Love continuously proves to be one of the most elusive concepts.

That is, for me anyways. How are we supposed to go about finding something that so few can even define? Yet, while I may not have experienced the kind of love that makes up fairy tales, some of the stories I have heard throughout my 21 years of life have given me hope. Hope that maybe the connections we make in this lifetime are worth more than a box of chocolates or a way to pass the time.

Some of the following recollections of love stories are from my friends and family. Others are random remembrances of conversations with kind strangers. Either way, from those I have encountered, I have found that it is love that makes life worth living.

My grandmother smiled warily as she recounted her love story for the last time, sitting with me on her bed.

The platinum beauty was standing overlooking the airplane tarmac with her father when he saw her. He was sitting in the café with a gaggle of stewardesses when he looked up and said, “That is the woman I am going to marry.” The young man got up, walked over and introduced himself to the woman and her father. As fate would have it, he worked for her father’s engineering company in Los Angeles. As the staff called for the boarding of their flight, the woman and her father took their seats in first class while the man went back to sit in economy. When the father got up to use the restroom, the man got up, sat in the father’s seat, drank the father’s martini and did his best to woo the young woman. When the father came back he politely asked if the young man would move, as he’d like to have lunch with his daughter. Phone numbers were exchanged, background checks were ran and a double date was set up between the young man and the beautiful blonde. Six months later they were married and proceeded to spend the next 50 years of their life together.

She chuckled while recalling the memory, sitting with me at an airport terminal in Dublin.

She was an English lady on holiday in Ireland with her friends. Her first marriage was not all that it was cracked up to be and she needed a break. Riding her moped down the winding Irish roads, he almost ran her off the road. It was meant to be. They got married and she moved to Ireland whilst her daughter moved to The States. She learned to love Guinness for him.

Her eyes smiled up at me over her glass of wine as we told her our well wishes, sitting on our hostel’s rooftop patio in Portugal.

They we’re both at a random Chicago Cubs game. He was from Texas; she was from Canada. They were seated next to each other and hit it off. He had just gotten into a relationship. They exchanged contact information and went their separate ways. A year and a half had gone by when she received a random call. It was him. He was out of his relationship and had been thinking about her after all this time. They began long-distance calling each other for months and eventually made plans to meet in Vegas to see if the spark was still there. She was leaving to fly to Vegas in the morning.

Watching as they joked for the umpteenth time about who is older/smarter/drunker I remember how much I adore my brother—and I couldn’t love her more as a sister if I tried.

They grew up at the lake together. He did a little more of the physical growing up then she did. It was the golden summer and feelings developed. Jokes were made and families looked on with barely-concealed amusement. There were many play fights to be had, lots of Bloody Mary’s to be made and countless childish jokes to be tossed out just to see who could toss it back first. She lived in LA; he lived in Atlanta. They carried on long-distance throughout the ups and downs over the years. They look forward to moving in together next year.

I could go on forever.

It’s true for many that love take time to grow. But for others, it arises and smacks you on the head like an out-of-control moped on an Irish holiday. To me, relationships that seem to be destined aren’t the ones you went searching for. They’re the kind that come out of nowhere. They are the kind that are messy, take work and surprise your common sense.

They’re the kind that I love to hear about.

I love to hear the stories about how people met, because they are never the same. They never happen the way you expect them to; and that’s one of the unsurpassed wonders and mysteries of life.  So to all those who have already found their love story, keep on spreading that joy. For those who haven’t, much like myself, there is nothing to worry about. Keep an open mind and heart and let fate do its’ thing. While it may not be popular opinion, I do believe that those who are meant to come and stay in your life—will. Life is long, but altogether too short to spend time with those who don’t fill your cup.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” ― Pablo Neruda

I’m a shy guy. Bottom line, if I see you and I know you I likely won’t go out of my way to get your attention or to even smile and nod as you pass me by.

With a twin brother and a few very, very, close relationships I have never had to make new relationships on my own. I’ve always been a follower in that sense. Perhaps it was a result of always having one of my best friends with me whether it was my twin brother, my long term ex girlfriend, the comfort of my own mind, or maybe it was even just due to the feeling of exclusion that so many of us introverts feel during middle school and high school, but I never felt the need to be open to people. I never needed more friends. That was the old me. That was the pessimistic adolescent who had a one dimensional comfort zone and wasn’t willing to give it up for anything.

Going to college forced me to just kind of get used to uncomfortable situations and while I became slightly independent it was still just getting into a routine and making it a habit for fourteen weeks at a time. The real change in my personality, what really helped me break out of my shell, was studying abroad in Australia. There are so many moments that I am sure I will write about at some point which contributed to this evolution. Even now, six months after my return, I have been noticing a quality in myself that I never had before. I am confident in myself, optimistic about life, and incredibly happy.

We never become who we are until we are molded by those who make an impact on our lives.

Sometimes it’s the smallest thing that can make that impact. For me, the event that unlocked the hinges of my caged in mind and allowed me to discover my true self was a night in Sydney with one of my best friends. We both arrived in Australia early. I went early just to have a week of free time before my studies began and my friend went early so that he could see a little bit of Australia before going to New Zealand for the semester. We met up for a couple of nights where we stayed in a hostel in the city.

The hostel felt like a scene in Fight Club with the yellow stained walls and tight halls. Our room was the size of a closet with bunk beds barely leaving any walking space. The showers were like the filthy high school showers, except these ones are shared with a bunch of international strangers. Who knows where all of those bodies have been? Yet there was a sense of freedom there that I had not felt before. Everyone was a traveler. Everyone had a story. And there I was, silently standing under the water of my own stall with no stories of great adventure, only the thrill of the ones that had not yet come.

My friend, Thomas, was in the stall next to me. He had no shell to break out of, no fear of what others thought or even any doubts about his capability to study abroad. He blasted Men at Work’s “Land Down Under” which was the first time that I allowed myself to stop worrying that everyone who entered the bathroom could hear it. We simply made our presence known, even if it was as the annoying blokes from America.

However, when I finished my shower and went to brush my teeth I realized that all of my anxiety was unnecessary as individuals from all over Europe and Australia were singing along to Thomas’ music. Not only was the atmosphere stress free and completely euphoric, but also everyone I passed smiled and said hello.

All of my greatest fears of my first time traveling without my family had been eliminated and I quickly found myself looking for something new to experience with curiosity and excitement rather than fear and doubt.

