The Struggle is Real...?

It's strange to log in, thinking only a few weeks have passed, when it's actually been close to two months. This blog has lain dormant as well as my journals, and most social media accounts. I feel like an early winter is settling in on me and I am content to wrap myself up in a blanket and watch life go by.

But- I know that's not what is allowed to happen.

The ever popular term "The Struggle is Real" has always been applied to simple things online. The struggle is when you run out of mascara or your favorite coffee flavor is gone or the printer is out of ink. However, I've begun to feel as if "the struggle is real" in my own life.

I haven't fundraised any money for the JDRF this year, and I didn't register to walk this October, for the first time since 2007. And I am so tired! I am physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually drained. I feel less compelled than ever to try and get passionate for a cause that other people won't support. I am tired of spending hours and hours planning for an event that everyone blows off every. single. year. Family, friends. No one has shown up since 2008. And I am tired.

I could throw one hell of a pity party right now, and the temptation has been strong to do just that. I am tired of school and I see May, not as a beacon of hope on the horizon, but as a date just out of my grasp. It's the first time I haven't been in love with school. The first time I am looking forward to being done. And it's not me.

The crawl into a ball and wait for life to pass is not me, but over the past few months, that's who I have felt like. And I am trying to see the sun- push the hair out of my eyes, open the blinds, and blink into the glare- but it just hasn't happened yet.

So, I guess the struggle is real. I am struggling to see the beauty not only around me, but in myself. It's a little bit more than mascara and coffee and printer ink. But I'm not sure what.

A summer wrap-up

First! Some exciting news! I submitted a story to "Chicken Soup for the Soul" a few months ago that talked about my struggle to go to school. A few weeks ago, I got notification that I had made it to the final round, and then a few days after that, I was notified that I had made it into the book. You can find my story, entitled "Redefining Limitations" in the book "Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Inner Strength" out in October of 2014.

I finished my capstone for my graduate classes. I still have three classes to complete for my full degree, but I am done with the physical teaching part of the degree with the completion of the summer reading practicum. I was so sad to see it end, because I loved working with my kids, but I was also a little relieved to get a break, albeit a small one, from school for the first two weeks of August.

I moved twice. And somehow ended up in the same house I moved out of. I wasn't overly pleased with that one, #gradstudentproblems, but life goes on, even if I still need to unpack some stuff (most of it, honestly).

I broke my knuckles. Not my entire hand, just my knuckles, which made using my hand a nuisance, but not enough of one to get it casted. The other guy looks worse. (Just kidding; it happened during Move #2)

I was assigned a new classroom, which means I was upgraded from a walk-in closet to a real room. However, part of me missed the tiny little old room, especially the fan with the chandelier lighting. I used to turn that on and the florescent off and tell my kids it was atmospheric. My new room is all or nothing for the overhead lights, so I think I might invest in some lamps. Luckily, the new room is big enough that I should be able to manage that.

I also discovered how many books I have in my room. A lot. Over 400. Ooof.

Less than a week until school starts!

Am I ready?

An end to summer clinic!

It's crazy to think that the summer is already more than half way through. I have less than a month before I got back to my regular classroom, and today said my final goodbyes to my students from the summer reading clinic I worked at. We had six weeks of great fun, engaged learning, and lots of time spent on the commons of the college chasing small wildlife in an endeavor to "study" them. 

I worked with six kids, and another reading specialist to design instruction that targeted each individual student to help make them a stronger reader. Six weeks is a short amount of time to work with a child, but I loved each one of mine dearly, and was excited to see their growth in many aspects of literacy. 

Ten Years

I had one of those moments where I just sit back in my chair and go "WOW". My one group of freshmen finished all their work, but we still have 5 teaching days left. I don't want to just watch an unconnected movie with them, so I have been doing some short stories that we didn't do earlier in the year. I have a 30 minute video about "Harrison Bergernon" by Kurt Vonnegut that we watched and discussed (they are reading the text tomorrow) and about social stereotypes and the ideas of equality.

I teach in a high poverty school. Most of my students are African American, and the next largest population is Hispanic. I also have a lot of first generation and ELL students. So we started talking about racial and gender discrimination. I had a group of three boys who were goofing off and making off handed comments about why men should be paid more than women, throwing out some common misconceptions, etc.

I told them to settle a few times, and when they didn't, I said, "So which one of you is it going to be?"

They stop. Look at me. One finally goes, "What do you mean?"

I said: "Statistics show that 1 in 3 African American males will be locked up at least once in his lifetime. So which one of you is it going to be?"

