Join me for a FB book study of Still Life: A Memoir of Living Fully with Depression

Need a place with a heavy dose of real? Gillian Marchenko is a friend and a colleague, and her book Still Life is starkly honest about life grappling with depression as a wife and mom. Seriously, I love this woman and her writing so stinking much, y'all. 

Starting Monday, I’m teaming up with Gillian to lead a book study of Still Life over the course of 8 weeks. We’ll have weekly assigned reading (no more than a few short chapters!). And I've intentionally chosen shorter readings for the first couple of weeks, knowing some folks might not have the book in hand on day one!

(But order yours here so that's not you!)

(And if you already know you want to join without reading the rest of the post, here's the link for that!)

The first week we'll ease in,  but here's the plan for the next seven weeks. Every Monday and Tuesday, I’ll post some reflection questions from that week’s text. On Thursday, I’ll post one or two more personal questions related to that week’s reading, not to force vulnerability but rather to provide opportunities to examine ourselves (so it’s fine to just answer for yourself to yourself instead of answering in the comments) and to – when answers are shared with the group – provide opportunities for “me too” moments. And on Saturday, we’ll look at self care and self compassion, both in examples from the text and in some challenges for our lives.

To be clear, I'm facilitating the study and posing the questions, but I'm not posing as anyone's therapist. I'm in the thick of life and struggles like anyone else, so I'd make a crummy guide for this journey. But I can be a companion, processing through the book alongside everyone else. 

Gillian won’t be a full participant in the group, but she’ll pop in from time to time for some planned interactions with us. As her friend, I can say she's a total gem. You'll love getting to know her better, not only through the pages of her book but through the group itself.

Everyone is welcome to participate as much or as little as they’ll like. If your time or comfort level means you don’t chime in for a question, that’s okay! When life happens, I don't expect this group to be your top priority. If you skip a day or a week, you can jump back in with no judgment. I’m not grading anyone, except on a scale of grace. We’re all grown ups, so we can make the best decisions for ourselves.

Interested? Here's the link to request membership. At some point - probably after the first week - we'll close down adds, as I expect it will throw off the dynamic of the group to have more people jumping in midway through. (But y'all know I also work for Key Ministry, and we're entertaining the idea of having this become a regular thing with different books related to mental illness or disability. This group, not officially affiliated with Key Ministry, is serving as a test run, so I'll keep you posted!)

If you have any questions, shoot me a message or leave a comment. Hope you can join us!

Here's to tender hearts!

Y'all, this week we got some hard-to-swallow news. It wasn't unexpected, but it always hurts to read stark evaluation notes on a child who is so much more than a diagnosis... so my heart was tender today. It would have been sensitive, even without without all the harshness of the past couple weeks tenderizing it day after day before this, but the culmination of everything left me wanting to curl up in a fetal position.

But I went about my day as usual, crossing paths with person after person, most not knowing how raw I felt.

Even this morning selfie with my beloved doesn't give away that I was barely treading water to keep my head above the whirlpool of emotions in which I found myself this morning...

And it struck me, as it often does, that I don't know anyone else's story either.

The man at Bojangles from whom I bought our meal, who did all he could to bring forth smiles from me? The nurse who came for our quarterly assessment of Zoe's care needs? The vet I spoke with on the phone? The mailman who handed me a package? The volunteers who checked us in and then saw us off at day camp?

I don't know their stories. I don't know their raw places. I don't know if they just want to curl up under the covers for an extended holiday like I do.

But I know love. I know compassion. I know Jesus.

So I'm going to do all I can to show all I know to a world in need of it. A smile. Eye contact. An encouraging word. A countenance that says, "I see and value the humanity in you, my friend. We're in this together."

Hate doesn't win. Trucks driven into celebrations don't get the last say on humanity. And evaluation notes don't change the awesomeness of the kid about whom they're written.

After all, maybe our hearts are meant to be tender. Maybe that tenderness isn't the problem; maybe all the hard places we've cultivated to protect ourselves are. Maybe we're supposed to hurt and grieve and mourn sometimes.

Maybe, just maybe, we're not doing it wrong when life seems too much.

Here's to tender hearts, to making a more compassionate world one encounter at a time, and to kids who are so much more than what any label says!

