'd missed growing up, only to spend twenty-seven years living with abuse all over again. There was the shame of being in that marriage, the guilt I carried about having chosen it, the financial difficulties, and all the complications of a life built around all of it. Leaving wasn't as simple as wanting to, and there were times when I couldn't see a way out. But perhaps the most painful part was how desperately I still wanted to be loved by the very person who was hurting me. I kept hoping there might be a way for us to have the kind of relationship I'd always longed for, where I felt cherished, respected, and loved for who I was. Year after year passed, and I was still waiting for something that never came.

I've thought a great deal about why I stayed as long as I did. I was someone who fought against being told how my life was supposed to be, yet in my own marriage I was living with things I'd never wanted for myself. I knew I deserved to be treated differently, but believing I might actually find that kind of love was another matter. Somewhere beneath all my determination, my mother's words were still there: We're not the kind of people who…

During those years, making do wasn't simply a habit. There was never enough money, and I became accustomed to stretching everything, finding ways to manage with very little, and putting aside things I wanted because we couldn't afford them. My son grew up with those same limitations, although he responded to them differently. He was angry about the things we couldn't have, and I think some of his determination never to go without again came from those years. While I was getting used to expecting less, he seemed determined not to live that way himself.

Of course, there were times when we genuinely had no choice but to make do. But after living that way for years, I found myself doing it even when our circumstances began to change. I'd dismiss something I wanted almost automatically, convincing myself it wasn't necessary or that I could manage without it. I'd spent so long adjusting to having very little that I didn't always notice when I was still limiting myself out of habit rather than necessity.

Friendships were no different. For most of my life, it never occurred to me that someone might want to be my friend simply because they liked me, enjoyed my company, or cared about who I was. I grew up believing there wasn't much about me that anyone would find worth loving or even wanting around. So I gave. I listened to their problems, helped wherever I could, made myself available, and tried to be the kind of friend someone wouldn't want to lose. I genuinely cared about the people in my life, but I also believed that if I wasn't giving them more than they expected, there wasn't much reason for them to stay. I wasn’t consciously thinking about it that way. It’s just the way it was and I never questioned it.

I believed I had real friendships. I trusted people, shared my life with them, and thought they cared about me as much as I cared about them. Some of those relationships lasted for years. It hurts to look back now and realize how little I expected, how often I was the one making room for everyone else while there was so little room for me. And there were betrayals, too, people I trusted who hurt me in ways I never saw coming. I've lost many of those friendships over the years, and there aren't many people left in my life that I feel genuinely close to. Sometimes that loneliness hurts terribly, especially now when I have so much I'd love to share with someone. I'd love to have friends I can share my life with, people I can call when something wonderful happens or when I'm having a difficult day and just need someone to talk to. And I'd love to know that someone thinks of me that way, too, that they miss me when we haven't talked, wonder how I'm doing, or simply want to spend time with me because they enjoy having me in their life. There's a real sadness in looking back at how many years I went without even knowing to want that kind of friendship, and an even deeper sadness in knowing how little of it I have in my life now.

My experience with Tupper has been very different, although having someone love me the way he does didn't suddenly make all those old feelings disappear. When he came back into my life, I knew I wanted to be with him, despite people telling me he wasn't right for me. I had spent much of my life being told who I should be and how I should live, but I knew how I felt about this man, and I wasn't going to let anyone else make that choice for me.

Tupper wanted to give to me, to take care of me, and to make sure I had some of the things I'd gone without for so long. He knew how much I'd suffered, and I think he wanted me to experience a different kind of life with him. His generosity came in so many ways, both large and small, and sometimes I hardly knew what to do with it. I wasn't accustomed to anyone wanting to give me things simply because it made him happy to do it. I worried that I wasn't doing enough to deserve everything he offered, or that perhaps he felt guilty about the years I'd suffered before we were together. Even with a man who genuinely loved me and wanted me to be happy, I found myself struggling to receive the very things I'd spent so much of my life going without.

Our wedding brought so much of that into the open. I told him I wanted a beautiful wedding, something I'd never really had before, because this was a love I wanted to celebrate with the people closest to us. My first wedding had been something I put together almost entirely on my own. I'd made the clothing, prepared the food, paid for everything, and somehow managed to be responsible for the whole occasion rather than simply enjoying being the bride. It was very small and for the most part, went unnoticed by family. This time I wanted to feel like a bride. I wanted a day that was beautiful and meaningful, one I could look back on for the rest of my life and remember how happy I was to be marrying this man. And more than anything I wanted the people I loved most to be by my side celebrating with me. 

