what i know to be true.

The year was 2017. Megan was on her annual trip to Portland. It was probably grey and rainy and cold outside. We’d probably had a late night the evening before. And, if those two things were true, then we definitely didn’t want to do much on whatever day this was written — lounging, watching New Girl, drinking coffee, reading our new books from Powell’s. And, when we’d cycled through all those, we did what any gals born in the early 90s do with a notebook, pen, and some time to kill.

We played a game of MASH.

You remember this game, right? The one where your entire future is determined by the size of a spiral circle your friend draws. The one where the most important pieces of your future are not only the city where you’ll live and the job you’ll have but also — at least in my preteen versions of MASH — the color of the car you’ll drive and the kind of wedding dress you’ll wear. (I went through a looooong, weird phase in middle school where everything was going to be silver. Silver house! Silver car! Silver wedding dress!) From these games, I’ve married countless exes and crushes and celebrities. I’ve been a therapist and a teacher and the winner of American Idol. And I’ve had anywhere from one to seven to 25 dogs and children (but, always, always a dog).

From the start, I knew MASH couldn’t accurately predict my future. I knew it was just a game. I knew that what was written on these pieces of paper wouldn’t come true. It couldn’t! Probably not. And yet, I’d always pin just a little bit of hope or wonder on the every-fifth-answer that got circled. Even as an adult, I’d think, “Well, maybe I could be a Broadway actress. Maybe, in another life, I could meet and marry Ryan Gosling. Maybe I could move to Norway. Or New York City. Or Minneapolis.”

Megan and I have written lots of things in notebooks together over the years — goals, resolutions, diaries of our trips together so we always remember the four hours we spent at an AT&T on New Year’s Eve or the random house party we went to in Arizona. And we’ve played many games of MASH throughout our friendship, too — while waiting at the airport, flying on planes, during sleepovers. So this one game where MASH told me that I’d be moving to the Twin Cities didn’t stick with me. I didn’t have any big revelations once it was circled. I didn’t set my sights on moving to the Cities right at that moment, or make an action plan and move forward with it as soon as the game was done. It was circled (along with the rest of my MASH-decided life plan), and then I moved on.

I’ve wondered about living in the Twin Cities for a while, but those wonderings never turned into anything more than that. I wasn’t sure I’d ever live there, especially after planting myself back in Fargo-Moorhead. But then the world changed this spring, and so did my plans. And so did my ideas of what I thought I would do next, or could do next, or wanted to do next.

So my tentative wonderings about the Twin Cities turned into more serious wonderings. And then those more serious wonderings turned into tentative conversations. And then those tentative conversations turned into something more: “Maybe I can do this.”

But moving is exhausting, job searching is overwhelming, and both of those things feel particularly heightened and hard during this time in the world. Was I really going to do this? Was now the right time to do this? And, even at almost-30 years old, I’ve asked myself too many times: Will other people think this is the right choice? 

I found myself thinking about that word — right — a lot. I’d catch myself wondering if my plans were right or wrong, easily switching into either/or thinking, even though I try to keep my feet planted in the world of both/and. Who’s to say what’s right or wrong for my life, except for me? Through it all, while I’ve been trying to shift away from wondering if what I’m doing is right, I do know one thing.

These wonderings that turned into conversations that turned into, “Okay! I’m doing this?! I’m doing this!” felt good. They felt true. I felt that it was “right,” not in that there was an unlived, opposite, “wrong” choice. But it was right because I felt it deep in my bones, even when I’ve been nervous and scared of the unknown. Even when I know I’m going to miss my mom and dog, my cozy apartment, the life I’ve built and lived in Fargo-Moorhead. Even with all that, this still feels like the truest choice I can make for myself right now.

After I had my first tentative conversation about moving to the Twin Cities with Megan, she pulled out that same notebook and handed me the slip of paper at the top of this post. She’d saved that little square of mine, knowing that one day this circled “Minneapolis” might become more than a MASH answer.

