Last week, people everywhere observed Suicide Prevention Week. Through a really awesome campaign from To Write Love on Her Arms, I saw a ton of really amazing posts from around the nation of people expressing why “you’ll see me tomorrow.”As I watched these posts flood my Twitter for days on end, I started asking myself the same question. Why will people see me tomorrow? What keeps me pushing to tomorrow? 

Struggling with depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts for years tends to put questions like those into a very small and tightly locked box. I am terrified that I will find that I don’t have a good enough reason to stay, that my reasons will be stupid or flaky or not good enough — and heaven forbid my reasons become people. People leave, and then I don’t have a reason to go on. What happens when I identify the reasons I stay alive and they disappear? 

Eventually, I stopped and thought about the last few months of my life. It had been rough — a lot of transitioning and not a lot of stability, which can cause someone with anxiety and depression to spiral pretty quickly. And on a few separate occasions, I did. My thoughts traveled back to a day that I sat in my best friend’s car and explained to her that I was giving up, that I could not continue and I didn’t want to try anymore. At that point, I thought I was going to be done living. 

I replayed that conversation in my head, saw my friend’s face, and wondered how I made it from then until now. 

Then, I thought of the billions of moments that had passed in the few months since that conversation. I thought of the people that made up those moments — my three best friends, my roommate, the people I work with. 

If I had chosen to take my life just a few months ago, I wouldn’t have gotten to see my first newspaper layout in print. I wouldn’t have seen the growth of the church service I’ve loved for years. I wouldn’t have experienced living on my own or playing my first coffee shop gig. 

If I had given up, I wouldn’t have gotten to experience family monopoly nights with one of my best friends, her husband and three little kids whom I’m crazy about. I wouldn’t get to FaceTime them a few times a week or see their spelling tests and talk to them about riding the bus. 

If I had given up, I wouldn’t have experienced countless road trips and huge conversations with someone to whom I can tell anything; she wouldn’t yell at me for playing too much Switchfoot in the car. 

My pillow wouldn’t smell like my best friend’s perfume because she shows up after working nights to take a nap and make sure I’m okay. 

There are countless others, so many more moments I would have lost. And there are many more to come.  

I am about to celebrate my 22nd birthday. And I choose to stay, to keep celebrating — because I have so many more moments ahead of me to celebrate. 

You will see me tomorrow because I live for the moments that make my life beautiful, even in the midst of the pain. 

explanation: so, i miss blogging. and i haven’t blogged in forever! however, i have spent the last few months doing some serious thinking–i have so much more to say! but this was a small excerpt from my journaling this morning, the shortest way to explain the last few years and where i am right now.

sometimes, the moments before dusk are incredibly misleading.
my sunset–over three years ago–was incredibly misleading, i thought it was the dawn.
i thought it was the dawn.
the sunset was blindingly beautiful. i stood on top of a mountain in a sea of blazing color, vibrant light, and i thought i was seeing the sunrise.

the dark hit me like a brick. it knocked me off of my feet and left me disoriented and lost. and i spent years wandering through the darkness, letting it steal my peace.
this was a horrible mistake, and one i freely admit. i allowed the darkness to steal my peace. i allowed the darkness to steal my joy.

now, i freely stand in the first few hints of the sunrise, desperately seeking a light in the darkness. begging to finally see the light.

it has been dark for far too long.

In retrospect, this semester has been a whirlwind. I went into it with one life, and I am coming out of it with almost everything being entirely new.

I went into the semester unemployed…I came out with a job I love for the first time.

I went into this semester feeling like I was alone…I stand now with some of the best people I’ve ever met and have the pleasure to call them my friends. I got the opportunity to reconnect with my best friend.

I went into this semester with a lot of time to take naps…I’m coming out of it with barely enough time to breathe (or write this!).

However, I have come out of this semester with a ton of lessons learned. Maybe these lessons can teach you something, too.

