Voices

One.

My third quarter has been a mountain climb. And I don’t hike.

Hitting 50 brought with it the realization that I have lived since my first memories with a steady stream of other people’s voices blaring through my brain. This past September I hit the end of the proverbial road. My brain hit it’s capacity. I could no longer absorb another voice into my mind. My body began hurting in new places. I now wake up every morning with pain in my chest, across my collarbone. My entire right hand aches all day. My hips throb if I sit for any longer than five minutes.

September 24, 2024. I finally found my voice. I was able to speak for myself…speak louder than the voices. I was able to muster the courage to ask for what I needed…even with the voices shouting that I didn’t deserve to do so. And then it was time to begin destroying each voice. This is the work I am doing now. Every day. The voices are no longer welcome in my brain.

But to destroy them, I have to face them. I have to decipher what they are communicating. I have to identify their source. I have to pull them out of my physical body. Then I have to erase them – not shove them down, but watch them disintegrate. They have taken up so much space inside of me that I was never able to store any truth; they distorted my truth and twisted it into more lies that I have always believed. Why are the lies easier to believe? Because the voices are powerful. But on September 24’th I realized that their power came from me, the very thing that they were feeding on. My mind and my body are the host. Now I am doing the slow and tedious work of removing their sustenance. I am determined to stop being their nourishment.

I have begun somatic therapy. Next to childbirth, this is the most intense physical and mental process I have ever experienced. Beyond the somatic work I go through in my sessions, and the daily “homework” I am given by the incredible woman who is navigating me through them, my only other weapon is my writing. This is why I’m back, blogging. I am drawn almost daily to express all of the “things” that are slowly oozing out of me (yes, I said oozing, because that’s exactly what it feels like…thick tar oozing from every pore). I believe so strongly in this work and the somatic process that I am currently reading everything I can about it, along with experiencing it first hand. I know I will get to the other side of all of this healing. Once I do, I’ll be immersing myself in becoming a trained practitioner. Because of this goal, and to coincide with my personal journey, I want to document all of it – every heavy, ugly, but beautiful step – in hopes that someday my journey will be able to provide encouragement and support to another person in desperate need of extracting the terribly painful voices from their soul and finding a way to peace.

The first step? Expose what the voices have been saying.

I’m a list maker. When I have 100 tasks to complete, it creates stress. I find that if I write everything out on a small whiteboard, I can relax because I no longer need to remember everything. It is written out. I can, then, tackle one task at a time and simply wipe it away with my finger. My instinct is telling me to write out a list of the messages these terrible voices have been sending me for 50 years. So, as I sit here, alone at my sister’s kitchen table, surrounded by scented candles, my iced vanilla latte, gentle music playing, and a cold & cloudy day outside (my favorite), I will begin. I will brainstorm and pull this shit out of my mind…one voice at a time…in no particular order.

(Insert separate WORD document here…the exact words will stay with me)

The messages these voices communicated:

~ I am a burden ~

~ I am a brat ~

~ My chronic illness is an inconvenience ~

~ I am a financial liability ~

~ My contribution is replaceable ~

~ My existence makes other’s lives difficult ~

~ Without someone to provide for me, I would have nothing ~

~ What brings me joy causes frustration for others ~

~ I think too much ~

~ I feel too much ~

~ I’m too sensitive ~

~ I have nothing based on my own efforts ~

~ I cannot lead ~

~ I won’t be led ~

~ If I died, it wouldn’t matter to some ~

~ If I died, life would be easier for some ~

~ I’m selfish ~

~ As a child of divorce, I remind the separate families of the ex, which needs to stop because it’s “bad”. I’m too much like him. I’m too much like her. ~

~ How I manage time is wrong ~

~ I am never satisfied with anything ~

~ How I do yard work is wrong ~

~ I am too stubborn ~

~ How I run a household is wrong ~

~ I am mentally and emotionally weak ~

~ I have too many emotions ~

~ I am too big physically ~

~ I am mentally unstable~

~ I push too hard and take on too much ~

~ My decisions make life harder for others ~

~ I am not a rock for my kids ~

~ My emotions make people uncomfortable ~

~ I am ungrateful ~

~ I am rude ~

~ I am disrespectful ~

At this point, I need to stop.