A few weeks later, she mailed me this quote by Cheryl Strayed: “Trusting yourself means living out what you already know to be true.” I wrote this quote, probably five years ago. I sent it to her in a card, while she was in the middle of her own deep figuring-things-out phase. It’s lived on her fridge since then, but made its way back to me. Soon, it’ll find a home in our new place.

So, I’m moving to the Twin Cities next month. Now, this is more than an answer made by a spiral circle. It’s a deliberate choice I’m making for this next phase of life — on and off paper.

Here’s to this next, true thing in my life. Fargo, I’m not going far — the drive is the perfect distance to listen to the Hamilton soundtrack in its entirety and sit with your feelings for awhile. Come stay with Megan and I in our cutie little duplex once things calm down. All are welcome for a drink on our patio. 

And Twin Cities, hi! I’m so excited to get to know you.

trunk dwelling.

I have taken to sitting on top of my car. I go there after I go for a walk, or when I’m talking on the phone, and sometimes just because I want to. I have a patio attached to my apartment, with two chairs, that would work for this purpose. There’s plenty of sittable grass around my building, too. But if the weather is kind, I’ll plop myself on the trunk of my car, just like this. I hop up and lean back at a 45-degree angle and look.

Up, at the trees, the clouds, the sky. I look ahead, and watch cute pups and their owners, or I follow the turkeys who — I swear to God — look at least one way before crossing the street. Or sometimes, I don’t look at all. I close my eyes and listen: to the trees swishing their leaves, or the whoosh of the cars as they drive past, or to the just-as-important but quieter wonderings of my heart. 

And I think. About everything important and nothing important. It’s kind of the opposite of meditating, where you’re supposed to let all thoughts out of your head and only focus on your breath. Instead, I focus on everything except my breath, welcoming every weird question and thought, seeing where it takes me. What kind of job will I have next? I wonder what Glennon Doyle is doing right now? Do I really believe that I can do hard things, like she says we can? Where are these seven police cars driving to so quickly on a Sunday morning? Where do turkeys sleep? How do turkeys sleep?

This new trunk-sitting habit of mine doesn’t make much sense. As previously mentioned, there are plenty of other, more sensible places for me to sit with my thoughts. I know that others think this new habit is weird, too, because sometimes, when my eyes are open, cars slow down and drivers look at me sitting on my trunk. Every once in a while, a pedestrian passes through the parking lot, notices me, and squints at me sitting on my trunk, too. 

But since the world doesn’t make much sense to me these days — both the big things (What did our president just say?, How many humans in the world haven’t had a hug since all this started?, etc.) and the smaller but still-important wonderings of my own life (What will I have for dinner?, What is it I plan to do next with my one wild and precious life?, etc.) — I thought, why does this have to make sense? And what does it even mean for something to make sense anyway? 

Maybe, instead, sitting on my trunk is what makes the most sense. The first time I sat here, I was on the phone. I didn’t want to keep walking, and I didn’t want to go inside yet, and I didn’t want to sit on the ground, so I perched on my car. And when the phone call was over, I just…stayed there. And it felt good, easy, natural. I plopped myself on top of my trunk again a few days later. And then again, and again.

The trunk of my car has become a bit of a buffer; it provides some quiet time before going back into my apartment, where my laundry needs folding or my plants need watering or my resume (which has been a Google Doc tab open for weeks) is taunting me to finally pay attention to it. The trunk of my car is my own scratched-up, metal-island oasis that I can plop myself on, where I can just…be. In times like these, what makes sense is to do what feels good, whenever and wherever we can.

And I’ll keep coming back to it, until my trunk dwelling stops feeling this way.

Maybe your created oasis is not on top of the trunk of your car, but inside a dark closet, or on a blanket thrown on the grass, or both depending on the day. Maybe it’s found on a 5-minute walk around the neighborhood or a 25-minute drive on the highway, where the destination is nowhere except deeper into your own heart/thoughts/life. Maybe it’s all of the above, or somewhere different, either a physical place or a moment — even just one — you can steal for yourself. However you can, I hope you find space to seek out what you need in these times — moments of comfort, rest, joy, relief, hilarity, stillness, clarity — even if they don’t make much sense to others. If it makes sense and feels good for you? Well, then, that’s all the reasoning you need.