3 things we say when our immigrant children express fear about Trump

"Mommy," a small voice said from the back of the van. "Um, I was talking with [two Hispanic classmates] at recess, and they're scared about what will happen if that Trump guy becomes president."

"Oh," I said, totally as filler to give myself a moment to think. "Why's that?"

"Well," she paused. "They say he wants to send some of their family back to Mexico."

I waited, giving her space to say what I knew she needed to say. Surprisingly, the rest of our kids held space too. They all seemed to be willing her to ask the question, as they waited for my answer.

"If he becomes president, will me and Philip and Patricia and Zoe have to leave the country?"

I'm glad I was driving. If she had seen the anger in my eyes, she might have thought she had done something wrong. I wasn't angry with her, though. I was furious that the hateful anti-immigrant rhetoric by a leading political candidate had made my girl question her place in our family and country.

(Lest you argue that maybe her friends' family members weren't here legally, please know that I've heard from dozens of adoptive families whose children are asking the same questions. Some have been told outright on the playground that they'll have to move back to their birth countries if Trump is elected. These incidents have been on the rise throughout his candidacy. His rhetoric is emboldening hateful language from others. Our kids are seeing it. Feel free to discuss the issues here, but our children's real experiences aren't up for debate.)

Some people don't think of our kids as immigrants. But, trust me, they are. We know the paperwork. We've filed documents and paid thousands of dollars to the US Citizenship and Immigration Services department of Homeland Security. We can share stories of the first moments each of our children by adoption spent on US soil. They know too.

After all, this is our family - hailing from the US, Taiwan, and Uganda - while we were still living on African soil:

So what do I say when these questions come? After helping them name the emotion and validating it with empathy - "Wow. It sounds like you might be scared and curious about what you heard. I'm so sorry you're feeling that way, and I'm so glad you told me." - here are the three truths we stress:

1. Our government system involves checks and balances so no one branch can make unilateral action on immigration.

2. You are now American citizens so you are treated as such under the law, even though you weren't born here.

3. If all else failed and you had to leave this country, we would ALL leave, because we're a family and we're in this together.

Our kids need to hear the truth about our government system, the truth about their legal status, and the truth about their standing in our family. We came back to these truths when one of our children had "go back to Africa!" screamed at her by a group of classmates on the playground this past spring. And we returned to them again recently when they overheard something on the news while at a friend's house.

Immigration isn't just a political issue. It's a personal one. Whenever you're tempted to lump one group of people together - either lauded in praise or burned in effigy - pause. Because it's hard to love a group, but it's much easier to love a person.

And if your kids are asking questions, pause then too. Listen. Help them name their emotions. Validate them. Offer empathy. And then affirm the truths of the situation in a way that answers their questions without dismissing their real feelings.

5 things I mean when I say I'm an alcoholic

Hi, I’m Shannon, and I’m an alcoholic.

That’s how I started my last post. I hadn’t shared that part of my story publicly before, and it felt more than a little vulnerable. But it also felt like one of my most honest and genuine pieces of writing.

I’m more comfortable talking openly about this than I am the other deeply personal topics I opened last week. (That said, I wrote this week for Key Ministry about why church leaders need to talk about sexual assault, and my post next week there will be about 10 ways churches can be safe places for survivors, so I guess I’m getting more comfortable with that discussion too.) And I want to clarify a little bit of what I mean when I say I’m an alcoholic.

1. My body has two switches when it comes to alcohol: yes and no.

For the last six months I was drinking, I never had just one drink. I planned to, plenty of times. But one glass of wine became a bottle. One margarita became a pitcher. One beer became a six pack. (And I’ve never even liked beer.)

Anyone who knows me knows I don’t do middle ground well. I live on extremes. When it comes to alcohol, I can either stay sober or be drunk.

2. I can’t drink. Ever.

My husband, my kids, my friends, myself… we all deserve a sober Shannon. I say I am an alcoholic instead of I was an alcoholic because this isn’t a past tense thing. Sure, I’ve been sober a long time. My kids have never seen me drunk. (And, oh, how I thank God for that grace!) I’ve lived in Raleigh for 11 years now, and no one here has known me as a drinker. But alcoholism doesn’t have a cure. It doesn’t go away. I stopped drinking, yes, but if I started again, I’d be switching back to that extreme.