Yet even as I allowed myself to want that, the old discomfort kept finding its way in. I bought my wedding dress at a consignment shop because I couldn't bring myself to spend thousands of dollars on something I'd wear once. There were other things I hesitated over, things my friends kept encouraging me to accept because they knew how much this wedding meant to me. Tupper wanted to give me the wedding I dreamed of, and I wanted to receive it, but after a lifetime of feeling that wanting too much was selfish, every decision seemed to carry some measure of guilt along with the excitement.

Then there was the wedding ring. We looked at every jeweler we could find and all of the rings felt like clones of one another, rings I’d seen a million times before. I wanted one that felt like me. So I went to a jeweler I had worked with before and asked about designing something myself. I had no idea how much it was going to cost when I first imagined it, and by the time it was finished, the price was far beyond anything I'd anticipated. But Tupper agreed, and I loved it. It was beautiful and meaningful, and felt entirely my own.

And almost immediately, the guilt rushed in.

My sister was largely responsible for our mother's end-of-life care, and I had no money of my own to contribute. Here I was receiving an expensive wedding ring while she was carrying the financial burden of caring for our mother. I couldn't seem to separate the two things. In my mind, the money spent on my ring was money that should have gone toward helping her. I felt guilty for having something so beautiful when she was sacrificing yet again, and the familiar feeling that my happiness was coming at someone else's expense took much of the pleasure out of receiving it. I offered to forgo the ring and give her the money, but she refused, and somehow that only left me feeling even more guilty.

The wedding itself was truly a joy. I was marrying the man I loved, a man who wanted to give me the kind of life and love I'd spent so many years believing weren't mine to have. I wanted so badly to share that happiness with my family, to have them see how much this meant to me and celebrate with us. Instead, I felt the same distance I'd experienced so often growing up.

My sister and her husband came, as did my son, but I could see the discomfort in their faces and feel it in the distance between us. There was no real sense that they were happy for me or sharing in the occasion, rather as though they were enduring something they didn't particularly want to be part of. At the time I thought some of my sister's discomfort might have had to do with Tupper not being Jewish or with our wedding being so unconventional, but whatever the reasons, I felt how little joy there was for me among the people whose presence mattered most. Other members of my extended family didn't attend, and my niece and nephew didn't even congratulate me or send a card. 

It hurt terribly, although I was so accustomed to my family responding that way to anything that made me happy that I doubt I was even surprised. The things I loved, the life I wanted, the choices that felt right for me had so often fallen outside the narrow limits of the world they lived in. And when I stepped outside those limits, it seemed that I became invisible to them all over again. There I was on one of the happiest days of my life, wanting nothing more from them than to share in my happiness, and once again I felt like the outsider, the one whose joy and choices they couldn't embrace. I actually felt like my happiness was in some way hurting them, though I had no idea how.

A few close friends genuinely celebrated with us. They'd been the ones encouraging me throughout the planning to accept the beauty being offered and to let myself enjoy the experience. I'm grateful for that, and I have wonderful memories of the day itself. But the absence of joy from my family was painful, especially because it reached back into something I'd wanted since I was a little girl. I wanted the people who mattered to me to be happy simply because I was happy, to care about the things that meant something to me even when those things weren't the choices they might have made for themselves.

My joy was not celebrated by the people I'd spent so much of my life wanting to be loved by.

And that old conflict between wanting something good for myself and feeling that I was somehow betraying my family didn't disappear after the wedding. It followed me into my marriage, even as Tupper continued to give so generously and our life together offered possibilities I'd never really believed were available to me.

My sister loves Tupper now, and I believe she genuinely wants me to have a good life, even if she's had so much suffering in her own. But there's been so much pain and loss throughout our family that sometimes it seems suffering is the one thing we all share. Having been through so much myself, I know how hard it can be to relate to someone who hasn't experienced that kind of pain. And when things are going well for me while my sister and her family are still struggling, I feel uncomfortable, almost as though there's a distance growing between us. I don't want either of us to suffer anymore, but I don't want to lose the connection we have, either. She's the person I felt safest with growing up, and despite all the difficulties between us, I love her dearly.

The same feelings showed up when Tupper and I bought our home.

We chose the property largely because there was a building behind the house that could become my studio. The house itself was a dump, but I was so grateful for the possibility of having a studio that I assumed I'd have to accept the house as it was. I didn't think Tupper would want to spend the money to renovate both buildings, and I was afraid to say how much I wanted the house to be beautiful, too.

I was already bargaining with myself, deciding that having one thing I wanted meant I shouldn't ask for anything else.