And maybe, just maybe, if we stay here long enough, the trunk-sitting and the highway-driving and the closet-dwelling and the slowing down will help the rest of the world make a bit more sense, too.

the ending i got.

We held an end-of-year banquet for our Residence Life student leaders last week. This night usually involves getting dressed up, taking group photos, handing out awards, and -- most importantly -- intentionally coming together as one 60+ person team. Instead, on that night, I used my eyebrow pencil and put on a real bra for the first time in 33 days, threw on a sweater over the leggings I’d worn every day that week, and sat in front of a computer screen that held the faces of humans I’ve worked with -- and have cared about so deeply -- this year.

To start our banquet, my boss gave an introduction and a heartfelt thank you to our students (that made me cry, obviously), and ended with: “This is not the ending we wanted, but it is the ending we got.”

Last month, like most colleges in the country, my institution made the responsible choice to move to remote learning for the rest of the year. Most of our student staff quickly left campus. So did our residents, some taking everything with them, some leaving belongings behind that they’ll return to campus to pack soon. Outside my apartment building, there are four cars in a parking lot that’s usually full. I walk through campus often but don’t encounter anyone (except the turkeys and squirrels who are thriving with their new freedom). Over the past weeks (it’s really only been weeks, not months?), what it means to be a Residence Life professional changed. 

And because I am leaving my job this summer -- there, I said it without hiding it in a sneaky, wordy Instagram post -- it will never go back to the way it was.

I’ve tried writing about leaving my job three different times now. I first wrote about it in January, but didn’t publish anything because it felt too soon. I’ve known I was leaving since last summer, when I had my first real wonderings about what it would feel like to return home from a workout, or after a night out with girlfriends, or with a man I’m dating and not run into students who recognize me because of the posters of my face plastered up in their hallway or because we met earlier that week for a conduct meeting. My boss has known since November, my colleagues have known since January, and I told my staff in February. This has been my plan for a while now -- a chance to enter my 30s outside the walls of a residence hall. 

But sharing in January still felt too soon. So I wrote something and then I sat on it through January. And February. This was normal for me; I write things and sit on them wayyyy more frequently than I write things and actually put them out in the world. That writing was, may I say, some nice, hopeful shit centered around the “both/and” of loving something and also leaving it, filled with well-crafted metaphors, thoughtful reflections, and even some space to add what I was going to do next.

But then it was March, and the world changed. None of my words made sense to share anymore. Who am I to wax poetic about a beautiful theological concept in the midst of a global pandemic? I’m a complicated being full of multilayered truths, sure, but the only truth I am filled with right now is that I really do not know WTF is happening. The excitement about finding what was next for my career, my trust in embracing the unknown, my big, brave steps into a world outside of Residence Life? It all vanished when I realized that I was willingly leaving not only my stable job but my housing in the midst of a global health pandemic and the highest rates of unemployment in years. Oops.

So then, with many deep breaths, I tried to write something new. It included different words meant to make ~MeAnInG* of this mess, lots of feelings about the sadness of my job (as I knew it) ending just like that, and a few feeble attempts to be brave despite the realities of the world. It was all a bit dark and rambly and, despite being filled with emotion, didn’t capture how I felt or what I wanted to say. I deleted the whole thing. (Just kidding, I never delete anything, so it’s sitting in my drafts folder along with my January words, where all of my unpublished drafts go to die. Until I eventually resurrect them between four months and three years later.)

And then last week, I sat in that Zoom banquet with my colleagues and students, celebrating our year together and this weird-ass end to it that we didn’t ask for, and I reflected on my own endings this year -- the ones I lived without knowing it. 

