Why I Am Grateful for Rock Bottom

There's no shame in hitting rock bottom. What matters is that we strive to rise daily; what matters is that we endure the pitfalls along the way and become the person we were created to be.

 

I awoke in a fog of despair, not wanting to get out of bed. I knew it wasn't just another bad day. I knew it wasn't just a matter of "getting up and getting over it" because it felt like my body had been drained of energy, leaving me void of any hope of climbing out of the dark, eerie hole I'd found myself in. 

Cradled in a fetal position, sobbing, my heart ached unbearably for answers to the questions circling in my head: How did I get to this place? Who am I? And what is the purpose and meaning of life? 

Through sheer exhaustion, I was compelled to remember her: that strong-willed, tenacious person—who’s never been a quitter but rather a fighter. She was the one I tapped into. She was the one who gave me the fortitude to rise. She was the one who prodded me: "Do you want your story to end at the bottom."

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."- Maya Angelou

It's been over a decade now since I put pen to paper and began writing through the recollections of my emotional baggage, where I've found incredible insights into the experiences that'd shaped me, helping me to lean into the pain, allowing me to move into the acceptance of that pain.

How did I arrive at rock bottom? 

 

In retrospect, I didn't just wake that morning to find myself there. Consequently, I’d been running from myself for years. I hid behind masks. I had built walls so thick around my heart, you would've needed a sledgehammer to beat them down. The truth is, I'd ignored so many red flags that my past was spiraling me down until it eventually landed me at rock bottom.

 

To be frank, no one could have saved me. Not my husband, not my kids, not my friends. I had to be the one to take charge of my life. I had to be the one to throw away the blame game, the pity parties, the "woe is me" attitude, the victim mentality. And it didn't happen overnight. I am still a work in progress. Darkness still exits. But the difference now is: So does God.

Ironically, I'd struggled to believe that God was even there with me in my pain that morning. But I sure believe it now, that He knew it wasn't the end, that my rock bottom was no surprise to Him. It was where I needed to be all along. Only then could He heal me and help rebuild my life in the way He had designed. All I needed to do was reach for His hand and abandon my way of living. In other words, I had to take my hands off the wheel. 

While rock bottom is subjective, what we all have in common are choices: The choice to change, the choice to heal, the choice to seek help, the choice to say, "There is no way my story is ending at the bottom. I am worthy of so much more, and I will scratch and crawl my way out of this dark hole to find me." Or we can choose to stay stuck in the mire.

I can say wholeheartedly today that I've never been more grateful for my rock bottom experience. 

Why?

Because it led me to Christ.

 

Because it forced me to look in the mirror and ask the hard questions.

Because it pulled off my masks, crumbled down walls, ultimately leading to my truest self.

 

Because it taught me about self-love and self-compassion.

And because it gave me insight and understanding into the experiences that had shaped me, imparting the wisdom and knowledge needed to help others.

Perhaps you are reading this and (like I did) feel void of hope. Listen: You are stronger than you think. While the climb to the top won't be easy, while you will make strides one day and feel like quitting the next, keep pushing forward, remembering to take the time to rest and breathe along the way. I assure you: One day you will stand on the summit and shout: "I did it! All the moans and groans to get here were worth it!"

The Comparison Trap

Whether we do it consciously or unconsciously, we all, from time to time, fall into the comparison trap. We pull out our measuring stick and compare others by what they have, by what they wear, by how they look ... leaving us feeling either superior or inferior to them. 

Yes, it's natural to compare. Yes, not all comparing is unhealthy. But when it's entrenched in the philosophy that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, when it promotes an envious, resentful attitude toward other's success, it can be detrimental to one's well-being. 

The thing is: the greener grass view only allows us to see what's directly in front of us, anyway, which is merely a perception of someone's life. We can't possibly have an accurate assessment of someone's story from the other side of the fence. And (more often than not) when we do hear their story, either face-to-face or through social media — we come to realize that the marriage we envied fell far short of our expectations, or even ended in divorce. Or the person that we thought had it all together was actually insecure and lacked confidence.

I know firsthand hand that nothing derails joy and contentment faster than comparing oneself to others. 

Growing up in a low-income family, the comparison trap seeped into my life at a very early age. I longed to fit in but was always left looking over the fence. I was envious of those who were popular, who wore the latest brand-name clothes, and who appeared to have a fairytale home life. 