Last summer, I toyed with the idea of trying alcohol again. It had been long enough, I figured. Maybe I could try socially drinking again. I like alcohol, after all. (You don’t become an alcoholic without liking the taste!) I’m glad I didn’t go there, though. I’m confident it wouldn’t have ended well for anyone.

3. You can drink, though, assuming you’re not an alcoholic.

I’m not bothered by alcohol. As long as you’re not pressuring me to drink, I’m happy for you to have a glass of wine.

(I miss wine.)

I’ll gladly join you, with a diet coke or lemonade or water or anything else that’s not alcoholic. Please don’t feel like you can’t have a drink just because I can’t. I can handle being around alcohol.

Except when I can’t. And if I can’t, I’ll let you know or quietly excuse myself.

And alcohol jokes? Please don’t silence those for me. At a recent birthday party for a little friend of my big girls, the mama hostess quipped that we should have a keg available in the back for grown-ups. I agreed, because OH MY WORD NINE YEAR OLDS IN A SKATING RINK could drive anyone to consider drinking. Another mom friend of mine recently laughed as she suggested a play date where the kids could have Capri Suns while we sipped wine. I didn’t bristle at that. Instead I laughed with her and made a comment about “mommy juice.” I wouldn't have partaken in the keg or accepted a glass of that juice, but I can join in the joking.

4. I have crisis plans in place with my people so I can stay sober.

You might ask, but you’ve been sober for more than 12 years? Why do you need crisis plans? Is life that hard? Here’s the deal. I’ve stayed sober by knowing my limits. During the stress of our first adoption, I found myself craving alcohol for the first time in years, and it scared me. So I texted my friend Melinda, whose background was in addiction counseling but who didn’t know my story back then. I said something like, “I know this is random, but I’m an alcoholic with 8 years of sobriety and I’m struggling. Could we talk?” We had been friends for a while, but that moment shifted us to go far deeper than the surface. I’ve shared a lot online lately, but Melinda knew those stories, just like I knew she was in a dark place before I got the news she had taken her life almost 15 months ago.

I wanted to drive straight to a liquor store when I got that news. But I had a friend’s daughter’s birthday party, and though I didn’t feel like celebrating, I put on sunglasses, loaded up the kids, and drove to the party because sticking to the routine would keep me from buying alcohol. Back then, I hadn’t let other people in much. Other than Melinda, I didn’t have a friend who I could text, “I want to drink. I won’t, but I need someone to know I want to.”

I do now. Several, in fact. My people are truly the best people.

5. Staying sober means dealing with my stuff.

Getting drunk was never about drinking. Staying sober isn’t about not drinking.

I drank to forget. I drank to relax. I drank to feel confident. I drank to not feel at all.

When I told my friend Annabel that I thought I was an alcoholic more than 12 years ago, she said, “You know, the solution isn’t to just stop drinking. You need to figure out why you were drinking in the first place.” Boom. She was right, but I didn’t like it. She’s still right. I know if I want to drink then I need to get curious about what’s truly going on under the surface for me.

I shared a couple days ago that I was going to my first AA meeting. That was last night. I liked it. I’ll go back next week. I won’t blog about it or share details out of respect for the anonymity of the program, but I can say one thing: AA is a room of truth tellers. When everyone who speaks starts off with “I’m ________, and I’m an alcoholic,” that cuts through the superficial.

Everyone’s story is different. Today, a precious friend is celebrating her first year of sobriety. Today, I’m celebrating my 12th year, 2nd month, and 19th day of sobriety. I have other friends with more and fewer dry days they’ve earned. Some of five things I mean when I say I’m an alcoholic will resonate with those friends while others might not. I’m only speaking for me here.

I’m Shannon, and I’m an alcoholic. And this is my story.

And because I love this clip and feel like it explains alcoholism well, I offer Leo McGarry and his story. (Don't try to tell me he wasn't real. In the current state of politics in our country, I've been retreating into The West Wing often. Bartlet for America... )

more than an alcoholic

My name is Shannon, and I’m an alcoholic.