They look at each other and shrug at each other. First boy goes, "It ain't me". Second boy says: "Nuh-uh". Third boy goes: "It's not gonna be me for sure".

I said, "I don't think it's going to be any of you. I don't think it's going to be anyone in this classroom. Because you are smarter than that, right? You know you have potential and you know that labels are limiting, right?"

They nod, eyes wide.

I said, "You know I love all y'all in here, even if you drive me up a wall sometimes. I know you are better than the stereotypes and statistics on our streets, but you have to want to be better! And being better means fighting those stereotpyes...all of them, not just the ones that apply to you. That means you see women as equals. You see people with different skin as equals. You see character, not shape or size or color or money. You got it?"

Nods. Smiles in the classroom. Second boy goes: "Daaaaang Ms. T with the deep thinking today. I like this class!"

First boy high fives me on the way out the door at the bell: "You know I'm not gonna be that 1 in 3, Ms. T. Imma get me a good job and a degree and a honey and come back here in 10 years and be like BAM, Ms.T, remember me?"

I CANNOT wait for the next ten years. Can't wait to see his degree, hear about his job, and meet his honey. Tears in my eyes at my kids and their ability to open their ears and hearts.

Diabetes Blog Week: Day 4

Prompt: Yesterday we opened up about how diabetes can bring us down. Today let’s share what gets us through a hard day.  Or more specifically, a hard diabetes day.  Is there something positive you tell yourself?  Are there mantras that you fall back on to get you through?  Is there something specific you do when your mood needs a boost?  Maybe we've done that and we can help others do it too? (Thanks to Meri of Our Diabetic Life for suggesting this topic.)

This is in a similar vein to what I posted yesterday, really. I tell myself that I may have lost some battles, but the war is still mine to win. I think the important thing to remember is when you get knocked down, you can choose to stay down, or you can make your way back up. It’s your choice. 

Diabetes Blog Week: Day 3

Prompt: May is Mental Health Month so now seems like a great time to explore the emotional side of living with, or caring for someone with, diabetes. What things can make dealing with diabetes an emotional issue for you and / or your loved one, and how do you cope? (Thanks go out to Scott of Strangely Diabetic for coordinating this topic.)

This is a tough one to write, so I think I am going to respond to this with the many thoughts I have tried to convey to people over the years:

I wish you understood what it is like to be standing there with a group of people and suddenly have your sugar crash. It’s embarrassing, it’s uncomfortable, and frankly, it hurts. For a few minutes you feel out of control of your own body and it sucks. Pulse races, sweat beads all over and words start to confuse you. I wish you understood that diabetes does not make me less of a person. Please don’t stand around and whisper like I am dead. “Oh” you say in hushed tones as I pass. “She has the diabetes, you know.” I am not dead, we are not memorializing my defunct pancreas.

Yes. I can eat that cupcake.

Sometimes diabetes makes me want to cry. Sometimes it makes me want to laugh. Sometimes it confuses the hell out of me. My body is basically waging war on itself;  I am allowed to be emotional about it sometimes. 

Diabetes Blog Week: Day 2

Prompt: This year, Diabetes Blog Week and TuDiabetes are teaming up to bring out the poet in you! Write a poem, rhyme, ballad, haiku, or any other form of poetry about diabetes. After you’ve posted it on your blog, share it on the No Sugar Added® Poetry page on TuDiabetes, and read what others have shared there as well!

As an English teacher, I should be jumping for joy at the idea of writing a poem, but here I sit, completely dumbfounded. I am going to try my hand at an acrostic:

Disease. Is this who I am now? A shell of a person riddled with an incurable hurt?

Insecurity cloaks me like a ragged blanket, not keeping me warm or protecting me.

Are you there, God? Why me? Why this?

Better in time, I think. Maybe one day I will understand. Maybe one day this won’t be a curse.

Eyes open to see the possibilities of what can be, not the things that will never be.

Time. I am still waiting for a cure, but it is becoming easier to hold on.

Embattled from the war with diabetes- I may have lost a few fights but the war is mine to win.

Soon my day will come. 

Diabetes Blog Week: Day 1

Prompt: Let’s kick off Diabetes Blog Week by talking about the diabetes causes and issues that really get us fired up. Are you passionate about 504 plans and school safety? Do diabetes misconceptions irk you? Do you fight for CGM coverage for Medicare patients, SDP funding, or test strip accuracy? Do you work hard at creating diabetes connections and bringing support? Whether or not you “formally” advocate for any cause, share the issues that are important to you. (Thanks go out to Kim of Texting my Pancreas for inspiring this topic.)