The bare bones of my story: The fear of not being good enough, the fear of not measuring up, the fear of failure, and the fear of rejection became a benchmark to prove my worth to the world in adulthood. The "I will show you" kind of mentality led me down a road of perfectionism and people-pleasing. And it not only held me back and prevented me from becoming the best version of myself, but it also left me ungrateful for the beautiful life I had in front of me.

I am not saying that the comparison trap never rears its ugly head in my life today. There are days when I doubt my abilities as a writer, days when my inner critic feeds me the lies that I am not good enough or smart enough to write, but the difference now is that I sit with my emotions. I address them for what they are, reminding myself to stay in my own lane and run beside those who inspire me, who push me up higher, and who believe in my gifts and talents.

Don't waste your time looking over the fence at someone else's life. Water your own gifts and talents. Be grateful for the life you have. Contentment doesn't come from what you own or how much money you have or how you look; contentment comes from inner joy, of knowing that you are enough.

As the wise Dr. Seuss once said, "Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."

 Embrace your uniqueness.

Does Time Heal All Wounds?

"Grief changes us the pain sculpts us into someone who understands more deeply hurts more often appreciates more quickly cries more easily hopes more desperately loves more openly." –Author Unknown 

I am not an expert on grief and loss by any means. My greatest teacher has been my own life experiences, and with the help of online courses and through much self-awareness, the main takeaway for me now is this: grief has to be endured; loss has to be mourned, not cured.

We live in a fast-paced, quick-fix society that (by its very nature) prompts us to survive and press on after a loss, to put grief on a time schedule, but grief calls us to sit in the ebbs and flow of our wound, to surrender to it, to feel sad or angry or confused or guilty... 

I think most of us feel a certain level of discomfort and awkwardness when face-to-face with a bereaved person. As well-meaning people, we feel the need to at least say something, and so we pull out the old adage "time heals all wounds" in hopes of offering some support and comfort or in hopes of filling the silent void. 

But rarely does "time heals all wounds" have the intended outcome, especially in the rawness of grief, when one's life is so hazy. Saying I am sorry for your loss or simply being there with a reassuring hug or a listening ear is often enough to show we care. 

After the sudden loss of my mother thirty-three years ago, to say that I was in the throes of grief is an understatement. At the age of twenty-eight, a mother to two young children then ages four years and six months, my mother's death not only left an indelible mark on my psyche, but it forever changed me. I'd no roadmap or guidebook to help me figure out how to put my life back together for my children. I just got up each day and put one foot in front of the other.

"Time heals all wounds, Joyce," I was repeatedly told. And even though I believed the sentiment to be true because — if nothing else — it gave me hope that my grief would dissipate with time, that time would heal the gigantic hole in my heart, time didn't hold up its end of the bargain. 

Time passed, and days turned into weeks and months and even years, but instead of feeling better, instead of "time" healing me, I often found myself cast adrift in a sea of grief, kicking with all my might to stay afloat, as the waves steadily tried to devour me. 

  

In retrospect, time isn't meant to be an antidote for grief. Time is merely a "mourning period" to help navigate the choppy waters ahead, allowing us to find the inner strength to live within our new reality, with life forever altered.

In essence, time didn't heal me, but it did lead me to a healing God and my truest self.

However, the answer to the question, "Does time heal all wounds?" truly lies in the heart of the bereaved. Why? Because just as we are ALL unique, so too is our grief journey.

Blindsided by Fear and Anxiety

To have the luxury of a secluded beach area within walking distance of my daughter's house here in Saint John, NB is such a blessing. I don't know about you, but there's just something about listening to the ocean that brings calmness and peace to my soul.

A few nights ago, however, as I became transfixed by the high storm surges unpredictability, the ocean evoked different emotions in me.

Standing near the shoreline, with the force of the wind beating against my face, I closed my eyes and envisioned that the ocean was angry and sad and frustrated. I envisioned that it was lashing out and speaking to me about the worst and most frightening moments that you and I are experiencing right now.

COVID-19 has not only become the hallmark of fear and anxiety, but it has forced our lives to slow down in ways that we never thought imaginable.

Day in and day out, we are left scrolling the internet or glued to our tv in hopes of finding some positive news, some certainty, something to at least soothe our anxious mind. Only to be bombarded by the increased cases of the virus, by the increased number of deaths, heightening our fear and anxiety even more so.