We decided our night would begin with some drinks in our room, but our ultimate goal was to meet new people. We didn’t have any expectations for who to meet, how many people to meet, or even how we would meet them; all we knew was that wherever the night took us, we wanted to meet someone.
When we were all set to get the night started, we left the hostel to go get a quick bite. Neither of us had purchased SIM cards, so we had no way of finding directions or anything, we just blindly left the only place in the city that we knew. We only walked a few blocks before we found an outlet with multiple options. Guzman y Gomez, basically the Australian version of Chipotle, is where we had our meal. It did not disappoint. On the way back we found a liquor store and purchased the cheapest thing we could find because alcohol in Australia is surprisingly expensive. We got a box of five liters of cheap wine for ten bucks and right then and there I knew that with my budget this would be my drink for the next six months.

Right before we got back to the hostel to start drinking, we caught a familiar scent, something we hadn’t had the luxury of smelling since leaving the states; marijuana. Thomas and I looked at each other and it was clear we were thinking the same thing—what better way to meet someone. So we followed our noses. All of the sudden we were walking against the crowd of people that filled the city sidewalks, weaving our way this way and that all the while making sure not to lose the scent. We were like dogs tracking down a long lost friend and finally, about two blocks from our hostel, we spotted a group of four young men sitting in an alleyway.

“Hey! Sorry to bother!” Thomas called out. “Any chance you guys know where we could find some greens?”

“No, sorry mate.” They all called back as they scrambled to cover their bag. Thomas and I were fixed on getting high at this point, and we weren’t ready to take no for an answer. We walked down the alley an approached the guys.

“Sorry, we just arrived in Sydney, we have money, any chance we could smoke with you guys?” Thomas was clearly the more experienced social being as I just sort of observed. The four strangers looked at each other and exchanged words in German before welcoming us to take a seat with them. Thomas and I decided to sit on opposite ends in order to really make sure there was no division of culture of cliques. We ended up sitting with them for about twenty minutes just smoking and getting to know one and other. Turns out these guys were around the same age as us, German students traveling during their gap year. And as luck would have it, we found them on their last night in Australia, and since they couldn’t fly with the marijuana they ended up giving us all they had left along with some tobacco and rolling papers.

Our first encounter couldn’t have gone any better, and suddenly our night was about to become an adventure we never saw coming.

We said farewell and safe travels to our newfound international friends and, in a pleasant daze, floated back to the hostel with senseless pride in our step. Back in our two man closet of a room, I began pouring the wine while Thomas prepared a couple spliffs fro the night. We decided to start the night with a movie, of course to drink to it, and settled on “Without a Paddle.” We looked up rules for the drinking game, but quickly realized that the bunch of goons in the movie reminded us all too much of our buddies back home. Very quickly, it became a game of us drinking any time the characters did or said anything that one of our old friends would have done or said. We drank a lot.

The wine was bitter, like expired carbonated orange juice, or something like that if you can imagine it. Before we knew it the five liters were gone and the hostel’s wifi managed to keep us from finishing the movie. We had a nice buzz going now, and any anxiety I had was erased by the comfort of my stoned mind and the warmth of my semi drunk self.

We looked up directions to Hyde Park in Sydney before leaving the hostel. Once we stepped out again we knew we wouldn’t have any way of finding directions unless we asked for help. The city was crowded on every sidewalk, but the air was warm and we welcomed the cluelessness that met us on the city streets. We didn’t even know which side of the sidewalk to walk on. Our first intoxicated journey was a successful one, for we found the park pretty quickly. The park seemed like a whole new world, all the commotion of the city was left at the steps and a serenity I had never experienced in a city before welcomed me as if I was a dwarf fortunate enough to find himself welcome in Lothlórien among the elves.

The trees were all thick at the base and spread high and wide with endless branches that formed godly umbrellas over us, yet the protection they provided also cast a shadow upon us that even the lights along the path could not eliminate. Bats hung from the branches, not just any bats; they looked like foxes with wings. And rats scurried from barrel to barrel scavenging anything mankind had left for them before the sunset. The homeless had mattresses set up in the corners of the park and covered themselves in whatever they could find be it leaves newspaper or torn up blankets. As we sat on a bench and prepared to spark the first spliff, we found a pack of saltines next to us. Next thing we know, a creature we had not ever seen before was slowly approaching. It looked like a lemur, and we honestly thought that’s what it was. Yet we were confused because we were not sure that lemurs could be found in Australia. On top of that, we had no cell service to look it up, so we simply appreciated how cute it was and welcomed it to our little clique.

We broke up some of the saltines and created a trail for our little buddy to come join us. He was hesitant at first, but soon he was sitting right next to me with a full cracker in his hands nibbling away as we smoked. At first we just looked at him and enjoyed his company until we decided he had to be one of the boys. So we gave him a little pat on the back and as if to avoid being hunted he bolted away. Moments later, however, the little critter was back. We pet him again and he allowed us to. We built a trust that seemed foreign to him. We made a friend.

When all the saltines were gone and the spliff was out we said our goodbyes and were on our way. When we said we wanted to meet someone that night we didn’t realize that it didn’t have to be human. Our world was opening up and we found an acceptance for all forms of life and an appreciation for the trust we built with this unknown creature from down under.

As we walked through the park we agreed that the next spliff was to be shared with a stranger. It didn’t take us long to find who we wanted to share it with, the only other people in the park at that time of night that were awake was a group of two girls and a guy sitting in the grass talking.

We approached them slowly, but without any caution because our minds had us in a place where fear and doubt were nonexistent and the hatred that so many of us experience in life today was a myth to our imagination. Thomas led the way once again and did the usual “hey there, hate to bother, my names Thomas, this is Pat,” I waved awkwardly with a smile of intoxicated uncertainty. “We just arrived from the United States, would it be alright if we sat with you for a bit? We have a spliff if any of you smoke.” He finished. The three exchanged glances, not of uncertainty, but of amused curiosity, and they allowed us to join them as they shifted to create room for us to sit. We introduced ourselves and became acquainted before the first moment of silence arrived. It was at this moment when I finally stepped up to keep the conversation alive.

“What are those animals all over the park?” I asked as Thomas and I both broke into laughter.

“Yeah, yeah what are those? Are they like lemurs or something?” Thomas added. Our three new friends all just laughed at our ignorance as we continued with our tale.

“Yeah, definitely lemurs, but I didn’t think there were lemurs outside of Madagascar.” I said.

“No!” The blonde girl finally yelled out. “You aren’t talking about a possum are you?”