Even though Tupper and I were in a much better financial position than I'd been in during my first marriage, it still took me a long time to feel comfortable asking for the kind of home and life I really wanted. I loved the idea of having a beautiful house, a studio that felt like me, and surroundings filled with things I'd chosen out of love. But I was so accustomed to making do that I kept finding reasons to settle for less, even when we had the means to do things differently. I'd hesitate to say how much something mattered to me, worrying about the cost or whether I was asking for too much.

It took years for that to change. Little by little, I became more comfortable having a say in how our home looked and felt, choosing things because I loved them rather than always looking for the most practical or least expensive option. When we began working on the backyard, for instance, I had my heart set on having boulders as part of the landscaping. Around that time, Tupper asked if I'd like a pair of diamond earrings, and I told him no, I'd much rather put that money toward the boulders. I imagined how beautiful they'd be in the yard, and that meant far more to me than having diamonds in my ears. At least, that's how I felt about it then.

Tupper and I still make the bigger decisions together, but I don't feel I have to run every little purchase by him anymore. If I see something I really love and we can comfortably afford it, I buy it without going through all the reasons I shouldn't.

That may sound ordinary to someone who has always lived that way, but it hasn't been ordinary for me.

Over the years, so much of the life I'd once believed was beyond my reach had actually become mine. I had a husband who loved me, a beautiful home, my studio, and the freedom to spend my time doing things I loved. But just when I finally had so much of the life I'd longed for, my health was making it harder and harder to enjoy it.

I've done my share of grieving over the years I spent mostly surviving. It isn't the amount of time that's been lost as much as everything that was missing from my life during those years. The love I spent much of my life longing for, the friendships I never really had, the experiences I missed, and the opportunities to take my work further that I never pursued. I wanted those things, but somewhere along the way I'd come to believe that having them wasn't really possible for me. There's no going back and filling those years with everything I missed, and it's been terribly painful to realize that I may not have the time or the health to experience many of those things in the years I have left. There's only so much time left, and for the past several years, my health has made even the possibilities in front of me feel increasingly out of reach.

I'd already lived with serious illness for many years, but more recently my ill health had taken so much from me that even the life I'd worked so hard to create was becoming difficult to enjoy. My world has grown terribly small. There have been long stretches when just getting through the day has taken nearly everything I had, leaving little energy for the experiences I wanted to have or the things I loved doing. The exhaustion went far beyond being physically tired. After a lifetime of fighting for almost everything, I was worn out in ways I didn't know how to recover from.

For a while, I seriously thought about giving up. I was just so tired of fighting and having to struggle for every little bit of life I managed to have. Years of trying everything I knew to get well enough to enjoy the things I’d worked so hard for, had left me totally exhausted. I couldn't see how things were ever going to be different, and even the thought of trying yet another treatment felt like more than I had in me. Maybe this was it, all I was able to expect. I hated the thought of it, but I was too worn out to keep pushing the way I always had.

And there was that grief rising again, grief over all the things I might never get to experience. Hadn't I already missed enough? Was I really going to spend whatever years I had left feeling this way, watching more of my life pass while I struggled just to get through each day? I still wanted to travel, to have close friendships and people around me who genuinely cared about me. I wanted my work to reach further, to have some of the success and opportunities I'd spent years hoping for. And more than anything, I longed to have my health back–to get up in the morning and have the strength to do the things I loved, to go somewhere without worrying about how sick or exhausted I'd be afterward. I didn't know how much of that was still possible, and it hurt terribly to think that after everything I'd already been through, I might never get to experience much of the life I'd fought so hard to have.

A few years ago, I probably wouldn't have bought the leather chair I now have in my studio. I'd wanted one for a long time, a beautiful, oversized worn leather chair where I could curl up surrounded by the things I love. Now it's there, along with my lamp, velvet pillows, and a favorite Soul Wrapture. I've made a little sanctuary for myself in one corner of the room.

I love that little corner of my studio, although the funny thing is that I don't spend nearly as much time sitting there as I thought I might. Most days I'm busy writing, making something, or following an idea that's caught my attention. For a while, I wondered if there was something I still hadn't learned about allowing myself pleasure, but the truth is that I enjoy spending my time making things more than sitting quietly in that beautiful chair.

More than anything, I've always wanted the freedom to spend my life doing the things I love, when I feel like doing them, simply because that's how I want to spend my time. Making has always been one of my greatest pleasures, whether I'm writing, working with cloth, creating a beautiful space, or following some idea that's caught my interest. I love getting so caught up in something that hours pass without my noticing, enjoying every bit of the process as much as the finished piece. But for much of my life, even the things I loved doing came with the feeling that I needed to accomplish something, that I had to have something worthwhile to show for how I'd spent my time. It wasn't enough just to enjoy myself.