Even as I’m writing out these very clear statements from the very loud voices in my head, my body is reacting. I’m feeling the tightness in my gut and my heart rate is rising. Shame is building and I feel sick to my stomach. The familiar sense of worthlessness and burden is flaring. Having all of this right in front of me – the 3 pages of statements now located in my laptop file – I’ve gathered the “data” all in one place. This does not feel good. If all of these statements were true about me, what type of person must I be? A selfish, spoiled, fat, weak, unsatisfied, snotty, emotionally unstable, overthinking, scared, frustrating, irresponsible, nuisance who could die and it wouldn’t be a problem. But, I’m not. (Well, I could lose a little weight and I do have a stubborn streak) I’m anything but perfect. I have made mistakes. I jump headfirst into projects that I’m passionate about. I’m easily overwhelmed. I am a deep feeler – an empath. I love hard. I laugh loud. I get excited…or, at least, I used to. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt excited about anything. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything other than sadness and confusion.

But, what I have learned so far is that these voices have created an unhealthy coping mechanism in me. My process has been that I need to change all of these things that were said because I believed them. I need to change them, and change me, so that the person who said it would accept me. I need to be better. I need to do better. So that they would love me. So that I would be good enough, but not too much. I need to be obedient. I need to stop thinking so much, but be sure to consider what others need from me. I need to stop feeling so much, it makes others uncomfortable. I need to be strong, but not stubborn. I need to keep my mouth shut, until I am having an emotion. Then I need to warn them so they can be prepared. After over 50 years of this juggling act, I feel so completely mixed up and twisted that it’s simply easier to shut it all off…to shove it all deep down.

And so here I am. Chronically ill. Jammed up nervous system. Walking on egg shells every day. Terrified of others’ reactions. Battling the massively strong desire to give up and let them win. Finding comfort in nourishing, loving, and providing healing to my clients who are just as ill and jammed up, because it’s exactly what I have needed all these years. If I can’t get it, I’ll give it. But no more. Now, I will get it, too…from myself.

My instinct is to delete this or make it private. As it is, I didn’t share the actual words. They’re in that private word document. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to rock the boat. But I’m so sick and tired of putting myself aside to be sure others aren’t bothered by me or my voice. These things that were said to me over the years were vomited out of their mouths and etched into my brain. The person who said them probably doesn’t even remember it. But they are loud and clear in my mind. Every damn day!! And they have destroyed my spirit, one statement at a time. I want these voices out! Get out!! I am not this person. I am loving and kind and good and loyal. I am creative and compassionate and fun and try every day to be a better person than I was the day before.

So, if I am to eliminate all of this garbage, it must be stated. It must be acknowledged. It sucks. Some of it was said out of anger or frustration. Some of it was said out of cruelty or hatefulness. And, at times, I responded in kind. I am not innocent of allowing sharp and harmful statements escape my mouth. This is the danger of using words as weapons, of not thinking before we speak. But these are the cuts that I am working to heal. These are my wounds. Once the person let the statement leave their mouth, it became mine. This is my healing process. This is my platform to share. I’ve ripped open the scab and now the poison can drip out.

Please, drip out.

When the Monster Goes Free.

“You can spend a lifetime trying to forget a few minutes of your childhood.” – unknown

I have a deep need to see justice play out. It can, at times, become something I obsess over. If someone has hurt me, or someone I love, I long to see that person – the monster – pay for what they did. It’s an intense drive inside of me and it honestly confused me for a long time. I didn’t want to be this way.

Being raised in a church-going home, raising my own children in a church, and truly desiring to live like Jesus…at least as close to it as this messed up girl can…I realize this is terribly wrong. It goes against every teaching of mercy, grace and forgiveness. “As far as it depends on you, live in peace with everyone.” Romans 12:18. This plays on loop when I’m in those “Justice Hungry” modes. Then the shame sets in.

The past few years I’ve done a lot of reading on childhood trauma. I want to understand what it does to the human that has been traumatized. How does it change the trajectory of their life? What affects does it have on the adult that this child grows into? Where do repressed memories (sometimes called “Dissociative Amnesia”) or PTSD come into play? This became a serious topic for me when I experienced an “awakening” from my own hidden traumatic memory. Having the details of the event flash so vividly in my mind that morning was like living it all over again. It wasn’t that I had no memory of the thing, it was that for all of those years the monster didn’t have a face. On this morning, that face became clear. I felt dirty. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt a little bit crazy. His name was Lindsay. I was four years old. And he was my father.