And this past weekend, while still consumed by fighting a common enemy in COVID-19, we were suddenly blindsided by a horrendous mass shooting in Nova Scotia, leaving the victims' families caught in a raging sea of grief, with no peace in sight.

Not only does my heart go out to the bereaved in Nova Scotia and around the world, but it puts my quarantine woes with COVID-19 into a different perspective as well. Because despite days when my fear and anxiety are heightened, despite days when I feel cooped up, despite days when I wish for normalcy, my loved ones are still okay.

Forgiveness —The Recycleable Approach

The Earth, through God's immaculate creativity, is designed to recycle and sustain itself. All we have to do is look around to see evidence of this process.

Take the forest, for example. When the leaves drop—or deadfall trees and plants litter the forest floor—micro-organisms act as nature's recyclers and, in turn, put nutrients back into the soil to help produce new growth.

So up to a point, the Earth is very forgiving, right? But humanity needs to do a better job of protecting it, and one way to do this is by recycling our junk. 

For us here in Canada, one of the standard recycling options is a blue box program. Yet what became apparent for Derick and me during our east coast trip this past summer was that the rules for acceptable recycle materials (depending on the municipality) differed. We never did quite get it all sorted out and even got ribbed by relatives along the way. In each case, however, the common recycle goal was always geared towards helping the environment. 

Most of us would agree that looking after the environment is an essential part of sustaining Canada's beauty for generations to come. After all, it's our legacy to our children and grandchildren, and dealing with garbage in a throwaway society is becoming a real challenge; therefore, anything that can be recycled is a common-sense approach.

But what about our internal environment? How do we sort out what's trash and what's recyclable? How do we sustain our inner beauty?

Consider the phycological effects of being bullied or abused in some other way, especially in childhood. These hurts don't just disappear. They lay dormant in the recesses of our psyche, triggering harmful effects such as misunderstood anger and resentment and bitterness, in part, due to the inability to forgive and heal—not a pleasant place to find oneself in.

How do I know?

Because there were deep hurts that I'd thrown in the trash heap, hurts that I'd closed the lid on, but I forgot to take the bin to the curb (so to speak). And in the absence of forgiveness and healing, these hurts continued to fester, (slowly) releasing toxic waste into my character, resulting in the lid to burst off later in life.

Bottom line: Forgiving others and starting the healing process wasn't possible for me until I was first able to forgive myself, to feed myself compassion and love for the hurts that I'd caused others with my words and actions. It's no wonder I get emotional when praying, "Forgive us our sins, as we have forgiven those who sin against us." 

  

Quoting also—when Peter asked Jesus, "Lord, how many times am I to forgive my brother who sins against me? "Is seven enough?" Jesus reiterated, "I do not say to you up to seven times, but seventy times seven." Essentially, Jesus is saying we forgive as many times as necessary. 

What these two biblical references (as well as many others) signify is that forgiveness is one of the most critical aspects of the Christian faith, an on-going process that we must do over and over again. Why? Because God wants to heal our wounds, not just for ourselves but also for the people who have hurt us. 

Let's face it, though; forgiveness isn't as clear-cut as it sounds. On the contrary, it's hard work. I know when someone hurts my family or me, the last thing I want to do is forgive that person(s). It takes prayer to change my heart. Years ago, my tactic would've been to try and get even, to demand an apology, to hold that person captive in my heart. But Christ has fostered a new self-awareness in me; a calmness that has helped me grasps the notion that the power of forgiveness is the only true path to spiritual peace. 

Why then do the misconceptions surrounding forgiveness tend to give many a wide berth to it? Partly, perhaps, because (and I've been here too) of not understanding what forgiveness isn't: forgiveness isn't forgetting what happened or condoning the offense or letting the other person off the hook—forgiveness isn't necessarily reconciliation.

Instead, forgiveness, in a healing sense, is a gift God prompts us to give to ourselves, a conscious choice to "let go" and reclaim our life, usually through the evolution process of dissecting and then releasing our wounds. Wounds that, for some, are so egregious that it can take years of deep soul-searching, of connecting with the most profound and rawest parts of who they are, of continuing to forgive over and over again until they can experience the fullness of healing.

In truth, no one can force you to forgive. Forgiveness is a process where only you know when you are ready to move into a "more in-depth" understanding and acceptance of your pain. Because the thing is: when your wounds are still raw and bleeding, it's a natural response to throw your fists in the air and want to fight with a vengeance. And you have the right to feel what you feel, but at some point, you will need to let it go, in other words, you will need to forgive. If not, you will remain tethered to your pain, causing havoc on your emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being. 