These days, I don't want to feel that I have to justify spending an afternoon doing something simply because it pleases me. After so many years of having my time taken up by responsibilities, other people's needs, and the demands of just getting through difficult circumstances, I love being able to decide for myself how I spend my days, even when my health doesn't allow me to do everything I'd like.

And there's something else about my work that matters just as much to me as the making itself. I love sharing something I've created and discovering where it takes me when another person connects with it. Whether it's a painting, something I've written, or a piece I've made with cloth, I love seeing how someone else experiences it.Someone might tell me how a painting made them feel, or share a story from their own life after reading something I've written. Sometimes a conversation begins that takes us somewhere neither of us expected, and I come away having discovered something new myself.

Writing and making have always been ways of exploring my own life, often bringing things to the surface that I wasn't even aware were there. That happens in conversations, too, especially when someone is willing to talk openly about the things they've experienced and the questions they're living with. I love those conversations, especially when we're both sharing things from our own lives and discovering something along the way. I don't have to be teaching anyone or offering answers. 

For years, though, that part of my work has been missing more often than I've cared to admit. I've tried different ways of sharing it, sometimes with disappointing results, and eventually I'd find myself back in the studio, happily absorbed in whatever I was making next. The pleasure of creating was always there, and I suppose it became easier to concentrate on that than to face how little of the other part I was experiencing. But there's something I miss when I don't have the chance to share the work and talk with people about the things it brings up for them. Some of the most meaningful conversations I've had began that way, and I've often come away from them having discovered something about myself, too. I haven't had nearly as much of that as I'd hoped, and I don't know how much more of it my life will hold. But it matters to me, and I don't want to keep pretending otherwise.

Something happened during my last sacred ceremony that has stayed with me, especially when I think about how long I've spent putting aside things I wanted for myself. I'd made a particularly beautiful Soul Wrapture, one of my handmade pieces designed to wrap you in comfort, that was particularly precious to me, a rich chocolate fur piece that I loved. It was one of the most beautiful I'd ever made, something I couldn’t replicate because the fur was no longer available, so I had packed it away to save for someone else. It was too expensive, too special, too much of an indulgence to simply keep for myself. It sat in my storeroom for a couple of years without me questioning that decision. It seemed natural that something so special should be saved for someone else to claim.

The ceremony itself was physically demanding and I became very ill. Sitting there for hours on end with no respite from the pain, my body yearned for some comfort. It knew what it wanted before I had a chance to object. Without giving it a second thought, I asked my friend to get it from the storeroom, and he brought it out and wrapped it around me.

I remember that moment because there was no bargaining with myself. I didn't stop to think about the cost or whether I should be keeping it. I had many beautiful Soul Wraptures hanging in the studio all around me, but I wanted that particular one, and I allowed myself to have it. For me, it was the real one.

Now it's mine. I've made luxurious pillows to hold while I'm wrapped in it, and I sleep beneath another one of my Soul Wraptures every night. Now I can’t sleep any other way because I know the difference. 

There's something deeply satisfying about having that particular Soul Wrapture for myself. I've spent years making things to comfort and hold other people, and I know that longing so intimately because I've carried it since childhood. Now, whenever I wrap myself in it, I get to enjoy the very experience I've spent so many years creating.

Around that same time, I found myself thinking about something I'd never been particularly interested in before.

For years I'd worn inexpensive crystal studs in my ears. Tupper had offered to buy me real diamonds several times, and I'd always said no. I genuinely preferred spending the money on things that made our home beautiful. When I chose boulders for the backyard, I was choosing the real thing even then. I loved the idea of having those beautiful pieces of the desert right outside my door, where I could enjoy them every day. I imagine the pleasure I felt having those boulders in my yard was much like the pleasure I now get from wearing real diamonds. But at the time, diamonds just weren't something I cared about.

But somewhere along the way that changed. One day I found myself wanting a pair of real diamond studs. Nothing extravagant, just beautiful little diamonds I could wear every day. I didn't want crystals that looked like diamonds anymore. I wanted the real thing.

So I bought them. I've always loved having real stones and natural materials around me, whether they're in my home, my studio, my yard, or something I'm wearing. I love having those things close to me, and now that includes the diamonds in my ears.

I wanted less, but I wanted real.