When the man who was supposed to set the tone for your sense of self-worth abuses you, when he takes your first relationship with a male and teaches you that he is not trustworthy, that he is going to hurt you, that instead of being your protector, he is the very thing you need protection from…when these things happen, how is a little girl supposed to grow up thinking that men are good? How is she supposed to feel like she is worthy of anything at all if the one person who was supposed to guard her little soul would wound her so deeply? That little girl buried his face so deeply within herself, that it wouldn’t come out for 40 years. In order for her to continue on, she couldn’t remember what he did. Because he was supposed to be her security. Instead, he was her villain.

The divorce came very soon after the thing. I truly think this was God’s way of protecting me from him. I stayed with my mom and his inability to be a parent kept me out of further opportunistic moments for further incidents. I always felt uneasy around him, clear up until my last interaction – I was 28 years old and my very tall, very strong husband made it glaringly clear that he was to stay away from me. This came after his FINAL attempt at conning us out of money we definitely couldn’t spare.

“In the attic of her childhood was an old trunk and even though she couldn’t pry it open, the muffled sobs coming from inside told her more than she wanted to remember.” – unknown

In the years that followed the memory return, so much began to flood back to me that I came to believe that my parents’ divorce was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. From the age of 4 to my early 30’s, that monster showed signs that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to fulfill his desperate agenda. He married five times. Verbally and emotionally abused and cheated on all five of those wives. The fourth wife, took the worst of his evil…I won’t even go into what I believe he did to her. Suffice it to say, she’s no longer alive.

As a young girl, when I would stay with him, he made me sleep in his bed. As a pre-teen, he would tell me stories about his and my mother’s sex life. As a teenager, he would have conversations with me about his affinity for women’s “natural hair growth”. So much inappropriate talk, and every bit of it made me terribly uncomfortable. He would decide to be a father and come around for a few months, dump this sort of dysfunctional interaction on my lap, then disappear for years. And the strangest thing is, every time he would disappear, I blamed myself. I wasn’t “good enough” for my dad to want to stick around. I was garbage. I was replaceable. I had no protector. I had no provider. I had no presence in my life that taught me what to look for in a husband, or how I should expect to be treated as a wife. I was severely deficient in all areas that are vitally necessary in a daughter’s life.

As a side note…I did have a stepdad who chose to love me. He provided for me, protected me, accepted me, cared for me. I had him from the age of 6 to 22 years old. I am forever grateful for him. In my mind and heart, he is my dad. BUT, he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be in that position in my life. I wanted MY dad to be the man he should’ve been.

My stepdad was a functioning alcoholic. Even though he had a truly good heart, he suffered from undiagnosed PTSD due to his time in Vietnam. The drinking was how he numbed the demons inside. Dad got mean when he was drunk. I watched him flip a couch over when my baby sister was asleep on its cushions. I saw him scream and cuss at my mother. I saw him punch a hole in the wall. He drove us home drunk from my aunt and uncle’s house nearly every weekend. And then one night, when I was 12, he came home plastered. My mom was gone. My little 3 year old sister ran to hug her daddy. He was visibly angry, pushed his way past her into the bedroom, opened up his drawer, then loaded a gun. I grabbed my sister and hid in the backyard behind the trash cans. I thought he was going to shoot us. My sister kept trying to talk and I had to beg her to be quiet. I was holding my hand over her mouth in fear that she would lead him to us. I didn’t know how to protect her from him. I was never so glad to see anything as I was the headlights of my mother’s car that night. She found dad passed out on the bed, gun in hand. I truly don’t know what he was planning on doing. But I’ll never forget that night. Ten years later, I was sitting at his bedside watching him take his last breath. He had Lymphoma and his liver couldn’t withstand the treatments. More trauma.

So, why am I writing all of this? Why am I sharing such ugly, sad memories? Because I believe that so many of us have suffered through traumatic experiences as a child and never received any help learning how to process and/or cope with them in a healthy manner. Those wounds created a life for us that we were required to “survive” rather than enjoy and flourish in. It created twisted thought patterns. It caused us to believe lies about ourselves and form warped ideas about how to function in other relationships. And, unfortunately, when we are simply flopping through life like a fish out of water, gasping for our next breath, it causes us to make bad decisions…causes us to adopt disheartening behaviors. It creates even more turmoil and pain in our adult relationships, without us even understanding why.