“No, no way, that thing wasn’t a possum.” Thomas defended. “We know possums, that was not a possum.”

“Yeah no, I wouldn’t play with a possum. We were petting that thing and chilling with it!” I added.

They proceeded to make fun of us for a few minutes stating how gross and annoying the possums in Sydney are. Thomas and I decided to laugh it off and felt no shame due to the fact that these possums were far cuter than any possum back home.

We went on to talk for about an hour with local Australian’s before they got up and left looking for somewhere to eat. When we said goodbye, it was pleasant and quick. Within that hour, I heard about bogan’s for the first time and about slang terms often used in Australia. We traded facts about life on opposite sides of the world; they made fun of us for potentially having Trump as our next president and proceeded to poke fun at their own politics as well. Everything about the conversation was so easy and relaxed, free of judgment. We shared our spliff and they shared their joint, and as they walked away from Thomas and I we didn’t even care that they had forgotten to return our only lighter.

We knew we would likely never see them again. We knew we wouldn’t remember their names in the morning. Still, we knew we would always fondly remember the time we spent with them.

We began to wander in the city once more and decided we wanted to find a Subway. I had been in Sydney a few days longer than Thomas and I knew there was one at Sydney Harbor, but that walk would have been about forty minutes from where we were.

“Oh wow, guess I’m not gonna see the Opera House.” Thomas laughed as he was reminded of the most popular tourist attraction in Australia besides all the beaches. “Gives me a reason to come back.” He remained optimistic.

At that point, I also remembered seeing one at Darling Harbor, which was much closer, and I thought I could remember how to get us there. We walked for about twenty minutes before we decided to stop and try to ask someone, but it was getting later and Sydney seems to get quiet pretty early on weeknights.
It took us a few minutes longer than expected to find someone in a major city, but we finally found a man walking by himself and asked him for directions to Darling Harbor. He pointed us in the right direction and as we were thanking him Thomas decided to ask if he had an extra cigarette. The man was kind enough to give us one, but as we began to walk away we both realized we no longer had a lighter. I turned around and quickly apologized for stopping the man again before asking if he had an extra. Without any hesitation the man gave us the only one he had and said he had plenty at home. We thanked him again and continued on our quest for Subway.

About twenty minutes later we began to worry that the man had given us wrong directions or that we were just clueless as to how to follow them. We discussed turning around or even trying to find somewhere else to eat, but we were set on Subway, and we were excited to be back by the water before making the journey back to the crowded hostel. We were walking down one of the main streets and I noticed an elevated train track that I had seen before, but it wasn’t Darling Harbor. I began to chuckle lightly, but decided not to tell Thomas what it was about. We walked under the tracks and about twenty steps later the Opera House appeared towering over us with a heavenly glow in the night sky. Thomas’ became wide eyed as he realized what he was seeing.

“Guess you get to see the Opera House after all.” I said. We both broke into heavy laughter. Subway was closed, our feet were sore and our minds numb, but we accidentally found the Sydney Opera House on a night that quickly became one the most incredible nights of my life. Not only did I get to share it with a life long friend on the other side of the world from where we come, but also got to find a part of myself that I never knew was there. I discovered a part of humanity that society so often hides from the public.

We did not know a single person other than each other that night, but we were hardly ever alone. After Thomas left for New Zealand and I met up with my program for orientation, I had no doubt that I would be able to continue creating memories similar to that night. I was excited to meet as many people as I could and to enjoy every second of my time there. Thomas never realized how much he helped me break out of my shell that night, but I owe a lot of the friendships I made in Australia to him.

So it’s my very first time in Europe and to no surprise, things went wrong prior to me leaving — like my friend getting the flu right before the flight. Which is totally my luck. That meant I was flying to Amsterdam by myself.

I was fine with this at first because I enjoy my alone time, and I felt like a big-time adult.

But when I had to take a taxi to the hotel all by myself, I was definitely wishing I had a friend. Or that I was a man. But I made it there safe and that’s what matters!

My travel companion arrived a day after I did so we really only had one full day in Amsterdam. It was very hard to figure out the Dutch signs everywhere and it rained but we made the most of it. Luckily, the boat for the canal tour was covered so we were still able to see a lot of the city without getting soaked. Apparently, houses on the water are a thing and they’re absolutely adorable.

Once that was finished, we walked around the Red Light District which was very interesting. I’ve heard some things about it, like how there are prostitutes in the windows and that you can smoke pot just about anywhere, but no one warned me about the super aggressive sex shops and the multitude of opportunities to watch live sex.

Yes, you heard that right. Literal live sex shows.

I could not contain myself walking around this place; I just laughed the entire time. Maybe I’m not mature enough for it but I couldn’t believe I was seeing these things! And the way the women in the windows would try to entice you to come in made me laugh even more and I had to scurry away. I definitely looked like a foreigner.

That’s pretty much all we did since my friend wasn’t feeling too well, so the trip is off to a rocky start but I have high hopes for the rest of it!

Next stop — Geneva, Switzerland!

Social media has been a great way to shine a light on the best Nashville, Tennessee has to offer…but it’s only #halfthestory.

Our Instagram account might make it seem like we are living the dream of eating, drinking, and exploring our way through Nashville everyday. And we certainly do plenty of that.

Yes, we do get invited to some pretty fabulous events and get hooked up with some great local products that we are so incredibly grateful for.

But what our account doesn’t show is us running around town getting pictures before work and during our lunch breaks, planning out posts at night, and answering daily emails everyday after work.

Our account does not show the countless hours of hard work (and tears) we’ve put into working on a very special project (announcement coming soon!) that will benefit local businesses and local non-profits.

Our future goals and dreams for @thenashvilleguide are so much more than the Instagram account we have today.

We dream big, so we get big results. And while we’ve come a long way, there’s always more room for improvement.

We hope our hard work will benefit the Nashville community in ways we never imagined.

All the work maintaining the account is so worth it. We are so grateful for you. Our account wouldn’t be what it is today and where it’s going in the future without each and every one of you. Thank you so much for being part of the community.

And we would like to give a big thank you to @halfthestory for letting us be a part of your campaign. We don’t often get to share the behind-the-scenes story people don’t see on social media. We support everything you are doing and the push for people to be more raw and authentic through social media. Please give @halfthestory (founded in Nashville!) a follow and be part of the journey.

I hear their voices.

Voices of the people who want the world to stay as it is—the people who have too much to lose

if things change.