1.) You have to learn to be your own friend. As much as people can enhance your life, it is a rare occurrence for people to be around you 24/7. In the alone moments, the broken and stressed and awful times in your life, it is imperative that you know yourself deeply enough to thrive in the mess. Take some time for yourself — take yourself on a coffee date, go write in a journal, spend time reflecting. In the times your life seems to be crashing down around you, the most terrifying thing is to be alone with a stranger.

2.) Surround yourself with the right people. It’s one of those diamond-in-the-rough moments to find a community of people you fit in with when you’re like me — and honestly, I did not know I would ever find people that understand the way my brain works. However…somewhere along the way, I took a shortcut through campus and ended up working at a newspaper with people that actually get me. Every week, I get to be surrounded by a bunch of crazy people that challenge my intellect, help me grow to achieve my dreams, and understand more of my brain than most people. This seems like just a happy story, but it took me 21 years to feel like there was ever a place I could fit in. The answer to this dilemma, in case I can save you all a few extra years of wandering, is to chase your passions. They lead you to people who are chasing similar things, and that makes you realize how lonely and difficult it is to walk the path alone. After 21 years, I can say with the utmost honesty — find people who you can truly communicate with, and allow them to help shape your life.

3.) Don’t be afraid of constructive criticism. One of the scariest journalist moments in my life happened during the editing of my first story (for those of you who don’t really get that picture, imagine showing a prized work of your art to a critic from Europe who wrote all over it, highlighted every missed eyelash or misdirected brushstroke, and then turned the paper over and made you start again). It was terrifying, soul-crushing, the type of experience that makes a person want to never speak or write again. And quite honestly, the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach while seeing my work torn apart my some of my close friends has not gotten easier — criticism is so hard. However, I have also spent hours laughing with these people over the simple mistakes I make over and over again. I’ve learned to admire the intelligence and patience it takes to mull over a story and try to make it perfect. And I’ve learned how much the editing process can turn something good into something great. This is such a great way to think about us — from the right person, criticism is not meant to hinder or hurt you. The process of improvement, even though it’s terrifying, is a way to take the good in you and make it great. Don’t neglect the opportunities you have to grow.

4.) Do the thing you’re thinking about right now. Sometimes, taking a leap is all you can do to keep yourself moving forward. If you’ve been chewing on a thought or potential action for a long time, do it. The worst you can be is wrong, and the worst you can do is find that out and redirect (see #3). Taking risks and leaps of faith can be the only way you learn about yourself at times. Maybe you feel awkward — but someone else could see the awkward as amazing. Maybe you think you won’t be able to go through with something — you are so much stronger than you think. Ask the questions you’re dying to ask. Dye your hair and get the tattoo. Don’t sell yourself short because the risk is too risky. Follow your dreams. Try the new food. Go out on a limb. You’re going to surprise yourself.

There are so many lessons you can learn from simple changes of heart, simple changes in life. It’s crucial to respect the process. Respect your heartbreak. Respect the times in your life when you don’t think you can move past this moment. Let yourself feel everything, grieve everything, and heal. The process of growing, learning and living is what keeps us moving. Learn to love it.

That’s an extreme cliche. Sorry, guys. But here’s the background–
Recently, I got a chance to revisit an old adventure in the spiritual retreat for my youth choir, Encounter.  I heard the stories of dozens of hurting high schoolers.  This is not much different from how it was when I was there, but looking at it from the outside broke my heart even more.  So, I needed to write to them.

As I heard all of your stories, Encounter, I remembered so much of my own.  I think it’s important to share struggles, stories, and pain–but looking at all of your beautiful faces from a few years removed, a few years clean, and a million lessons learned, I feel like it is so necessary for you all to hear from someone (one of the many!) who walked in your shoes.
I was the one with the alcoholic father and the broken family relationships.
I was the one who did not know healthy friendships or relationships.
I was the one struggling with self-harm and undiagnosed depression and anxiety.
I was the one feigning happiness and hiding my hurt.
I was the one who did not find happiness until my Encounter family surrounded me and showed me the love of Christ.