Without knowing it, I held my last one-to-ones in my office. My students talked about classes and tests, lamented about group projects and overlapping deadlines. I asked about their residents, followed up on roommate conflicts, checked in on their upcoming programs. We’d just returned from spring break and had a whole quarter ahead of us -- so much time! I probably rushed through them in order to rush off to the next meeting or get to the next item on my to-do list.

Without knowing it, I held my last staff meeting -- a wild two hours with a chatty, newly-formed group from two buildings. We talked about expectations of each other and how we wanted to show up as our best selves every Tuesday night. We wrote these on a big piece of yellow butcher paper and tacked it to the wall, so we could be reminded of them each time we gathered. But that was our last time gathering, at least face-to-face.

There wasn’t a final conduct meeting, or an end-of-year party, or a roommate mediation (actually, I’m okay that there wasn’t another one of those). So many traditions, rhythms, and mile-markers of an academic year skipped over, just like that. Without realizing it, I moved through a season of lasts I’d been eager to pay attention to and hold space in my heart for. I wanted to enter each of these endings knowing they were the final time, so I could properly say goodbye to what has been my career and home for years.

I’m realizing that maybe it’s better that I couldn’t make a running list of every “last” in my Residence Life career, pinpointing and preparing for those exact moments. If I’d had the time, I toooootally would have made a checklist with all the things I wanted to do one last time -- a bucket list of sorts -- turning really special moments into to-do lists for my planner. In my head, it was because I wanted to prepare for them, make sure I always remembered them, to count them as special. But let’s be real -- I wanted something I could control in the midst of inching closer and closer toward an Unknown Life outside of Residence Life. That list would have turned those moments not into something to be fully present for and experience, but as something else to accomplish. To check off. To get through.

It’s better that I had all of these lasts without realizing they were happening, without the chance to put extra pressure on myself (or others) to make each one meaningful, special, “one for the books.”  Because even without naming them as my endings, that’s what they were. And all of them were important and meaningful. Sacred, even.

Our last building-wide program was not a program at all, but a series of sex education booklets my staff made and delivered to every resident in their hall. I got to proofread them before they sent them out, and was struck by their inclusivity, dedication, and humor. There weren’t any end-of-year parties this year, but that means my last one included a homemade slip-’n-slide and getting pied in the face. And while I won’t have the traditional photo memories from our end-of-year banquet -- dressed up, “let’s make a funny face,” selfies with everyone -- I have this. And that can be enough.

These weren’t the endings I wanted, but they’re the ones I got. And despite it all, what I got was good. Not just these endings, but my whole career in Residence Life. It was all so very good. It was hard and unexpected and challenging and hilarious and full of tears and laughter and late nights and emails and duty calls and I never could have planned the way these last four years went if I tried. It was all so good.

It was all more than enough. 

five at a time.

I got a book of poetry by Maggie Smith in the mail yesterday. I ordered it early in this pandemic, knowing it was an unnecessary purchase for my wallet but an important one for my heart. It arrived last week but I’m limiting trips to my PO box, located right in the middle of campus, probably the busiest spot these days. I tore off the packaging and started reading, searching the Table of Contents for the poem for which the book is named (Good Bones). I stopped myself after four more poems, put a bookmark between the pages, and set it on my end table, on top of another half-read book.

“Huh,” I thought. “Isn’t that something. Two books at once!” 

I looked around my apartment and saw another book on my couch. Oh, I thought, I guess I was reading that this weekend, too. I looked around — my bedside table, my desk, my bathroom — and I had not one or two or three in-progress books lying around, but five. Five! I have never read more than two books at one time, and even two-at-a-time is a rarity. It was a bit disconcerting that, without realizing it, I’d become a five-books-at-once person. At least for now.

Seeing these books scattered around my home caused me to wonder: What other parts of me have changed ever-so-slightly during these times?