As a teacher and a former student with a 504 plan, I am passionate about both school safety and 504 plans. think they are integral parts of a student's success in school. All children with a medical diagnosis, whether it be diabetes or another illness, deserve to feel safe and secure in their learning environment. For me, my 504 said I could go to the bathroom whenever necessary, so I was not trapped by rules that may have changed classroom to classroom. I could have a juice box in class if I needed; little minor things like that. Diabetes didn't change who I was as a student. I played lacrosse, ran cross country, and threw discus for the track team. I took honors and AP classes and competed on the Speech and Debate team. Looking at me, you would never know I was sick. My teachers knew. My close friends knew. But I didn't spend English or math class wearing a sign that stigmatized me as having a chronic illness.

I have been a Team Captain for the JDRF in Philadelphia for years, excluding the year I was in Arizona since 2007 when I walked for the first time. My friends and family have supported me along the way, and it is the best way I can think of to advocate in the local sphere. I love the walk, the unity, the idea that we are not going to let hope die.

The Day I Allowed Myself to be Pretty

I don't frequently think of myself as pretty. On the other hand, I also don't look in the mirror and hate what I see. I think I am the definition of ambivalence when it comes to outward appearances.However, at certain moments, I think we all appreciate a well placed compliment.

Today was one of those days.

I felt pretty. I allowed myself to be pretty, and I allowed other people to notice. It is tremendously hard for me to accept compliments. I try to brush them off or wave them away with words. Many times, being complimented is awkward, and I feel like I don't deserve them.

Walking into work today, one of my coworkers told me I looked pretty. A mother of one of my students stopped me and told me I was pretty. "I love your smile", she said. "I am glad you seem so happy". One of my roommates called me pretty when I got home later that night.

Lent is about sacrifice; giving things up and changing yourselves. Lent is not really giving up chocolate and soda or cigarettes. It is about seeking closer relationships and bringing yourself closer to God. Sometimes Lent means taking on more than you give up in order to better yourself.

Here's what I learned: I am pretty.

It's okay to embrace that and feel good that people have noticed you and complimented you. It's okay to feel pretty. And most importantly, it is okay to allow people in and compliment you. One of the things I am going to take on during Lent will be to allow myself to be receptive to the kindness of others.

The Day I Spent as a Bag Lady

My feet are cold. Numb. I go inside the kitchen to warm them up a little and peer through the little glass window on the door to see people picking at the bread boxes lined up on the ground outside.

"Bag?" I ask a gentleman wearing three coats and two different gloves, as he attempts to carry two loaves of bread and and bag of bagels. He nods, eagerly, as I snap open a used Acme bag and help him load his food into it. "Thanks, honey" he says and flashes me a smile, showing an array of broken teeth. "No problem", I reply with a returning smile, "Have a good Ash Wednesday".

We are in Kensington, one of the neighborhoods in Philadelphia with a high rate of drug users and homeless. Inside are a group of students helping serve the evening meal, aprons painted with biblical passages tied over their clothes, while some of our staff wash dishes in a humming Hobart, or serve up steaming piles of green beans. Outside the wind whips as people line up around the courtyard, clutching a yellow ticket that assures them a seat in the dining room, as others circle eight boxes of salvaged and donated bread goods sitting on the ground.

I have always bought my bread at the grocery store or from the bakery. I have never had to nit-pick over stale bread donated by stores after they can no longer legally sell it. When I drop food on the floor, I throw it away or toss it to the birds; I have never brushed it off and put it into my pocket.

One lady, pushing a baby stroller that has probably not seen a baby in 15 years claps her hands in joy. "They never have bagels; this is a treat!" she cries, hugging herself in delight as she unearths a pack of six in one of the boxes. Another man comes up to me and points at my forehead, and then at his own, then makes the sign of the cross. He nods his head and grabs a pack of hardened hoagie rolls as he gets in the food line. When he leaves an hour later, he's got his own ashes. He waves frantically at me, and I wave back.

"Hey", another lady tugs on my sleeve. I turn to her, thinking she wants a bag, but instead she points to an older lady sitting on the edge of a raised tree bed. "Yesterday was her birfday" she says. "But she won't tell me how old". She has been sitting there ever since I came out to hand out bags. "Oh?" I reply. "Tell her I said I hope she had a happy birthday". The first lady leaves, goes to the tree bed and says something to the birthday lady. They both look up and smile at me, and I wave in return.