They say to stay quiet.

They say to keep my mouth shut.

They say to silence my voice.

They say to push down my emotions so I can stay level-headed.

They say not to rock the boat.

They say not to say anything that will cause disagreement.

They want me to conform.

They want us to conform.

I hear other voices.

Voices of the people who are losing their lives.

They say they are terrified to make one wrong movement.

They say that “freedom” doesn’t feel so free.

They say they are trapped in a system that isn’t fair.

They say they just want equality.

They say they want the same opportunities I have.

They say people are scared of them.

They say they are misunderstood.

They say they are tired of people walking on the other side of the street at night because of their

skin color.

They say they are tired of not getting a fair trial in court.

They say they are tired of dying.

They say they are tired of crying themselves to sleep at night when they mourn for their brothers

and sisters.

They say they are tired of being punished for doing the only thing they know how to do in order

to put food on the table for their family.

They say they can’t help it.

So they say they want me to help.

They want us to help.

I hear another voice.

It’s the voice coming from deep within my soul.

He says to love people.

He says to care about other people before I care about myself.

He says to encourage my black brothers and sisters.

He says I should make sure they know I love them.

He says I should do what I can to help.

He says I should mourn with them.

He says I should comfort them.

He says I should listen to them.

He says I should pray for them.

He says I should pray with them.

He says I have a lot to learn from them.

He says to see the world in through their eyes before making any judgments.

He says to make friends with people who have different situations than I do.

He says that I should do more than rock the boat—he says I should sink it.

He wants me to move. He wants us to move.

There’s one voice I haven’t heard, though.

It’s my voice.

I haven’t said anything at all.

But that changes today.

In the past, I didn’t understand all the hype around the Black Lives Matter movement. So, I chose to stay silent on it. I would think things like: Yes, I want everyone to be equal, but we have equality already. They need to realize that none of these things would be happening if they would just obey the laws (the list could go on and on).

As I became friends with some incredible people who are affected daily by fear, hatred, and stereotyping, however, my eyes were opened to the inequality we are still battling today.

These people led me to understand that things are not equal just because we supposedly play by the same rules.

They led me to believe that something has to be changed so people don’t have to break the law just to get by.

One time, I was driving through Atlanta with my friend a few weeks back. We were on the way to our church to play basketball. My friend has a heart of gold, but he is a teenaged, black male with an athletic build. The clothes he wears represent the culture he grew up in. Honestly, people look at his neighborhood—which he didn’t get to choose to live in—he doesn’t get a chance to show his heart before he is judged.

Anyways, he told me that he had recently spent a night in jail because he was having an altercation with his brother outside of their house. I listened to him tell me about this altercation and I couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t sound any different than fights I had with my brother when I was in high school. Nevertheless, somebody driving by saw the brotherly wrestling match taking place and called the police. When the police arrived, my friend and his brother were done fighting.

Now, I don’t want to say that the police had ill-intentions or are intentionally racist.

I don’t think there any many officers who do have ill-intentions. This is not an attack on them. However, there is a deeper problem in our society: We have a scale that measures how violent, harmful, or dangerous someone is…and we use skin color as the main variable. So, they assumed that my friend was dangerous. When they approached him to talk about the altercation, he tried to explain the story and say that it was resolved. But, the police took his explanation as some sort of resistance. They then violently threw him on the ground as they arrested him. He was arrested on the charges of domestic violence and resisting arrest.

Then, he had to get bail bonds to be able to get out of jail. Basically, he was thrown, arrested, charged, and forced into debt for something I would have got a slap on the wrist for. That dude looked at me that day with tears in his eyes and said, “Man, I swear it felt like they were trying to bring back slavery or something.” At that moment I realized that I couldn’t possibly understand what that was like. If I had a tussle with my brother like that, my parents would have handled the situation after things died down. I speak up now. Something has to change.

I work with a black girl who has become one of the most influential voices in my life lately. In a few short months, she has taught me more about loving people and praying for them than I could have ever known. As we were sitting in the office last week, she read an article about the KKK being allowed to adopt a highway in south Georgia. The article goes on to talk about the organization’s plans to make a comeback after 150 years from the time it was founded.

When I read that, I get angry.

I want to know what in the world those people are thinking; and then I put it down and don’t think about it anymore. That is not the case for people who are directly affected by that, though. I will never be able to forget the moment when my heart fell to the floor as I watched my friend cry.

I will never be able to forget the loss of words I had as I attempted to pray over her. I will never be able to forget the realization I had in that moment—the realization that I would never be able to understand the pain and the heartache that the inequality we still have today brings into the lives of my black brothers and sisters.

So I speak up now: something has to change.

I could provide story after story and example after example. I could tell you about the kids I work with who are absolutely incredible, but will never have the same experience and opportunities as white kids unless something changes. I could tell you about the high school students I work with who are affected every single day by all of the stuff going on.

They feel like they are trying to be seen, but are invisible because people who don’t understand are too busy looking at themselves.

They feel like they are trying to be heard, but their voices are being dismissed because of the very thing they are speaking up against. People tell them that their opinions are irrelevant. It’s like a soccer player who knows nothing about baseball trying to tell a baseball player that his opinions about the unfair umpire are irrelevant or stupid—it just doesn’t make sense.

So I speak up now: something has to change.

If you have ever played monopoly, you know that it can be fun for some people. For others, monopoly

can be one of the longest and most frustrating games ever. One time, I decided to join my

friends in a monopoly game they had already started. Places were already bought and occupied,

and there was only a little bit of money the bank could afford to dish out to me. So, I started playing

without much of a chance. I could basically land on someone else’s spot and have to pay or

the “Go to Jail” spot. Now, nobody would say that I ever had a fair shot.

I think our environment is a lot like that.

White people, like myself, have been playing the game since the late 1700’s.

We played the game for over 150 years, then, people wanted to join. So, after

we tried to be the playground bully who won’t let anyone else into his clique, we reluctantly

allowed black people to play. We told them that they have the same rules as us and are allowed

to do the same things we are allowed to do and we called that equality. Unfortunately, the only

places they had left to land on were places where they had to pay, take the back seat, or go to

jail. That doesn’t sound very equal to me.

If you want another illustration as you wrestle through what it may feel like for someone else,

Here is a video that illustrates this point in a slightly different way. It is incredible.

So What Can I Do?

Listen. Learn. Love.  No matter what you do in life, if you can do these three things before anything

else, you are much more likely to understand, make rational judgement, and make a difference

with what you say.