I speak of “change” loosely. I will not buy into the nonsense that we should use this time of quarantine to become Better Versions of ourselves, though it’s tempting. To use this time to get healthy and fit, to start a side hustle, to deep-clean the closets in our houses and maybe the garage rafters while we’re at it, to teach ourselves Portuguese and get our kids to learn it, too. The pressure, accompanied by the feelings or language of “should,” that every moment should be spent becoming the Best Version of ourselves? That is harmful shit that comes from our productivity-obsessed, white supremacist, capitalist society. We do not have to do anything other than what makes us feel a little bit more okay. That’s it.

(And, side note: If any of that feels good to you during this time, then do it! But only if it’s truly how you want to spend your time. Deep-cleaning and working out and vigorous washing of the dishes have been balms for me, areas of my life that I can control in the midst of the unknown. But that was true before this time, too.)

Because things are different now. Time feels different and routines are different and how we show up in our day-to-day — with our work and our families and ourselves — is wildly different. We’ve been asked to adapt, to pivot, to change our lives. This pandemic was like: “Here is a thing that you did not ask for and don’t know how to handle but, like it or not, it is all yours to figure out! Good luck and godspeed!” And that fact is changing us; in small ways, like my book-reading habits, and in bigger ways, like the effects of extended isolation and extended time with our partners/children/housemates and a shifted work/life rhythm. 

For myself, quarantine has brought a lot of alone time. I’m single, I don’t have kids, I live alone. I’m used to alone time, but this is some unprecedented alone time. So in trying to figure out what to do with my unstructured solitude — days and hours of the quiet, my connection to other humans through a screen that sometimes hurts my eyes — I’ve been thinking about who I am. This time is providing an opportunity to question how and why I do things — to come face-to-face with myself in a different way.

Why do I only read one book at a time? Why am I still meal-prepping the same salad for lunch every day even though I have plenty of time to cook and eat something different? Who am I when I haven’t been a human in the way I’ve been one for the last 29 years?

I’m learning I can read more than one book at a time, switching easily between a thriller and poetry. That my internal motivation for leaving my bed or couch or desk is dangerously low when it comes to working out. But, for writing in the mornings, my motivation is a bit higher. It’s surprisingly high for going into the office (AKA my second bedroom), too. I’m learning that I prep meals not because I don’t have the time but because I do not like to cook! I still don’t take my vitamins or regularly floss, despite this extra time. I still do make my bed every morning. I don’t talk to myself as much as I thought I would, though I’m learning how to speak up in different ways -- to admit when things are not okay, even when it feels like I should just get over it. 

I’m learning that my natural state of thinking is in scarcity mode, and I’m learning (trying to learn) how to adjust that. I’m gentler with myself in some ways and have developed harder edges in others. I’m learning (trying to learn) how not to stare at myself during every Zoom call. To instead close my eyes a minute before each meeting starts to pretend I’m really with the person on the other side of the screen. I’m learning this experience is not a competition for who has it worse, who is more tired, who is more stressed or overworked. I’m allowing myself to be sad and scared and lonely, even though there’s guilt that creeps in that things could be much harder for me. And I’m learning to forgive myself for wondering if I should be trying to change for the better, even though I don’t buy into that narrative.

I am learning the very complicated ways I am a human during this time.

In moments of “shoulding” on myself, and in moments of restlessness or fear or scarcity, I turn to the Instagram posts I’ve saved (a lot) and the articles I’ve bookmarked (several) that say to the collective Us: None of this is normal. It’s okay to react to social distancing however you react. Cry. Laugh. Savor it. Resent it. There is not a “right” or “wrong” way to do what we’re being asked to do. There is not a “right” or “wrong” way to cope with what we’re being asked to cope with. Do not feel pressure to use this time to become A Better Version of You. But you can if you want to, I guess. It is okay to change and be changed by what is happening. Breathe. In and out, in and out. Repeat.

This is hard for us all, in ways we will not know until we talk to each other, ask each other, “How are you, really?” This is changing us, in ways we will not know until we talk to each other, ask each other, “What’s different now?”