It’s been more than 12 years since I realized that: 12 years, 2 months, and 17 days, since my last drink, to be specific. I knew that night that I wasn’t living a life aligned with the values I professed, but it would be another few days before I realized I truly had a problem. I told my best friend almost immediately. It took a week before I told Lee, my fiancé at the time.

Tomorrow I’ll go to my first AA meeting.

I’m stable. I’m not going because I’m in rocky territory. I'm going because I think there's something powerful and sacred of being in community with those whose stories overlap with your own. I’m going because I always meant to go to meetings, even though I've never been to one.

Tomorrow that changes.

I don’t know if I’ll keep going after tomorrow. Lee will be with me this time. Our new church is just beginning to host meetings, and this first one is open. Anyone can come. Subsequent ones will be closed, meaning they’re just for those trying to live sober.

Next week, I’m planning to go by myself.

That’s fitting in a way. In the beginning, I had a lot of support. Newly sober folks need that. I had a therapist and a supportive fiancé and some phenomenal friends. Then I got married and moved to Raleigh.

And I tried to go it solo.

Technically, I stayed sober. I haven’t had a drink. But I kept my hard-earned sobriety a secret. Instead of celebrating what God had done in my life, I hid it. I kept my head down, kept my mouth shut, and kept myself away from alcohol. I was scared I would be defined by my addiction alone if I told anyone. I didn't want to be treated as fragile if I told new friends I had been sober for exactly 15 months on the day I moved back to North Carolina. So I kept quiet. And I was part of denomination known for abstaining from alcohol, so that fit. Most people assumed I was opposed to alcohol in general.

I’m not. Have a drink for me if you can drink in moderation. Seriously.

(And if it’s a margarita, martini, or glass of Riesling, all the better. Yum.)

This year, I switched things up. The morning of my soberversary, I texted some friends to let them know what the day was. At least one had no idea about my alcoholism until that text. I told my husband. (He knew, obviously, but I'd never made a big deal about the date so the specific day wasn’t on his radar.) I sat in my therapist’s office that morning and started by saying, “So, 12 years ago today I had my last drink.”

She congratulated me.

And I realized I wanted to do something special to mark the occasion, for the first time ever.

Lee and I threw together a date at the last minute. Our usual sitter wasn’t busy, surprisingly. I suggested we should go out drinking to celebrate my sobriety, because if you can't make jokes about addiction, what's the point? He nixed that idea. (Spoilsport.) Friends on social media responded to my request for date night suggestions. We ended up at Cowfish.

It felt good to celebrate.

Before March, I felt ashamed of the years I used alcohol to numb my feelings. This year, I’m smiling about the years in which I’ve felt everything so much more deeply. No shame.

I wanted to go public on that soberversary but I wasn’t ready then.

Now I think I am. (Too late now if I'm not, huh? Hi, interwebs. This is the week in which I share all my secrets, it seems.) And I’m heading to an AA meeting. I’m done with shame. I’m done letting the stigma of addiction close my mouth. This story, like the painful story I shared last week, is part of who I am.

But it’s not all I am.

Alcoholism isn’t my sole identity. It won’t be the sole identity of anyone else at my AA meeting. I’m still everything else you know me to me: A wife. A mom. A Christian. An advocate. A writer. A speaker. A Netflix binge watcher. A lover of coffee and bacon. (God, please don’t ask me to give those up.)

Whatever you struggle with doesn’t define you either.

I’m Shannon, and I’m an alcoholic. You’re you, and maybe you struggle with something in secret* too. And? That’s okay. It’s okay to not be okay. I’m more than just an alcoholic, and you’re more than your secret struggle too. Jesus was and is perfect. We don’t have to be. Thanks be to God.

___

*I hope I'm not overstepping here, but if you have a secret struggle too, might I encourage you to tell someone? Not to blurt it out, of course, but to be intentional and vulnerable with someone who has earned the right to hear your unedited story? Shame doesn't go away without empathy, and isolation only lets it grow in the dark places where it whispers lies in your ear. The internet isn't the place for most of us to broadcast our personal struggles - and my choice to do so has been intentional and calculated, both weighing the costs and choosing the words with care - but total silence doesn't lead to healing either. Find a friend or maybe a therapist. Life is too hard to do it alone.