And I have to tell you, just to make sure you know–it gets better.

I attended retreat with the worship band that included my boyfriend of almost three years, my best friend, and my father (who is sober and finally has an amazing relationship with his daughter).
I attended retreat as a woman three years and three months clean from self-harm–a continuing recovery in which I never thought I would be.

But, dear family, it took me way too long to get here.  I made some extremely important mistakes along the way–I write you this in the hope and prayer that you can learn from my mistakes.
I let my fear separate me from my friends, from so many people who love and care about me.  Believe me when I say that the reason I could call my best friend by that title is purely and completely the grace of God. It took me years and years to find (and re-find) a friend that was exactly what I needed.
I refused to understand that the love of Jesus surpasses the criticism of people, the brokenness of humanity, and the questions I had about my identity.  I fell into the lie that Jesus was constantly judging me for my brokenness, imperfections, and differences, and it made me overthink every move I made for way too long.  
I did not seek help when I should’ve.  This is so crucial, because I knew the whole time that I couldn’t do it on my own.  I knew I needed more than I could expect from myself or the people in my life.
It took me way too long to be honest with my dad, and way too long to allow him to become my friend.  Guys, your parents are broken and struggling just like you are. Sometimes this creates awful circumstances and a lot of times it causes pain. But getting to know my dad in his own recovery has started to chip away at years of mistrust, bitterness, and fear that weighed me down constantly. And now, as an adult, I can honestly say my dad is one of my favorite people and I am so blessed to know him.

Your struggles are far from over, dear family–you are constantly growing, being challenged, and most importantly being created.  This will create so many mountains and valleys in your life; in that respect, it does not necessarily get easier.  But it does get better. You learn to trust more, love more, and allow yourself to heal.  And you learn to trust the process, to know in everything that God is providing and in control.

Hold tight, because your lives are just beginning; your journeys with God are just beginning.  I cannot wait to see what God is doing in all of your lives.
You are precious, honored, and loved in the eyes of God.  Fearfully and wonderfully made.  And wonderful, incredible, beautiful beyond compare.

I was in a friendly debate with my friends last week and made some sort of rebuttal to do with a weakness of mine, and my friend had a really interesting response.  “Why are you putting that on yourself? That’s not your identity.”

Now, I’m definitely one to claim all my little quirks because some of them aren’t easily shaken off.  But when she said that, I was a little taken aback.  Should this be part of my identity?  What is part of my identity?

My friend was absolutely right.  I put way too much weight onto my identity, and so much of it is unnecessary.  I am one in a billion people who suffer daily because we simply characterize ourselves by the wrong things.  Instead of harmlessly admitting and trying to work through problems, we stuff them in our backpack and make them a part of us–this seems constructive, because we don’t necessarily feel ashamed about them anymore.  (And let me be the first to say, loudly, that shame is absolutely not good–it’s not what you should feel!) But it’s not constructive.  It adds a weight to our identity.  Suddenly we’re thinking of ourselves in terms of our weaknesses, carried around by our scars and burdened by our issues.

And this is not the way to go.

Your identity is sound and rooted in one premise–that you are you.  You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

You are not stitched together by weakness and burden.  Your issues and struggles do not define you and they do not belong in your identity.  Your name is not followed by a long list of problems you have, people don’t see you with your insecurities stacked up on your shoulders.  God does not see us that way and others don’t see us that way–so we don’t need to see ourselves that way, either.

For once, look in the mirror and see yourself. Your identity is not a makeup of your weaknesses. Stop adding unnecessary weight to the precious creation that is your identity.

Just be you–who you were made to be.