Because of what the monster did, we tend to raise our children through the web of fear. We function in our marriages/partnerships based on instincts we created to protect ourselves. Any time anybody does something that causes hurt, anger, or loss, we are triggered and taken right back to that initial violation. Then we react like a wounded animal; which, in a sense, that’s exactly what we are.

Let’s take it one step further…that monster never had to answer for what they did. They got away with it. But how can that be? How can somebody so horrid, who does something that literally destroys a child’s potential for a beautiful, “normal” life, continue to walk the earth never required to pay for what they did? Here is where the need for justice kicks in. Here is where our instincts arise needing to find some outlet for this desperate desire.

If a best friend suddenly disappears from your life, kicking you to the curb, never to be heard from again – how can you make her pay for that pain she caused you? The sense of abandonment it triggers?

If a partner lashes out at you in their anger, saying things that you will never forget, things that confirm every thought you had of how insignificant, and useless you are…if they broke your heart over the years, how are you supposed to forgive that? How do they get off without any consequences? How are you ever supposed to feel safe making yourself vulnerable with them again?

If an adult child, in their confusion as they are working to navigate adulthood, tell you they don’t love you. If they, because they’re absolutely terrified and have no tools to deal with that fear, look at their mother who they know will never abandon them, and they tell her she is weak, that they want no relationship with her, but still ask for help when they are in need. How do you not lump that child into the category of another person who has destroyed your heart?

What would the non-traumatized person do?

She would understand that this best friend’s season in her life had run its course. It was a great season, filled with laughter, love, and memories…but it was over. And all you can do is trust that it was simply time to move forward – in peace.

She would recognize that we all say things to our partner in the heat of anger. Even though it doesn’t make it right, and words, once out in the air, cannot be recaptured. She would find a way to understand that any negative feelings her husband had toward her needed to be discussed and worked through. And once that is done, life moves forward; the relationship grows stronger; again, peace is found.

She would remember how hard it was to be a young adult. She would remember what it was like to have that person – that parent – who would NEVER walk away from you. She would realize that because her child felt safe enough to speak those hurtful words, to get the garbage out, it meant they truly understood that you were the absolute definition of unconditional love. She would love them through their turmoil, walk alongside them as they figure out this difficult chapter, and be there to embrace them at the other side, having forgotten all of the painful words because she understood that it was about them and not her; the other side where peace dwells.

But, here’s the problem…that requires a person who was not thrown off her foundation at such a young age. That requires healing that most of us who were violated…traumatized…never got; especially when the monster was lost deep inside the memory banks. So, to find that peace that is longed for, you MUST find a way to heal. You MUST find a way to live this life in the manner it was meant to be lived.

My purpose in writing this is to encourage you. If you have a monster in your world. If your monster never had to pay for what they did. If your monster is still following you around continuing the destruction, go get help. It is possible to find healing again, no matter how long ago the hurt occurred. It is possible to release the monster, cut the tether, demand that it leave your life. We MUST hold onto the fact that nobody actually gets away with their wrong. We must release our grip on the obsession to see that monster suffer as we have. There will be hurt and pain in life. And, you know what? We have the right to learn how to manage those hurts and pains without being sucked back to that terrible event that set us into a spiral that we were strapped to until now. We have the right to peace. Go get yours!

If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She has released her Membership Site providing her signature coaching as a self-paced program. Dive deep into all areas of life in order to find balanced health, reach your health & life goals, and discover a renewed sense of joy.

Visit her website listed below for more information.

http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Where Did My Hat Go?

In life, we wear many different hats. Some are parental hats, marital hats, career hats, relational hats. We may don a service hat, an educator hat, a leader hat. There really is no end to the headwear we can crown ourselves with. Now, obviously, I’m not speaking literally. I’m utilizing the metaphor of wearing a “hat” as an identity label. By the time I’d hit my late 30’s, I’d collected several hats that I was incredibly proud of…hats that made up the very fabric of who I was. I found my security in them. They provided me with my motivation and desire to reach even further in life.

My hats?

“Mom”, “Homeschool Parent”, “Church Member”, “Sunday School Leader”, “Missionary to Kenya”, “Jazzercise Instructor”, “Nutritionist”, “Farmer’s Wife”, “Daughter”, “Friend”, “Sister”, “Auntie”

Oh, so many hats!

Well, these days, I can’t seem to find my damn hat!! I’ve lost them all. My head is naked! And it’s left me feeling bare, vulnerable, and in desperate need of some sort of covering.