Speak up.  If you are a silent supporter, know that we need your voice. We need the voice of people

who are not personally affected by these things. For example, I could physically go on living

comfortably no matter what happens with this issue in our world, but I speak up because I am

willing to give up my privilege if that is what it takes. I realize that there are people who wouldn’t

claim to be followers of Jesus reading this article, but I do want to point out that Jesus told us that

life is found when we consider others more highly than ourselves. So let’s do that! Instead of

fighting for what we personally want, let’s be willing to fight for the things others need—even if it

means we have something to lose.

Be willing to lose something for the sake of other people having the opportunity to be valued as they should be.

Speak up. The world needs to hear that you

care for justice and mercy. The people who are being hurt need to hear that you are with them

and see that you are willing to stand with them no matter what other people think.

Speak Up!

I would like to say that I would have spoken up in the 1800’s when slavery was being abolished.

I would like to say that I would have stood with my black brothers and sisters in the 1950’s during

the Civil Rights Movement.

I fail to realize that it wasn’t the popular thing to do as a white person.

People who had something to lose would have called me crazy for doing those things in that

time.

Nothing has changed.

History is being written as we speak, and I refuse to look back in 50

years and tell my children that I didn’t do something to help move the world forward.

I refuse to have to tell my children that I was silent while my friends were living in fear, grief, and pain. So I

speak up—and you should too.

Tell people who they are.

This one may seem a little weird, but people tend to become who they

hear they are. If someone hears constantly that they were born to lead, they will be leaders. If

someone is told they were a mistake, they will most likely live like they are a mistake.

Peoples’ identity often get bound up in the things others say to them or about them. Let’s stop telling people

that they are uneducated and ignorant so we can start telling people that they are smart,

loved, wonderful, beautiful, and Children of the Creator of the Universe.

Bring Peace.

All the people who have helped move our world forward have done something that

disrupts the status quo. All the people we celebrate as heroes today, were revolutionaries yesterday.

Think about it.

MLK was shot.

Lincoln was assassinated.

Jesus Christ was hung on

a roman death trap.

Each of these people were considered revolutionaries back then, but are heroes

today. So, let’s rebel. Let’s rebel peacefully and joyfully. Let’s speak up for justice, mercy,

equality, and love. Then, lets commit to loving the haters so much that they can hardly disagree

with us any longer.

Let’s commit to going out of our way to help the haters so they can’t bring any

real evidence against our case for justice, mercy, equality, and love.

So let’s rebel. Let’s speak up.

Let’s stand up. But, let’s remember why we are fighting and rebelling in the first place:

Love for

others.

Make one difference.  Just bring joy into someone’s life by investing in them and helping them out

of a possible situation. It is not our job to change it all, but it is our job to change what we can

and inspire others to do the same thing.

I hear their voices.

They say not to speak up.

It’s not that they are bad people.

They just don’t want life to change for them.

Change is scary.

So, they don’t try to understand.

They say to keep quiet.

I hear their voices.

They are longing for justice, equality, peace, and love.

They can’t help their situation.

They say they don’t have it like I have it.

They say that nobody understands.

They say to speak up

I hear the voice in my soul.

He is hurting for others.

He is causing me to weep when I watch a video of a real, human life being taken.

He is telling me to be willing to give up some of my privileges so that other people can have

them.

He is telling me that the only real love in the world happens when we are willing to lay down

our lives for our brothers and sisters.

And now…now I can finally hear my own voice.

I am shouting to the world that I am not going to be silent any more.

I am shouting to my black brothers and sisters that I am with them!

I am shouting that they are worth dying for.

I am shouting that I love them—that I am willing to lay down my pride, the opinions of my

friends and family, and even my life if it will make their lives better.

I am Silent No More.

My Recommended Resource:

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption

Just Mercy all at once is a riveting personal narrative gifted young lawyer brimming with idealism, places you directly in the shoes of his defendants, and is an inspirational perspective on the fight and the pursuit of, not “justice”, but true justice

As a young lawyer, Bryan Stevenson founded the Equal Justice Initiative, which placed defending those most desperate in need its utmost priority, from the poor to the wrongly condemned.

It unfortunately shows how our current system ends up leading towards the impoverished people receiving the majority of punishment in our country, which passionately supports the argument on the need for change in our criminal justice system.

An argument so very fitting in our current societal state of affairs

*True author of the post chooses to remain anonymous*

As a child, I was always fascinated by the world around me. The way people interacted with one another. The way leaves crunched on the street under my rain boots. The way people’s eyes got red and puffy when they laughed so hard they cried. My knowledge was the culmination of my observations.

Growing up in the suburbs of Atlanta was amazing. I was exposed to a diverse array of cultural, religious, and socioeconomic lifestyles from a young age, and those things also molded my perspective of the world. I grew up with Indian, African-American, Chinese, Korean, Mexican, and plain old American friends by my side. I didn’t even put any brain power into thinking about this because I thought it was how everyone grew up.

Once I got to university, however, everything changed.

I attended a big SEC school full of totally new cultures. I was exposed to something I had never seen or experienced before: racism. Coming of age right beside the historic center of the civil rights movement, I’d of course heard stories of racial discrimination, but I never really saw or understood what that really meant.

I joined AIESEC at my university in order to feel like I could be surrounded by globally-minded individuals, rather than the right wing conservatives I had been meeting, but in fact I wasn’t so sure that I was even globally-minded myself. The organization I was in seemed culturally inclusive and great, but who was I to even talk about the world if I only knew my own backyard? I decided then that the solution to these issues I was encountering at my university was to leave and learn in a new environment instead.

Last semester, I made the decision to travel abroad, and I picked just about the most comfort-zone destination I could have chosen: London, England. Now before you judge me, let me explain. I grew up on Harry Potter. This decision was just ingrained in my blood. I had to go.

I spent a wonderful five months in England, and I had the opportunity to travel to a few other countries in Western Europe. I made some of the best friends of my life and had so many incredible adventures.

But beautiful, clean, safe, London wasn’t so heavenly after all. While there, I had the chance to experience an election season. During this time, I learned a decent amount about the UK’s political history of systemic racism. There wasn’t a black MP until very recent history.

The melting pot of cultures present in London can be at times subject to racist scrutiny from those with native English blood. The Syrian refugee crisis tested the cultural acceptance of Great Britain.

The beautiful city I had grown to love was full of issues just as my own university back home was.