Part of the change in how I view my life has involved color.  Suddenly, my big-picture view of people has become this explosive masterpiece of color and design representing every story; all their pain, all their joyful moments and passions, so much of life–it’s taken me a while, but I’m finally coming around to examining my own picture, to seeing the colors in me.

I am stitched together with a multitude of colors in every shade; some bolder than others, some a light dusting, others bright streaks.

I am the color of questions–not the feather-light comforting shade, but the deep, frantic brooding hue that begs to be heard, answered, reflected upon and turned over and over until it is resolved.

I am the color of absence–a bold, heavy flavor that makes one feel its weight.  It’s not merely the absence of necessities or necessary people, it’s the absence of me–the necessity of separation, the protective barriers I keep hitting my head on, the distance between me and you and us and the rest of the world from each other.

I am the fiery hue of passion, of bold splashes of a heart that cannot be left unheard, of words that are desperate to be said and a constant cry to be a voice for the voiceless–I have the softened edges of compassion, of an untamable desire to help the helpless, of the profusely bleeding heart that wants to leave no stone unturned and no person unloved.

I am a rainbow of quirks that lights me up like a neon sign. Against the odds, the weird looks, amidst the head-shaking and knowing smiles, through the unforgettably deep and dark parts of me, I shine.

I am every color, every question, every shade–and I’m learning to trust the One who holds the paintbrush.

Above is a picture of my favorite heavy squat (for me), and one of my favorite fitness milestones–hitting 135 to me was separating my puny fitness goals from pursuing real strength, lifting with the big boys, being able to lift above my body weight–anyway, it was super exciting.

But more importantly, above is what I would like to call the “oh shit moment” (sorry, Grandma).  Fellow fitness junkies will understand this as the moment just over the bottom of a heavy lift, or a final rep, where you feel your body screaming at you and you realize how heavy it feels and you wonder if you’ll end up finishing the rep or falling out of it (notably, this is the point where a spotter is a good idea–or the point where you see people drop bars on their chests and fall out of the squat rack. It’s pretty embarrassing, but a necessary fitness moment in my eyes–or, it’s the point where you start to hear grunts, screams, and various crazy noises that make commonfolk wonder if people are dying).  In running, it usually happens somewhere about 2/3 of the way through a tough run when your legs are starting to go numb, you haven’t figured out that you’re still breathing, and you see how much of the race you have left and have a bit of a panic moment.
You guys in the non-fitness world probably know this feeling too (unless, of course, you’ve lived in a quite comfortable bubble your whole life).  This is the moment when you see what’s ahead of you and all at once, you get this rushing and overwhelming feeling of how difficult the next moments will be.  Physically or emotionally–these are the moments when you stop yourself and say “oh shit–can I actually do this?”

Well, I have a bit of a tradition for my oh shit moments.  I stop where I am and look myself in the eye (either literally or figuratively, depending on whether or not I’m by a mirror) and simply ask myself, “where are you gonna find it?”

These six words (or seven, if we’re being technical, but when I’m barely breathing in the gym I’m not terribly worried about grammar) are a mini pep-talk to me.
Alright, Dani, you’re in the middle of a situation that seems crazy.  There’s no easy way to do this, but there’s no way in hell you’re turning back.  It seems impossible, but it’s not–it’s not impossible, it’s just difficult.  The strength exists somewhere within you.  Where will you find the strength to do this? Where are you going to find it?
I can say with confidence that occasionally, I drop the weight.  But more often than not, I push through, because the strength does exist somewhere inside me.

My strength does not always come from my legs or back, chest, or anywhere on my body. Sometimes it comes from my desire to achieve, to hit the goals I set for myself. Sometimes it comes from my emotion–whether I feel heartbroken, angry, or just want to stop thinking, emotion can drive me to push through some of the hardest workouts, some of the toughest situations.