This whole blog project started from a very specific place. One of confusion, loss, change, loneliness… A total lack of recognition for anything resembling my life or what made me who I am. When my first child left for college back in 2011, I thought that was tough. I truly struggled with that first bird leaving the nest. But, as it does, time healed that hurt. A few years later, kid number two packed up and moved out. Then, January of 2021, there went the last one! We loaded the cars and moved her into her own place. I’ve never experienced such quiet as I did the night we walked back into this empty house. No kids. Just me and the husband. The silence was deafening.

The “Mom” hat – not gone, but it looks more like a headband now.

The “Homeschool Parent” hat – all worn out. It served me well, but time to say goodbye!

Then we lost our church; our second home; what we thought was our second family. This was another monumental blow to the gut. More confusion, more loss, more change, with an added side of betrayal from people we never would have expected to hurt us. We tried to hold on after the initial incident, but after several months, we were quite strategically pushed out. In the months that followed, we tried attending somewhere new, but we just couldn’t get past the hurt. It’s hard to know who you can trust after watching those you thought were friends and mentors dissect you from something you devoted your entire adult life to.

The “Church Member” & “Sunday School Leader” Hats – Blew off in the wind……..

Due to chronic stress, poor eating habits from complete lack of self care, an overflowing plate, and a crappy genetic pre-disposition, my health began to deteriorate right around age 40. For the full story, you can visit my website. But suffice it to say, my immune system went on attack…and on the GOOD body parts. I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Adrenal Insufficiency, and Fibromyalgia. I had to do a complete turnaround on my lifestyle and diet. The story gets drawn out, but the bottom line is this – I had to shut down my fitness business, stop the nutrition counseling, and I could no longer teach (and could barely participate in) Jazzercise classes. This was a massive blow to my identity, my ego…my happiness, really. I lost something I loved to do, was good at, and that provided me with a sense of belonging. I was part of a team. Losing that caused those friendships to slowly disappear…along with my confidence.

The “Jazzercise Instructor” & “Nutritionist” hats??? BAM!! Gone!

Enter Empowering Lives International…one of the most amazing outreach organizations working in East Africa to empower the lives of the people there and put an end to poverty. I’d been to Kipkaren, Kenya three times…on the mission teams in 2005 and 2006. Then leading the team in 2011. These trips were life-changing. And I came home having been blessed far more than anything I may have been able to do for them. It was an incredible gift. I’ve made life-long friends and a piece of my heart will forever dwell in that little village. An opportunity arose for me to go back a couple years ago. With my kids grown, my church work behind me, no more home-schooling, or business running, maybe THIS was what I was meant to do now!

My doctor’s response to this? Absolutely not! “Your immune system can’t tolerate a 30 minute strength class. You think it’ll manage a 3 week trip to Africa without completely reversing all of the work you’ve done to turn your health around?” I’d just completed my second year of getting IV infusions every week. Surely I could handle a trip to Kenya. I was assured that, in fact, I could not. Africa trips? Behind me.

“Missionary to Kenya” hat…SO gone!

Not long after the loss of our church, my husband was faced with a major career change. He’s an onion farmer, and very good at what he does. The difficult part of this is that it required him to be away about 7 months out of the year. As much as the kids and I disliked him being gone so much, it became our normal. We got used to it. When the career shift came, it left him unsure of what to do next, without work, and home all day, every day; after 25 years of living apart most of the time. This was an incredible shock to both of us. After nearly two years, he went back to farming at a facility two hours away, and year round. Which meant, now, instead of him being gone seven months a year, he was gone twelve. I only saw him on Saturday evenings. I was home in our house, living our life. He was in Lancaster, working 12 hour days, going home to an empty trailer, all by himself. He wasn’t even able to enjoy the life he was working so hard to provide. The answer? We sell our house and I move closer to his job. (More on this a little further down.)

The Farmer’s Wife hat gets a little tricky. I’m still a wife. Scott’s still a farmer. But the way our life functioned for 25 years was dictated by the demands of his job. We were without him nearly all the time, and so had to learn to function just the four of us – no dad. There was a rhythm to it that we were familiar with. And seemingly overnight, it was gone. The complete lack of familiarity with how Scott’s job functions now is where the discord comes in as far as this particular hat. So we won’t say it’s gone. We’ll say…

“Farmer’s Wife” hat? A new style. Maybe we went from a ball cap to a straw hat…but most definitely unrecognizable.