In hindsight, I can tell you that holding on to past hurts had far more consequences for me than opening up my heart to forgiveness—the anger, resentment, and bitterness not only kept me chained to my past, but it blocked my emotional healing as well. Forgiveness, on the other hand, moved me into a brighter future, a future made possible through Christ's recyclable approach to forgiveness.

The Eye of the Storm

On Sept 6th, after our three-week stay in Newfoundland, Derick and I landed in Halifax, excited to spend the weekend with my sister and her fiancé.

I am an anxious flyer, so I was thankful to finally be on the ground again and to have had a "turbulence-free" flight to boot. Noting this to Derick, he leaned in, looked me in the eyes and—with a wry sense of humor—said, "You do realize hurricane Dorian is expected to hit the east coast tomorrow, particularly Halifax, and you are glad to be here on the ground, uh?"

In my defense, I hadn't given much thought about the hurricane heading our way. It's not that I was oblivious to its destructive path throughout the Bahamas and the U.S., at that moment, I was just glad to be off the plane and not yet ready to comprehend the dangers that Dorian might pose—one fear at a time, please! 

Upon arriving at the baggage carousel, however, I was no longer thankful to be on the ground. My sister had confirmed the brutal facts: We'd indeed be taking a direct hit from hurricane Dorian early Saturday a.m., with forecasted wind speeds ranging from 120 to 150 km an hour (yikes!). 

And true to form, the torrential rain and blustering winds struck us with a vengeance the next morning, and in its wake, widespread power outages impacted the region. 

Fortunately (as the storm raged on outside), a generator afforded us a sense of normalcy, a means to have breaking news updates as well as coffee and food and lighting.

While Dorian appeared to pause shortly after lunch, we were left wide-eyed, frozen, by the stillness of nature's rage. I am not sure who blurted out, "I believe we are in the eye of the storm!" Nevertheless, this turbulence-free zone filled the air not only with calm energy but an eerie yet peaceful feeling as well. I mean, even the trees seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Regrettably, though, the brevity of nature's rest soon gave way to pounding winds from the opposite direction—casting us into uncertainty once more.

Hours had passed since the stillness in the eye when, from the living room vantage point, my eyes caught sight of the dusk sky peering through the kitchen window. Its shadowy outline lured me into taking a closer look. And as I stood there (pretty much on tippy-toes, to get the full view of the outside) and watched the treetops fiercely sway back-and-forth against the darkening backdrop, a wave of panic gripped me.

You see, during the day, I was somewhat comforted by the fact that my "hawk-eyes" could take in every detail of the storm's rage around me. But knowing that it'd soon lurk in the dark, knowing that it'd soon hammer us with hidden fury, caused anxiety and fear and a pang of uncertainty to flood my body. Yet, I knew I had no control over the results of Dorian. So I did the only thing I knew to do: I prayed.  

Thankfully, we all survived that horrifying night unharmed. And although for several days nearly a million people were without power throughout the Maritimes, there were no human casualties. There was, however, significant infrastructure damage, and many of the areas majestic trees had succumbed to Dorian's wrath.

I liken Dorian to life storms. Many of you reading this have weathered them. Many of you have suffered significant losses in their aftermath. And yet, you have found a way to rise above. Not unscathed, not without being changed and shaped differently, no doubt. And rightly so. Your life was serene, and then—in the blink of an eye—you were tossed into a raging storm, battered and broken and uprooted from the life you once knew.

I can relate to storm damage in my life, as well. 

I was twenty-eight years old when my fifty-six-year-old mother suddenly died. In an instant, without any warning, she was gone. One day I had a mother, and the next day I was motherless. In its wake, this tragic event triggered a slow-moving grief hurricane, where the winds of pain came at me in many directions, where I went through life searching for the serenity of the eye.

The backstory is: Although I went into survival mode for my, then, four-year-old daughter and five-month-old son, it took years to work through my grief. The truth is, it wasn't until I found Christ in the eye of yet another storm, over a decade ago, was I able to find true peace and calmness of spirit. And even though I still succumb to fear, I've come to the realization that (unlike the trees), if we survive the fall, our life isn't over. We can choose to rise again. We can choose to embrace the lesson's grief offers. We can choose to become generators of light for others, even though the gaping hole in our heart is irreplaceable. 