I can't feel my feet. They are cold; numb. I am wearing what I wore to school today. Green tights and ballet flats, which are perfect for a classroom, but less so for standing outside in the cold dusk of early March. Still, I see people coming in wearing ratty sweatshirts and coats not warm enough for this climate. A mother shuffles in wearing bedroom slippers. A young man shuffles up, and I can see his $300 sneakers without scuffs hiding under baggy jeans. His gums are blackened and he is missing teeth as he reaches for a bag. The voice of judgement surges up in me, but I swallow it and give him his bag. He gets in line.

Eventually, the last people trickle through. I rebuff a man who calls me pretty and leans in for a kiss. "A bag, sir", I say and almost thrust the bag upon him. A car across the street has speakers on the roof, and they are blaring music. As I am putting some more bread out, a bright eyed college student from New Hampshire comes up to me and hands me a small flyer. He reads it to me: Come and join us for church and hot cocoa. We'll feed you sandwiches. He grins, a beacon of collegiate social justice and walks back you his group. A girl next to him punches his arm. "She's not homeless, doofus!" she says. He looks back at me, horror etched on his face. I just grin and call out, "Thanks, though!"

Do I look homeless? Does it matter?

Where do I fit in with this group of people? The shiny group of college students so eager to make a difference? I am not that far removed from them. One among a mass of homeless seeking a warm meal on a cold night? How easy to know that it could be that way for so many people.

And again, I say, does it matter?

I went to the soup kitchen on whim after school with some students and staff. I merely tagged along with the campus minister after a meeting at school. I didn't go there to make a difference. Honestly? I was kind of bored, so I went. I wanted to see what my kids did for service. I thought I might be of use.

My feet were cold. They were numb.

But after the doors closed and the gates locked, I climbed into a warm car and went home to a warm house. I took off my cold shoes and warmed my feet by the heater. I made eggs for dinner and ate bread that was fresh from the grocery store and would be eaten long before it could go stale.

I handed out 93 grocery bags. I talked to dozens of people. I helped hand out packaged food to people who made it to the gate too late. I did the time old tradition of a secret hand-off to a woman who needed some of the supply tampons before our high school boys could blink twice.

I heard "God Bless You" too many times to count.

Yes, my feet were cold. My nose was cold, and my hands are a little chapped.

But I cannot think of an Ash Wednesday that I will remember more than this one. I saw the face of Christ in many of the people who passed through St. Francis Inn. And as I go through Lent, I am deciding to be more grateful for what I have because I don't have to wait an hour and a half in line for a hard boiled egg and some mac and cheese. I don't have to wear three coats at once. And I don't have to get my bread from a box lying on the ground.

I sometimes think I don't have a lot. But I do. A homeless outreach center has showed me that in abundance. Next time, I am not going to go because I am bored. Next time, I am going to go because the man who said, "Hey thanks, bag lady!" was genuinely happy to see me. Instead of looking at them with pity, I am going to exude the same amount of appreciation that they have for me. Instead of being thanked for holding out a bag for their bread, I am going to share an appreciation of being allowed to serve them.

God's people. My neighbors. Faces of Christ among the breadlines.

So You're Thinking...

Start a blog theme, and stick with it for a few days, then abandon it like the last few attempts (sorry DSMA and Thanksgiving...). And while I have stated before that I will never be a prolific blogger, and have casually mentioned at least a half dozen times that I am busy, the benefits of online blogging keep coming back to me. I have been frustrated lately. Medically, academically, and socially. I am starting to feel the wear of diabetes on me this school work with working long hours, taking night classes and adjusting to a variety of other spur of the moment issues.

The idea of money has become more of a reality to me lately, and although I still have a year to go until I need to find a place to live on my own; I am realizing that apartments don't pay for themselves and money doesn't save itself either. Not that I am bad- I think I am one of the more financially prudent people I know, but it's also not growing on trees out in the wild.

My idea of what I would have once called a support system is also changing. One of the big reasons I became interested in online blogging was for the diabetes online community, which I have come to realize, can be a hard place to break into. I am at the point where I no longer volunteer myself to be a guest blogger or to be a panelist, because I am not one of the "known" people, or I don't have a famous blog or an eBook, or an Instagram of used test strips. And, that's okay with me. I think my decision to blog about diabetes in cohesion with my life, as I know it, works out best for me. I am not going to work in the medical field. I am not going to publish anything major on how to live with diabetes. I'm not throwing shade on any prominent bloggers in the DOC, don't be mistaken; I just think the focus I have now is more narrow than what I had originally envisioned.