For this reason, coming home to the USA was a turning point for me. I realized that there was no way that I could solve the world’s problems before solving those in my own community. I decided to run for the national staff of AIESEC in the United States to do a marketing role, and here I am. The reason why I’m here is because I believe that leadership is the solution. The skills and understanding that I developed in AIESEC before and during the time I spent abroad are directly correlated to my desire and ability to make a difference as a young person.

Recently, an alumni of AIESEC in the United States, Jonathan Butler, started a youth movement at The University of Missouri. He peacefully protested the systemic racism of his schools’ administration and he succeeded in removing two of the main instigators of the issues. The university’s environment is by no means fixed, but what he has done is channeled his anger and passion into change. He stood with his peers to change things on his campus, and he caused real, tangible decisions to be made.

I saw a racist community back home so I fled. When I arrived, I found the same issues in my so-called safe haven. Young people need to realize that the issues they face here are the same issues that young people face all across the world. Facilitating those spaces and channels of communication may seem easy via social media, but the power of young people standing together is unquestionable. If I can play a part in facilitating that global connection and turning it into action, I’ll feel like I did something worthwhile.

And that’s why I do what I do.

A lot of perks come with understanding and being one with your family heritage. Those perks include a solid sense of self, a feeling of uniqueness in this huge sea of American pride, and even pressure. I was blessed with the opportunity to have lived with my family in Jamaica from ages four to seven after leaving my American birthplace, Miami.

In Jamaica, I remember learning Patois very quickly after being teased by classmates for my American accent. Everyone understood English, but I stood out for speaking it in a foreign way. I remember my great grandfather making kites completely by hand for my cousins and me every year for Festival. I remember on my first day at St. Ann’s Bay Primary School, my aunt knelt in front of me to say goodbye before she left to catch a plane to America where she would create a better life for us.

The last time I visited Jamaica was this past Christmas.

The time prior to that was in 2007 for my great grandfather’s funeral. This time, I explored my old stomping grounds a lot more than during the time of Grandpa’s funeral. For the first time, I got to see the very home where my late great grandmother resided on Garden Tennant Rd.

I was also able to visit my old home, where I grew up before my aunt left for America, which was my grandmother’s house. She built it before she left for America. Life in that house was great. I lived there with my aunt and my late great grandfather.

When I think about the ultimate carefree time in my life, I think about life in this house. Mentally, this is my happy place. From getting a codfish bone stuck in my throat one Sunday morning and eating as many boiled dumplings as I could to get it to pass (and failing), to throwing my teeth on the roof when they fell out (that’s our tradition, no toothfairy), I learned how to be Jamaican while living in this house. 

Then, I visited the house I lived in with my cousins when my aunt left for America.

It was amazing to see how small it was as a 21-year-old compared to how big I thought it was as a 6-year-old.

Looking at it from the street, it was amazing to realize it housed four whole families. We shared the bathroom with one family and the kitchen with another. My new school where my aunt kissed me goodbye, St. Ann’s Bay Primary, was right down the street within sight.

I remember having my foot outlined so my big cousin could go find me new shoes in the market with the tracing. I remember picking almost ripe mangoes off the tree just outside this frame to the right and eating them with salt. In this house, I learned that it really “takes a village.” The whole community looked out for each other’s children. Constantly being offered food and treats from neighbors, I was never ever hungry and I had plenty of friends.

One year later, the summer before second grade, my aunt was settled in America and my grandmother flew to Jamaica to fly with me to Atlanta.

In Atlanta, we started out in Longwood Apartments on North Druid Hills Rd. My aunt and I lived with one other woman, Marcia, who is still a big influence in my life today. We lived with her for my second grade year and then she moved out.

A proud moment in that apartment was when I was 8, I cooked my aunt breakfast in bed all on my own. I’m not sure what the whole meal was, but I definitely scrambled some eggs. This was also a carefree time of my life, but looking back on it, I recognize that my aunt did a lot to provide for me like her own child so that I could have a great childhood.

After that apartment life, we moved to our first house in Stone Mountain.

Because I moved before third grade ended, my homeroom teacher would pick me up from home in the mornings and take me with her to class so that I didn’t have to switch schools so close to the year ending. It was in this house that I got my first real room. In the apartments, my room was the sunroom so I didn’t have a door.

In this house, I had a bedroom door, my own bathroom that I had to keep clean, and my own TV that I couldn’t watch until my homework and chores were complete. In that house, I really started to develop my character traits of being responsible and respectful as I approached my teenage years.

Just in time for high school, we moved again to where we live now, near College Park in an even bigger house. In this house is where I experienced most of my growing pains as the coming-of-age phase of my life transpired.

I had the usual teenage angst: struggling to fit in with a new set of people at a new high school, trying to get boys to notice me without seeming like I’m trying too hard, suffering with depression, and learning how to meditate it away. Best of all, I remember running into my aunt’s room the morning I read I’d been accepted into my alma mater, The University of Georgia!

Looking at the progression of homes from my great grandmother’s, to my grandmother’s, and to finally my aunt’s (who is pretty much my mother having raised me since I was four) current home, it is so easy to be proud of the hard working women in my life.

It’s also very easy to feel immense pressure to own a home that’s even bigger and symbolizes my contribution to the progress we have made as a family, especially being part of the first American-born generation of my lineage. These homes are all monuments of who I am today.

They provide evidence of love and support as well as motivation. I want to live a prosperous life striving to take care of the people who took care of me and to leave my mark on the people that I support: my existing and future family, my friends, and those I meet and influence on my career path to becoming a User Experience Researcher. Remember the name: Shanice S. Stewart.

I’m white.

Fair skinned (or so society tells me).

Very pale.

And very, very privileged.

I can stroll down the street or into a restaurant and be quite certain others will respond kindly toward me. I never fear or worry in the slightest about law enforcement. Magazines, movies, and newspapers are plastered with images of people who look like I do. I have never been asked to speak on behalf of my entire race. I can walk around unaware of my color and reap the undeserved benefits and entitlements that come along with my white privilege.

I could also choose to fight against systemic racism one day and completely ignore it the next because I am not disadvantaged by it personally. It doesn’t affect my daily life. But I affect it. Daily. The white privilege woven into my everyday life allows me to collect unearned advantages and opportunities at the expense of others.

Is my white skin really fair skin?