With the Christmas season fast approaching, many will be stressed and lonely and sad this year—loss of traditions, an empty seat at the table, financial difficulty, illnesses, loss of hope...have trapped them inside one of life's storms.

Christ draws us ALL to the eye of the storm, a place of rest and calmness and peace. But for those who are burdened by circumstances, generators of light may need to come alongside them. Perhaps you/we can be that light this year? 

Adoption

In all its beauty and inevitable struggles, in all its changes and transformation, I marvel at how the seasons of life mirror the seasons of nature.

And on a personal level, I can relate to the cyclical seasons of change because I, too, have traveled through many dormant seasons in my lifetime, only to be blessed with new beginnings, leading me into a season of growth before reaping the benefits of life's harvest once again.

Spring (especially) reminds me of how nature has a way of letting us know that the season of dormancy is over. Similar to the stroke of an artist brush, a new painting begins to appear: Birds return busying themselves building nests. Trees and plants burst into bloom. And the spirit of humankind perks up in anticipation of the seasons ahead.

So, what does the cycle of life/nature have to do with adoption?

Well, whenever I've reflected on a child wounded by abandonment, stuck in the system of adoption, not knowing whether a permanent placement would happen, I've imagined how tough life must have been for them, how fragile and dormant their growth must have seemed.

On the other hand, I've pondered what it must have felt like when a family finally reached out and offered a "forever" home to that child: Did it feel like the four seasons combined? Was it with mixed emotions that they left the dormant season behind, yet wantonly looked forward to a new life, with a chance to grow and thrive and reap the harvest of love in a family that had chosen them?

Surprisingly, some of my answers have come through the eyes of an eight-year-old boy named Joshua.

Joshua entered foster care when he was just five years old, removed from his biological parents, and placed in the system. While he was fortunate enough to be blessed with great foster parents, he knew it wasn't his "forever" home. He continued to wait in anticipation for the day he'd belong and be loved in a family that he would call his own.

 I am happy to announce that the season of dormancy and waiting for Joshua is finally over. He is now part of our family—the Rice-Sawyer clan! Our daughter and her wife have adopted him. We now have a new grandson, and Thatcher has an older brother.

It's been a few months since Joshua entered into the growing season with his new family. Right from the onset Derick and I were eager to show him (something that his brother Thatcher already knew) the unfailing love of his nana and pap, and we had the opportunity to do just that when he visited our home this July.

Of course, we wondered if we could earn this little boy's trust in such a short time, being that his life had been burdensome for the first eight years, especially the first five.

A couple of days into Joshua's visit, however, I overheard him say to his moms, "I am comfortable here at Nana and Pap's house." And "comfortable" became more and more evident as the days went on. Watching him blossom was/is a remarkable depiction of what love and trust and nurturing and stability can do in a child's life. Needless to say, he learned quickly that—in our family—no matter what season of life we may find ourselves in, our harvest of love is never-ending.

While the details of Joshua's past must remain private, it isn't hard to see the hand of God at work in our adoption story.

There are inspirational biblical accounts on adoption as well, and through God's artistry of purpose, He shows us how adoption has played (and is still playing) a vital role in His love for humanity.

For instance, if Jochebed hadn't put Moses in a basket and sent him gently down a river, he'd have been killed by the leader of the royal family that adopted him. But, instead, he grew up to be an essential leader of God's plan to bring the Israelites out of Egypt.

Most importantly: How would the world have looked had Joseph not stepped up to the plate and adopted Jesus? Mary might have been stoned to death, but God had other plans, and together they raised a Son that changed the course of history.

As Christians, we, too, are offered a new life through the sacrifice of Christ. Not unlike an adoption of sorts, with new possibilities and hope for the future, at the end of our Earthly journey, Christ also promises us a "forever" home.

Thanksgiving is just around the corner. What are you most thankful for this year?

I know for me personally, there are a few things that come to mind, but as a family, Derick and I are incredibly thankful for adoption and the role we get to play in our boys' lives. It has enlivened our purpose beyond measure—to say the least.

With regards to the future, perhaps our grandsons will grow up and become leaders for God. Perhaps they will show the world just how blessed they are to have been adopted by two loving mommas and be part of the solution that ends the fear and stigma that still, to this day, surrounds gay adoption. One can only hope, right?