In big ways and in small ways, we are changing. We are changed. We may not know how changed until we see five half-read books piled up around our apartment, and think, “Huh, I guess I read multiple books at a time now.” We may not know how changed until we see someone face-to-face again, finally, and burst into tears. We may not know how changed until we head back into our offices and our changed lives and think, “This is not the same. This will never be the same.”

Maybe you have your own five-books-at-a-time version of change. Maybe everything is the same, or nothing is the same, or you don’t give a shit about how things have changed. All of it is okay. Breathe. In and out, in and out. Repeat.

Tonight, I’ll pick up Good Bones and read some poems. Then maybe I’ll read a bit of Running the Rift, a borrowed book from a former professor-turned-friend-turned colleague. And then, if I’m feeling really wild, I might end the night with a few chapters from another, different book! Just because. And to remind myself that though there are bigger, scarier changes — many are still to come — some are surprising, lighthearted, welcomed.

Huh. Isn’t that something.

the miley cyrus bikini from walmart.

Since I’m on a cleaning-out-my-”Writing Drafts”-folder kick, I’m sharing a post that I started (and, surprisingly, finished) in 2015. Beyond my Drafts folder on Google Drive, it’s actually been sitting as a Draft on my website since then, too. I never published it because it felt vulnerable in a different way than some of my other writing did; a little too vulnerable compared to thoughts about love and faith and vocation.

This is a post about my body.

I’ve been hesitant to share this with the world because bodies are sacred and bodies are complicated. Our bodies are our temples, but they are often temples that we wish were a little thinner, curvier, lighter, tanner, something-different-than-what-they-are. We wish we had a temple other than our own. What I wrote in this post resonated with me, and I was nervous to put that in the world for fear it wouldn’t resonate with others. There was fear of writing the “wrong” thing about body image, of being judged for having these particular thoughts about my body, of making it known that I struggled with negative thoughts about my body that translated into something bigger than just “negative thoughts,” and that those morphed into a deep wrestling with my worth. I wasn’t ready to share this as it was all happening in 2015 -- the thoughts, the struggle, the therapy, the slow and draining work of moving through it all -- but I am now.

This post doesn’t ring quite as true to me anymore. I’m in a different kind of relationship with my body these days, one where I move it often and challenge it because that feels fun and good, one where I marvel at how strong it feels when I run and lift, one where I feel comfortable and confident in a way I never have before. And yet, some of this writing still does ring true.

My hope with finally sending this into the interwebs — as with all writing — is to shine the flashlight on the dark, messy parts of life, so that we can meet there and recognize that we’re not alone in that darkness. That, actually, we’ve never been alone at all.

--

I went to the coast a few weekends ago. The night before we left, I went to the website through which we had rented our cozy cabin. After reading the reviews and browsing through the accommodations list, I discovered the greatest hidden treasure in the history of girls’ weekends everywhere: THERE WAS A HOT TUB.

My heart immediately started doing the quick-feet, shuffle-around, happy dance. I opened our message thread and typed, “THERE IS A HOT TUB!” I envisioned sinking into the 103-degree, chlorinated water; pushing back into the high-powered jets for a free massage; letting the sunshine or the moonlight hit my face as I entered into full relaxation mode. I don’t claim to know what heaven looks like, but for an often-stressed full-time AmeriCorps volunteer, that hot tub was going to feel pretty close to it. Add a glass of red wine and best friends within arm’s reach, and it’d be like sitting next to Jesus himself.

But then, almost as quickly as I had started the hot tub dance, I stopped. A deep, loud, echoing voice came over the loudspeakers of my brain and said one word: bikini. My once-dancing heart quickly stopped; I morphed into an embarrassed 8th grader at her first school dance: shuffling over to stand by the wall, staring at her pigeon-toed feet, peering up through her needs-to-be-cut-(and-probably-washed) bangs, wondering why she came to this stupid dance in the first place. 

Because, in order to enjoy the hot tub, my body was going to have to put on a bikini. And I had not bought a new bikini since high school. 