And I want real vitality. I've spent years treating symptoms, making adjustments, and finding ways to function despite how terrible I've often felt. But functioning isn't the same as feeling well. I miss having strength and energy, being able to wake up and look forward to the day without first wondering how much my body will allow me to do. I want to enjoy the life I've worked so hard to create without having to pay for every experience with days of exhaustion afterward. I don't know how much of my health I can regain, but I'm not ready to stop exploring the possibilities. There's still so much of life I want to enjoy.

I've spent much of my life fighting against the limitations I was given, and for a very long time it was the Warrior in me who carried most of that burden. She kept me going through things I sometimes wonder how I survived, but the years of fighting took their toll. And all the while, there were other parts of myself I was keeping carefully hidden because it simply wasn't safe to let the whole of who I was be seen.

My connection to spirit, to the earth, and to the unseen has been with me for as long as I can remember. I never lost that connection, but I learned to be careful about how much of it I revealed. Living through abuse and betrayal, I had to find ways for that part of myself to exist without exposing the depth of where it came from. So much of it found its way into my art, my writing, and the things I created, while the deeper truth of who I was remained underground. Priestess, Shaman, Witch were all there, but I couldn't let them show their faces openly in the life I was living.

I've spent years doing the spiritual work of bringing those hidden parts of my soul back into the world. It was never about becoming someone different. I knew who I was, but knowing and being able to live openly as that woman were very different things. I went through experiences that took me into places within myself I hadn't dared enter for years, and little by little, I stopped keeping so much of who I was hidden away.

In The Fire and the Thread, I wrote about the moment when the guardians changed their guard and the Warrior laid down her sword. She didn't disappear, and I didn't stop being her. She simply no longer had to stand alone, prepared to fight for my survival at every turn. The Priestess stood beside her, and together they took their places.

I am all of them. Priestess, Shaman, Warrior, Witch. I always have been. The difference now is that I'm living openly as the whole of myself, including the things I once had to keep hidden in order to survive. Even writing about my spiritual life this way is something I wouldn't have dared to do years ago. Now these experiences are part of the life I'm sharing with the world, just as they've always been part of me.

And that's very much a part of having the real life I've longed for. I don't have to decide which parts of myself are acceptable to other people, or keep the most sacred parts of my life hidden behind something easier for someone else to understand. I want to live these years as the woman I know myself to be, with all of me present in the things I do, the relationships I have, and the life I create around me.

That's how I'm approaching the medical treatments I've chosen to begin. I don't know how much they'll help, and I know there's no guarantee that I'll ever regain the health and vitality I've lost. But the possibility has presented itself, and something in me just said yes. I don't feel I have to struggle or prove how badly I want to be well. I don't know how much it will help, but I want to give myself the chance to find out.

When I look around at my life now, I have so much that I once wanted and never imagined having. I'm loved by a man who knows me and wants to take care of me. I have a beautiful home and a studio filled with things I love. I have my dogs, and no one is going to tell me they're too much trouble or take them away from me like my parents did as a child. There's plenty of food on the table and enough money to live comfortably. I can spend my time writing, painting, working with cloth, or following an idea that's captured my imagination, and I don't have to explain to anyone why that's how I choose to spend my day.

Sometimes I look around and think about how much that little girl wanted these things, especially the love and the safety. I wish she'd been able to experience some of it when she needed it most. If I allow myself to feel the extent of what she went without, the sadness can be overwhelming, because even after all of the grieving I’ve done, it still finds me at times.  It can happen right in the middle of enjoying a beautiful moment or feeling especially grateful for the life Tupper and I have together. The happiness is real, and so is the grief. They don't seem to have much trouble occupying the same space. 

And then there's my body. I love this life I've made with Tupper, and it hurts that I still don't have the strength to enjoy as much of it as I want. I sit in my studio surrounded by things I love and still ache to get out and walk through the desert again. Sometimes I'm grateful for everything I can still do, and other times I'm so frustrated with my limitations I want to scream. I miss feeling strong and being able to count on my body.

All of this has made me think a lot about how I spend my time, especially this past year. I've been taking a closer look at some of the things I've continued doing simply because I've always done them, or because I felt obligated to, even when they were taking far more out of me than I was getting back. I don't have the energy for that anymore, and I don't particularly want to spend the years I have left doing things that don't really matter to me. I want more richness in my life, more time to enjoy Tupper, our home, the dogs, and the things I love doing. I want real friendships, the kind where I can be completely myself and share the things that matter most to me with someone who feels just as free to share their life with me. And I want to spend whatever years I have left doing things because I love doing them, not because I feel I have to prove anything by how much I accomplish.

And yet, even now, after all these years and everything I've come through, I sometimes hear my mother's voice.

We're not the kind of people who...

I still hear those words sometimes.

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