We’ve gotten to a point where in certain situations the color of our skin speaks louder than the words that come out of our mouth. It’s awful. It’s frustrating. It’s downright sickening. It’s the system we have been born into. Our society is saturated in white privilege. Oppression comes based upon skin color. Before a word is spoken, minds are made up about who people are based on appearance alone. Culture screams that the color of your skin determines your place.

My white skin is not fair skin. It gives me an unfair advantage that grants me unearned freedoms, unearned benefits, and unearned exemptions in our society.

I’ve heard a number of people say that they “don’t see color” or are “colorblind” when it comes to discussions about race and privilege. It’s always white people who are making these claims. Go figure. What they mean to say is they don’t consider themselves racist and don’t see themselves as prejudiced against people of color. However, it’s statements like “I don’t see color” that reek of white privilege.

Because with that declaration people are actually discounting racism all together, not helping to solve it.

Ignoring color just further promotes ignorance. As James Baldwin said, “To be white in America means not having to think about it.” Whites are in denial about their participation in the perpetuation of racism. Myself included. While I try to be aware, I know there are still hidden ways that I am contributing to this system of oppression without realizing it. Blindly going about our lives silently, and often unknowingly, oppressing other races is what has to change.

Not seeing color also strips people of their identity. Our differences are there to be seen and celebrated. I believe there is significant purpose in each of our ethnicity backgrounds for the glory of God and the expansion of His kingdom. *Surprise side note: Jesus wasn’t a white American, contrary to popular westernized “Christianity” belief*. Every human is created equal in worth, value, and dignity. I believe God has made us all uniquely in His image and it is the diversity of humanity that makes it so beautiful.

Rather than whites searching for the reflection of themselves in other people, shouldn’t we be looking for the reflection of Christ?

As a church, we need to come alongside our brothers and sisters and stand together in unity – as the family that we are.

Until people of privilege feel compelled to make this problem of privilege their own problem and do something to change it, systemic racism won’t end. We need to consciously have the eyes to see how our white privilege is affecting the lives around us. Until the issue is acknowledged and faced head on, no change will be made.

We have to become listeners and learners.

We have to become mindful of the ways we are contributing to the system of oppression and disrupt these social norms when we see them. Even if you don’t think you are contributing, you are. I’m not accusing you of being racist; I’m saying the problem of racism is much bigger than you and me. It has become institutionalized and ingrained so deeply into every aspect of our society. We have been trained to not see and simply overlook the ways we whites participate in systemic racism. So we actively have to learn to recognize the effects. By interrupting cultural norms we make the invisible visible. We shake the system.

It all begins with breaking the silence.

A dialogue has to start. It is long overdue. The time was decades ago for the conversation to begin between whites and people of color. Rather than assuming we know all the answers, we listen. We listen to the voices of the minorities who have been kicked around because of our privilege.

We listen to the experiences of those who have received unearned disadvantages because of white privilege. We educate ourselves. We remain learners, admitting we will never know all the answers. Instead of turning away or stepping back, we lean into the conversation as we humbly ask, tell me more.

The following accounts are true, and there is no fiction or hyperbole present. It may be hard to believe. It may be hard to understand. But, even though it’s been almost two years, I still remember everything as clear as if it were just yesterday.

Before I begin my story, let me provide some context. The Aghori are a very specific sub-sect of Hindu priests. They worship Shiva, the god who plays the role of “the destroyer” in Hindu mythology.

They look absolutely terrifying, smoke massive amounts of pot, live far away from cities, ritually consume human flesh, and bathe in human ashes. As a result, they are feared by the rest of society for their cannibalistic activity, and are considered extremely dangerous due to their constant state of being stoned.

Many people also believe them to be practitioners of black magic, which only adds to the terrifying air of mystery and unknown that shrouds the Aghori. Nobody dares try to interrupt their (sometimes very illegal) practices – neither the people they offend nor the police.

One blistering summer day, a friend, who happens to be an architecture student, called me with an interesting proposition.

He had heard about an interesting structure, a large, ancient gateway running along the top of a cliff almost 500 meters high. In ancient times, this used to be the gateway to the plateau we were situated on. My friend (who will now be referred to as V) loved to go explore abandoned monuments scattered all over the state, and I was more than ready to go photograph buildings in disrepair.

We left the city in central India early the next morning, since we only had a vague idea of where it was located. We figured we’d have to do some driving around to find it. Around three hours later, after driving for miles on tiny dirt paths along the cliff with absolutely no cell reception, we got to the gateway. We were sorely disappointed.

It had been ‘restored’ poorly. They had clearly cut corners and basically just slapped ugly, graffitied plaster and cement on top of the beautiful old stone that was originally the surface. Sadly enough, this kind of ‘restoration’ is getting more and more common with Indian monuments.

Our wanderlust far from satisfied, we decided to keep driving a little further. We were already pretty far out in the middle of nowhere. What did we have to lose?

We could see what looked like the ruins of a small, long-abandoned fort. We couldn’t figure out the actual route to drive up to the fort. Luckily, we saw a man walking along the street who probably lived around there.

V pulled down his window and asked the local for directions to the fort. Before he answered, the local hesitated for a minute, and then finally asked us why we would want to visit such a godforsaken place. We were very puzzled. We chalked it up to “superstitious rural bullshit,” laughed it off, and coerced him into pointing us to the right path.

We drove up closer, parked the car about half a mile from the fort where the dirt path ended, and walked over. The doorway to the fort was pretty imposing. It was a massive brass-lined behemoth with nasty looking spikes protruding from it. Since the door looked too heavy and tall for us to move it, we opted to climb over one of the corners that was now just a pile of rubble.

The inside of the fort was almost completely bare, save a few patches of shrubbery and one solitary, tiny free-standing room right in the center. The room had a closed door on it that looked recently installed, which prompted me and V to exchange a look of slight discomfort.

I think we were both rethinking the local’s warning about this place.

We wordlessly decided to steer clear of the room, and distracted ourselves by walking to the other end of the fort to give it a look. All of a sudden, we caught a whiff of a scent that is all too familiar to anyone who has spent the night in a college dorm – it absolutely reeked of weed.

We looked around, and stumbled upon a rather large crop of weed hidden between the shrubbery. This discovery along with the local’s earlier warning and the lack of cell reception had me and V understandably panicked. We decided to head back to the car and get as far away from this spooky fort as possible.

As we were heading back, we crossed the closed door again. To our surprise, it was now open. From the darkness of the room, a menacingly tall, lean man ambled out and looked towards us, confused.

That was our first sight of the Aghori. The cannibalistic priests.