My ideals as a classroom teacher have changed. Now that I am over the excitement of being a first year teacher, I don't have flurries of excitement every time my students do something, and I have become a bit more conscious of WHAT to disclose.

So, what do I want? What am I thinking? Where is this blog headed if I am tired of diabetes and the hooplah of new teachers have worn off? Where am I going if I admit that I haven't been to church in three weeks mainly because I haven't WANTED to go? (Oops)

Another challenge.

What is an Advocate?

“This post is my February entry in the DSMA Blog Carnival.  If you’d like to participate too, you can get all of the information at http://diabetescaf.org/2014/02/february-dsma-blog-carnival-3/“


The question this month, is "What is an Advocate"? 

Hm. Tough question. 

All my life I have considered myself an advocate for various things. When I was a freshmen in high school, it was for animals and I claimed vegetarianism for a lifestyle for the next five years. College and bacon got involved then. 

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was diagnosed with t1 diabetes, and I became an advocate for finding the cure. I still advocate for that. 

When I was in college, I stumbled upon social justice. And fell in love. I advocated for the children of Ecuador and Norristown. I graduated and taught in Arizona and advocated for the Navajo students I taught. I went back to school and advocated for the inner city students I now work with.

So, yeah, I guess you would say I am an advocate. But how to describe one? Ah, well, that one is harder. It depends. That sounds like a cop-out answer, but I promise it's not. 

I see advocates march on Washington, pick up microphones and shout their ideals. Our history books tell us of advocates who risked their lives and their freedom to speak for others. We are coming off of a month that celebrates some of the individuals who made so many rights in America possible for many people. I see advocates who hit facebook and twitter and spread inspiration like a virtual wildfire. I see blogs dedicated to causes, and I see people worldwide united under the same cause. I see and hear the news. I see signs posted and I hear songs written. 

I know this blog is supposed to be about diabetes, so here is advocacy from my perspective:

Advocacy is the people who never gave up on me when I was struggling in my low points of diabetes. Advocacy is the girl at my lunch table who threw her tater tots at the other girl who called me a needle freak in high school. Advocacy is my 5 year nephew studiously watching me prep my materials so he knows what to do in case I have an emergency. Advocacy is thousands of people lacing up sneakers and walking across America to support research to finding a cure, and the random lady who puts her change in the collection jar at the local WaWa and buys a paper sneaker for the window. 


Advocacy is refusing to be quiet, to sit down and shut up, until a cure is found. 

No Limitations

The hot, steamy air of Ecuador hit us like a wet towel as we stepped out of the small airport in Guayaquil, Ecuador. January of my senior year in college found me embarking on a life-changing mission trip called “Rostro de Cristo”, located outside of a major export city in South America. The week I spent with classmates and residents of a small town called Duran created memories that I will never forget. The people, the places, the food- they all hold a special place in my heart that can not be replaced with anything found in this material world. However, the struggle to get to that point in my life was not easy, and is something that I reflect back on from time to time to see how far I have really come.

I am sitting in the guidance counselor’s office my senior year of high school, bright eyed about the possibilities of college that are still fresh in my mind after weekend visits. My SATs are in the bag, and I made puppy eyes at my dad until he paid the application fees to my top choices. The counselor sighs and pushes her glasses up onto her head. “Are you sure you want to go to college?” she asks me, brow arched. “It will be difficult with your limitations, you know.” My limitation, as she likes to call it, is diabetes. I don’t produce insulin and have to take daily shots in order to regulate my blood sugars. I am in three AP classes, I am a varsity athlete on the track and field team, and I am nationally ranked in Speech and Debate, but according to her, I am limited.

“Well-”, I hesitate, unsure of how to respond to her question. Am I sure? Yes, I am absolutely sure that I am supposed to go to college, but I start to feel a gnawing monster in my belly, questioning my ability to succeed. Later that night, I am at home, helping my mom fold laundry in the living room. “What would you think if I just went to community college for awhile and figured it out?” I asked her as I searched fruitlessly for my matching sock. She looks at me, a confused expression etched across her face. My mother, who left school to start a family, and didn’t go back in order to raise us. “What do you mean, figure it out?” I am sure she is thinking of the months of flooded mailboxes, the countless trips to visit schools, and my test anxiety that rubbed off on the rest of the family. I tell her about my meeting with the guidance counselor, and watch her face change from confusion to anger. I am glad my mom is by my side for this battle, because I have a feeling it will turn into full on war.