I say this to let you all know as well, that strength does not always come from the place you expect it to come. As much as it may hurt to realize, sometimes the strength you need to push you through a tough situation won’t come from your upstanding moral compass, your strength of heart, or your unwavering optimism.  Sometimes, it comes from desperation.  It comes from not knowing what else to do.  It comes from a broken heart, an anxious mind, complete cluelessness, or complete hopelessness.
I can’t promise you that you will be able to hoist yourself up out of the dirt and push yourself smiling through every situation.  A lot of times, it will look more like a grimace.  You’ll stop yourself and realize how heavy the weight on your back is.  And you might groan and scream, you might drop the weight or have to stop yourself and refocus.
But the strength exists somewhere within you to push through any situation.

So, the time may be apparent to ask yourself, whether you’re currently facing a difficult moment or whether you just need to understand–where are you going to find it?

There’s a coffee shop in my area that I frequently visit to write, read, and do homework occasionally.  After a while (as usually happens when one is frequently sitting in a place for hours at a time) I started making friends with some of the baristas and becoming relatively familiar with the people there.  There was one girl in particular who completely made my day because she got excited that I played bass (for those of you who know my bass-player insecurities, you’ll know why this was such an experience) and we had conversed on a few separate occasions after that. One day, as I was leaving, I told everybody to have a good night and started walking out, and she said “see you later, Dani!” This wasn’t a huge deal, but it struck me that when somebody is truly kind-hearted, it makes a difference when that person says your name.

I’m not sure we realize how important our names are–I mean, it’s this word built from letters that our parents decided on when we were unable to choose it for ourselves.  However, we kind of adapt that as we grow older.  My birth name is Danielle Robyn Wilson–however, my dad swears he has no clue why they wrote “Danielle” on the birth certificate. When my parents found out my mom was pregnant, I was basically going to have the name Dani (or Danny) no matter what gender I was. (In case you wondered, it’s after the song Danny’s Song by Loggins and Messina, which I’ve always enjoyed telling people).  On the thank-you cards from my baby presents, my mom wrote my name “Dani Robyn.”  Since then, I’ve never really let people call me Danielle. In fact, I usually laugh and just tell people it’s not actually my name. Nobody has called me Danielle (unless I’m in trouble, but that’s beside the point), because I’ve always been Dani. But that name has become such a big part of my identity.
I am not a Danielle, I’m a Dani.

For a little more background–I am in love with the Wrinkle in Time series by Madeline L’Engle.  Throughout the books, the main character, Meg, figures out that basically her calling in life is to Name people–she has the ability to see their identity, their calling, and Name them accordingly. Madeline L’Engle says it a lot more beautifully.  But there’s definitely something to be said for that concept–to be named, to be called by a specific identity, is perhaps one of the most secretly special things to happen in life.

In such a time of pain, oppression, and general division in both our nation and our world, what strikes me is that so many people in this world forget that everybody has a name.  Whether people are behind the scope of a gun or a tank, whether you’re launching bombs, signing bills into law, or sitting behind a keyboard letting your network know your opinions, I truly believe they would think differently if they saw everybody as a Named individual with a purpose and an identity.  If we stopped looking through angry eyes and began imagining that we shake the hands of the people around us, saying “Hello, I’m Dani, what’s your name?” Our words, our judgments, our decisions, may not be so quick.  Perhaps the world is due for a shift in focus.  Perhaps we should simply learn that it is time to stop identifying people by their mistakes, shortcomings, or differences and time to start learning people’s names.

Hi, I’m Dani–what’s your name?

This has been really difficult to decide whether or not to post, because the song in question here has a really brilliant message and I have no doubt that it’s been encouraging women (or, rather, probably younger girls, if we’re all being serious) since it’s been aired.

Is that a valid disclaimer? I think it serves as one. I do not doubt that this song has encouraged women, however I feel like a second opinion could be necessary. There.
The song in question is Colbie Caillat’s Try.  I’ve been hearing it more and more on the radio, and to be quite honest, the more I hear it, the more I cringe.  In the same way John Mayer repeated (and repeated, and repeated) “say what you need to say” for emphasis’ sake, Ms. Caillat repeats “you don’t have to try.”