At this point in time, we didn’t know that he was an Aghori, we just saw a man in a loincloth with matted hair and a huge beard glaring at us. He broke the tension by smiling, and told us not to be scared. He told us he was a “holy man,” and that we had no reason to worry. This did nothing to ease our fear. We managed to mumble a vague greeting. He responded by inviting us into his hovel for a cup of tea. We tried to refuse, but he was having none of it.

Culturally, hospitality is a big deal in India; it would be offensive to refuse someone’s hospitality. He got slightly angry, and asked us if we were really planning on refusing a holy man’s hospitality.

Since the car was at least half a mile away and we seemed to have run out of options, we had no choice but to follow him in. A strange sight greeted us inside. There was an altar with a trident sticking out of it. We were terrified, and we didn’t know what fate awaited us.

Once inside, he took his spot on a pile of rags on one side of the altar, and gestured towards another pile of rags on the other side for us to sit on. There was no further mention of tea. Instead, he procured a chillum (pipe) that looked like it was made from bone, and started filling it up with from two neat little piles. One looked like pot and the other is still a mystery to me.

As he lit a match, he said, “We Aghoris believe this is the way to achieve the closest state to our god in this human form.”

It was then that we finally understood that this man was an Aghori. Considering the horrible rumors prevalent about them in India, we were even more terrified. He took a deep draw from the chillum, and wordlessly handed it to V.

V looked uncertain, so the Aghori told us that it wasn’t an option to refuse an offering to his god. He looked at V with a stern glint in his eye, so V gulped and slowly took the chillum from him. He lit a match, took a small draw, and then started coughing violently. The Aghori seemed to find this funny, and laughed.

He gestured to V to hand the chillum to me. With shaking hands, I pretended to take a draw and faked a cough. He seemed to believe my ruse, and took the chillum from me. At this point, me and V were so far past petrified that we were instilled with a false sense of calm, and we decided to make the most of the situation.

V asked the Aghori for his story. What made him reject all of society and take the path of the Aghori?

What we heard was very surprising – one would assume that a person wouldn’t just choose to become an Aghori. It would be the result of being born into it, or having a very hard childhood and being left with no other options.

What the Aghori told us as he sipped on a glass of water was that he was born into a perfectly normal family. He was in school through middle school like a normal child, but in his teen years, he realized that this was his true calling in life.

He thought he had come into contact with a higher power, albeit through no real critical spiritual experience. He rejected his family and his old way of life to become an Aghori. He ran away from home, searched far and wide for an Aghori, and followed him around until the Aghori accepted him as his apprentice and trained him.

All this time I had quietly been taking pictures with the camera that was still around my neck.

As he was taking his next draw from the chillum, he heard my camera’s soft click. He took a purposefully long, slow draw, all the while glaring straight at me accusingly. Once he finished, he paused for a second, and vehemently asked me whether I had been secretly photographing him.

As I stuttered, he slowly started laughing, told me he was just joking, and it was perfectly alright. He even posed for me while twirling his mustache. A few minutes later, he seemed to have been overcome with whatever he was smoking, and he lay down seemingly in a trance. V and I took this chance to quietly slip out, and hurry back to our car.

Neither of us said a word to each other during the three hour drive back home.

I understand that this story might seem pointless. But this was my first real experience with such deep religious spirituality that it converted me from an atheist to agnostic. As a photographer, this is the story behind some of my favorite shots, a story that I have never before shared with anyone in its entirety.

This spring break was one of the most emotionally exhausting weeks of my life since I started college. Despite my hectic academic course load, the root of my exhaustion was not school. In fact, the main catalyst for my exhaustion was my rocky relationship with a boyfriend that I went to high school with. And I didn’t have a plan for a breakup.

The situation was complicated because he attended a college in a different state. The two of us never agreed to end our hazy relationship because of the distance between our universities and because of our own preoccupation with ourselves. Unfortunately, my self-preoccupation and hectic work schedule were getting in the way of all aspects of my life.

It would take a little heartbreak for me to see how my schedule was destroying my mindfulness in life.

Let me give you a larger idea of the type of person I am. Everyday my alarm goes off at 6:47 a.m. I purposefully chose to set my alarm to a number that is not a multiple of 5 to force unconventionality into my hectic work schedule.

Me, living in the moment.

After my alarm goes off, I pack my food and materials for classes, the gym, and clubs for the day into my Jansport backpack. After I have double-checked that I have every material necessary for every step of my event-packed day, I walk outside my apartment door.

Often times, before I leave my building, I am so focused on which direction I should turn when I walk out onto the main road that I can never seem to remember whether I locked my front door or not.

If you haven’t concluded how Type A I am, then maybe this will convince you more. So much of my life revolves around a schedule: I predetermine ideal times to use the restroom, I decide exactly what I am going to eat for the entirety of the week when I make my weekly grocery trip, and I have a daily block schedule handy at all times.

Even though I thrive in an organized environment, I came to the realization that a little lack of preparation can be refreshing. For spring break I decided to make a trip to see some old high school friends and the aforementioned boyfriend.

I was ready to force myself to ignore my desire to plan everything. I considered it an experiment in living life in the moment.

I’m proud that I decided to turn the trip into an experiment to see whether I could enjoy my time in the unknown. After all, they say that it is the journey and not the destination that matters!

However, there was one problem that I felt plagued the success of my trip: how would I feel when I saw him. The unknown haunted me. I ended up feeling confused and hurt and I spent the majority of my trip floundering in a sea of previously buried emotions.

Our future together felt so up-in-the air, and I wasn’t sure how to process the situation or my feelings. It was so much easier to go about my day at school knowing that I would not have to see him and therefore not have to deal with him.

In the end, we mutually decided to end our relationship. Even though we ultimately decided to call it quits, I learned something valuable. I learned that neither preparation nor lack of preparation can protect you from the unexpected pangs brought upon by life.

There is absolutely nothing that I could have done to prepare to protect my heart. Now I see that this is actually okay!

A little pain and heartbreak is good for you. It builds character! Living in the moment and processing emotions as they arose actually gave me some space to enjoy my personal journey in dealing with hurt feelings.

By allowing myself to process the situation in the moment, I was able to open my heart and mind up to feel every step of the way. And I must say, I prefer feeling something and challenging myself to process my emotions rather than waking up at 6:47 a.m. and scheduling time to pee.

Now I look forward to what the next challenging situation will teach me about myself. More importantly, I am looking forward to being surprised by where life will take me next!