I vividly remember making this bikini purchase. It was the summer before my senior year and I waltzed into one of the Fargo Walmart stores and found this strapless, ruffled Miley Cyrus bikini on sale. I would love to say that I bought it because it was an emergency: that I was on my way out of town, and there were no other stores around that carried bikinis, and that this particular bikini was the only one left in the entire store. But no. I voluntarily walked into a Walmart and bought a Miley Cyrus swimsuit.

I would also love to say that my swimsuit choice was the only reason that caused me to have such a strong reaction to my brain’s loudspeakers blaring “bikini.” But that would be lying, too. Because a lot has changed since 2008, including how I feel in that bikini.

Even though I knew that it was normal for my body to be different than it was in 2008, to have changed and gained and lost and grown, my initial reaction was some combination of “Shit. Damn. I don’t want to wear a bikini. Especially not this bikini. I don’t want people to see me in a bikini. Would it be weird if I just wore my clothes into the hot tub?”

It’s a shitty feeling, to question how you look and how you think other people think you look. It’s an even shittier feeling when that questioning and doubting about your body turns into questioning and doubting about you — all of you. Your worth, your enough-ness, your value as a human. There are hundreds of books and millions of words from folks who write about this struggle; the pressures from society and magazines and the omnipresent “them” who says we are to be a certain way. And, even more so, books and words about the pressure and unrealistic expectations we put on ourselves. The battle between logic (2008 was over SEVEN years ago! Of course my body is different.) and these subconscious beliefs about how we “should” look and feel and be turn into a constant loop.

But I packed the bikini anyway, right next to the muffled loudspeaker voice whispering “bikini.” And on that Saturday at the coast, when we decided to go into the hot tub, I pulled it (the bikini, not the loudspeaker voice) out of the corner of my duffel bag. I slowly pulled the two pieces of flowery, white fabric over my body. And then, armed with a glass of wine and two best friends, I went to the back patio. I felt the water with my free hand and remembered my initial reaction to the hot tub: chlorine! massage! relaxation! I balanced my drink on the ledge and shook off my cover-up.

Was I self-conscious about how my 24-year-old body looked in the bikini I bought for my 17-year-old body? Yes. Did the loudspeaker voice creep back in as I dropped my cover-up and stepped into the hot tub? Yes. Did I get in anyway? Yes.

There are shitty feelings that enter into our brains. This is a reality for humans everywhere, and those feelings come in about all sorts of things. Our jobs! Our families! Remembering that time we accidentally chased someone down on the street because we thought it was someone else! Our bodies! Our bodies.

This one’s especially present for women, for a lot of reasons: we live in a heteropatriarchal society that places our value and worth on how we look. How much we weigh. How our bodies look in bikinis and skinny jeans and tank tops. I was able to shut up the loudspeaker voice this one time, but the shitty feelings will inevitably enter again. And again and again.

But it’s an even shittier feeling to stay away from the hot tub, keeping your clothes on while everyone else splashes around. To stay against the wall at the school dance, watching everyone else do the Cha Cha Slide. To spend your time wishing that your temple was a little bit like hers, or that if you were just skinnier/more toned/tanner/anything different than who you are, that’s when life would -- poof! -- be different. That’s finally when you’d hop in the hot tub or dance the night away. It’s an even shittier feeling knowing that you are the only one who notices or cares about your armpit bulge and squishiness — and that you are the only one holding you back from doing the quick-feet, shuffle-around happy dance in your heart.

I have since thrown away the Miley Cyrus bikini from Walmart. I finally got one from a retailer that doesn’t have questionable labor practices and from a brand that isn’t named after someone I used to watch on the Disney Channel. Because whether it’s a hot tub or the Pacific Ocean or the Minnesota lakes, I’m not staying away. I have to get in the water and back on the dance floor. These are the places where life happens — real, squishy, sometimes-shitty life. And I hope I stay in the water until my toes prune. I hope I stay on the dance floor until my feet blister.

I hope you go to those places too, and I hope you stay.