Yes, I consider myself a feminist. Yes, I believe society tends to put pressure on women to be prettier, act and be a certain way, and be more “likeable” and that this can turn into some really awful image and worth issues for some girls. Yes, I have been one of those girls. And the first time I heard this song, I teared up a little and was excited that this song gave all us girls permission to relax on society’s standards.

And then the message went on repeat. You don’t have to try. You don’t have to try. You don’t have to try.

Here’s the problem with society–YES, we are all under a lot of undue pressure. But there’s no way this should translate to telling people they don’t have to try.

I know so many beautiful, strong, capable, intelligent, quirky, absolutely weird, different, and wonderful women–and I know so many men with a lot of the same traits (yes, I know some beautiful men. I meant that part.). And a lot of them have felt the effects of society’s pressure to be perfect.  But let me tell you, my friends who are bodybuilders and powerlifters will be pretty adamant in telling you that they are defeating some pretty overbearing societal standards. And they try a lot. They try like hell.  And my friends that are single moms, artists, pastors, teachers, students, or just humans trying to live whatever life they can–they try like hell, too.  And their lives–just like most of ours, and definitely mine–would be nowhere if they decided out of nowhere that they didn’t have to try.

No, I don’t wake up and try to fit a standard I’m pressured to fit–even though, believe me, there is pressure to fit–but I do wake up and try.  I try in the gym, in school, at my job, in my relationships, with my family, in my church–I fight like hell to live my unique and quirky and crazy life. And if I didn’t try, that life would not exist.

So, my rebuttal message to this song goes out to all of the people struggling under society’s standards–no, you don’t have to keep hitting your head against the wall trying to be what people want you to be. But please, please, please keep trying. Work hard at what you enjoy, and put effort into your life.  Watch your work unfold before your eyes and appreciate the person God made you to be.  Trust me, you will not regret it.

I realized something insanely funny about myself and coffee recently–apparently, I have awful depth perception.

Coffee cups only have a certain capacity–sooooo what I tend to do it use its entire volume for coffee, and then expect there to be room for milk and honey.
The result is–you guessed it–a really hot mess (literally).  I spill it while I’m stirring it, and then I try to take it back to the table and spill it even more.  Or, I try to take a quick drink to get some out of it and immediately scorch my tastebuds.

If anybody hasn’t guessed this analogy yet, or if you don’t know me very well, I’ll clue you in a little–my life is absolutely the same way.  My tendencies run toward filling my life to capacity and then adding more and more until I can’t move without something spilling all over me.  I fill myself literally to overflowing, and it always ends up hurting me. And for a really long time, I spent a ton of effort praying for God to take one of my expectations away, to tell me what to quit, to explain why I couldn’t do anything right.

What happened yesterday was absolutely weird–my thought process switched.  Instead of praying for something to lighten up, I prayed for a bigger capacity to serve.

To simplify–instead of praying for some of the coffee to disappear, I prayed for a bigger coffee cup.

It’s an amazing revelation, really, and a humbling one.  St. Francis of Assisi had a similar prayer that’s become quite famous (read it here), and I can honestly say I’ve never made sense of the words til now.

My challenge for you guys is to change your mindset, even just a little. I’m not saying to start completely expending yourself constantly and never take a moment for your own reflection (even Jesus went to the wilderness to pray, duh), but if we change the scope of the issue we might find that we have a bigger cup than we thought.

If you are constantly anxious about things taking up space and capacity in your life, you’ll find yourself making a mess a lot more often.  Looking at things from the perspective of making the cup bigger, though–you’ll find opportunities to expand, to breathe, and to really enjoy what you’re doing.

Throw the world off your shoulders for a moment, enjoy the moment.  Don’t worry about what’s to come.
Make the cup bigger.