I am talking to the admissions counselor at the school I really want to go to, and all I am missing is the official transcript from my high school. I promise to have it in the mail the next day, and take a stamped envelope with my forms to the guidance office. Two weeks later, I receive a rejection letter, and I call the admissions counselor in tears. “You promised!” I sobbed into the phone, inconsolate about what I perceived to be my dream school. Soothing me over the phone, she pulls up my file, and tells me that they never received my official transcript from school. I never saw anger in color until that afternoon. I called my high school and demanded answers. I sat for hours in the guidance suite, and I brought a ferocious mama bear with me. We couldn’t prove anything, and my counselor’s simpering smile totally and utterly defeated me.

I was burning. I knew that I could not  lie down and accept defeat because then my “limitation” would win. I revamped my college efforts, and eventually accepted a track scholarship to Cabrini College, where I spent four magnificent years growing into a woman that I can be proud of. After the track team was cut for budgetary reasons, I focused on social justice and become involved in one of the most active socially just colleges in the country. My freshmen year, I started insulin pump therapy, which gave me an entirely new outlook on living with diabetes and I threw myself into the service of others.

As I sat on the concrete ground of a school yard in Ecuador, with a child on each knee, I thought about how lucky I was to have had such a woman in my life. The devastation of what happened in high school propelled me to do my best and seek out my interests. As Josue fingered the tubing coming out of my pocket, I gently explained to him in broken Spanish what it was. He hugged me tight, taking my breath away, and stood at the gate each day to hug me as we came in to the school. After coming back to the States, the fire that had been lit for helping others had become a bonfire of passion, and I began filling out applications for year long service opportunities.

I graduated in 2012 with two bachelor degrees, and my teaching certification along with high honors and accolades from the honors college. I was accepted by the Mercy Volunteer Corps and was missioned to the Navajo Nation Indian Reservation in rural Arizona. I spent the year after graduation teaching high school U.S. Government, Psychology, and working as a part time secretary.Now, I am in grad school full time and working in a high school in North Philadelphia as I study to become a Reading Specialist.

I still have diabetes, and unless science has a breakthrough, I will always have diabetes. What I don’t have are limitations. My ability to serve others and to teach- those are something that diabetes cannot take away from me. They are something an outdated counselor cannot take away from. My biggest “limitation” was not my endocrine system, it was my inability to believe in myself. Once I overcame that fear, I realized that there was nothing that could stop me from reaching for the stars.

From the streets of Ecuador, to the hogans of the Navajo Nation, to my cluttered classroom in Philadelphia, there is nothing that can limit me. Have insulin pump; will travel.    

The house is still standing...

I live in a house with ten other teachers, so you could say we're a pretty educated bunch.

Then, I walk into the kitchen and see this, and laugh for about a solid five minutes.

I am not sure if that's how it should be done, but it's pretty funny. I love taco night. 

Chicory

I feel like my heart is breaking as I write this.

My bunny, Chicory, died this morning. I had Chickie for eight years. He was my friend, he was a source of comfort when I was sad, and he was an awesome cuddler. I don't even care that cuddler isn't really a word. I miss him so much already. I miss how he would sit on my shoulder and sniff my ears, how he would play hide and seek for a yogurt treat, and hoe he always knew the right time to just sit in my lap and let me hold him.

My nephews loved him, and he reciprocated. He was so gentle with two little boys who wanted to hop with him and brush his fur and pet him with sticky fingers. He liked to go out for walks on a leash, and lie in the sun.

He was my friend, and I will miss him. Sleep sweetly, my precious boy.

Okay, I lied...

I think it is easy to get wound up in the timing of things, and lose sight of what your goals are...were.

I started this blog to document my time as a Mercy Volunteer Corps member, and thought I could successfully transition it over to a new program, which hasn't happened. The fact is, the two are too different and I was trying to make them one and the same. Over time, this blog, like incarnations before it, has evolved as I have evolved.

One of my goals was to become more visible in the DOC (diabetes online community) as I was struggling with becoming more medically independent.

Another goal was to successfully transition from one living situation to another. Although the transition has been successful, I have not given it enough credit it deserves as a stepping stone in my life.

There are many other things...other paths that I can do with this blog instead of letting it die a lonely death. I think the biggest thing is coming to terms with the idea that I am never going to become one of those prevalent bloggers...not about faith, not about education, not about diabetes.

And? That's okay. Because I am me, and these are my stories and struggles to share with my readers on my own time, in my own way. And, I'm happy like that.

Blog re-opened.