After nearly 14 years in our Nuevo house, the place we raised our kids, we needed a new start. So we packed up our life and moved to a nice home up in the hills, surrounded by orange groves. It was closer to our friends, still near our families, and in a city we’d grown up knowing so there were no difficult transitions. For three years we lived in this 2,400 square foot home with a beautiful backyard, quiet neighborhood, and amazing citrus smell in the springtime. This is where we realized there was no real reason for us to live apart anymore. It was creating a bit of a struggle in the marriage department. As I mentioned above, Scott would work his crazy hours, and go “home” exhausted from a hard day to an empty trailer…eat dinner alone…go to bed alone. He would get to enjoy one, maybe two nights in our home with me and our youngest daughter who was still living with us. He missed his dog, his bed, never got to enjoy working in his yard…it was an unfortunate situation.

In November of 2020, we moved into our new home up in the San Gabriel Mountains. Two months later, our last kid moved out. And the following year had me searching for the “what now?” I found myself 90 minutes (without traffic, and in California traffic is unavoidable) from my friends, my sisters, my nieces and nephews, my mother, from all sense of familiarity. I had to find a new grocery store, new Target, get familiar with new streets, new shortcuts. I was the foreigner in our little mountain town. I didn’t know a soul. I would see people chatting in the local market parking lot, see neighbors standing in between their yards laughing over one thing or the other, waving at each other at the post office. I would watch the town Facebook page trying to get a feel for how this place worked. Everybody seemed to know each other. The loneliness kept me constantly driving down the mountain looking for some sort of “normal”. I kept shopping in my old stores whenever I could; clinging on to anything that I recognized…anything that made me feel like the “Kim” I knew. But this made it impossible for me to ever move beyond this empty feeling I was consumed by. The only way out of something is to go through it, right? So, I had to stop the constant trips back “home”. I had to make this new place my home. Slowly, my friends stopped calling, stopped texting…they moved on with their lives and I was no longer a part of it. I went from seeing my daughters on a very regular basis, to now sometimes not laying eyes on them for a month at a time. Went from being a regular part of my niece’s lives, babysitting, stopping by for visits, seeing my youngest sister a LOT, knowing that mom is just a short drive down the expressway, to having to make special plans to gather and spend time together. We have to navigate the I-15 traffic, make sure we travel in the proper time windows to avoid a 2 1/2 hour drive; pray there is no accident among the cars racing to Las Vegas. It’s not a simple 25 minute drive anymore. I’d left my community. I’d left what had always been there providing me with security. I hadn’t even realized how important all of that was until I no longer had it.

Friendships…nearly all of them disintegrated.

Sisters…busy with their lives and I’m too far away to pop in and say hi.

Nieces & nephews…no longer a regular rotation of them coming through the house, making a mess with the Legos, crayons, and other toys I kept displayed for their frequent visits.

My mom…not comfortable with the long drive and the crazy freeways.

Another weird hat analogy here, because I’m still a daughter, a sister, and an auntie. I still have friends. And I’ve actually made a couple new ones here in my new town. Again, it’s the fact that it looks completely different. I don’t recognize the way life functions these days. I think back to how it used to be and that life seems so far away.

The “Daughter” hat, “Sister” hat, “Auntie” hat…another shift of style here. They have gone from full blown hats, to maybe visors? Maybe just hair ties?

And the “Friend” hat? Let’s just say this is a HELMET…the kind you add stickers to. The headwear, itself, is sturdy; protects you from injury and mild concussions. But you can decorate it. Imagine a sticker that represents each of your friends. Sometimes they will wear off and fade over time. You can add a new one whenever you’d like. There are some that hang on for years and years, never wearing off. Others only stick for a few years, but they were great while they lasted. The look of the hat changes with the loss and addition of those stickers, but the helmet never changes. I like this hat! I’d be lost with out this one.

I think the bottom line in this post is that life is constantly shifting; sometimes faster than you’re accustomed to. It’s difficult not to hold on to those hats with an iron grip. My hands are holding on so tight the blood can barely flow. In this MIDDLE season, I need to learn how to loosen that grip, one finger at a time. It’s terrifying. I don’t actually know how to do it. But I have to try. Because I believe that there is still a lot of life ahead of me. There is so much good waiting…so many more hats to wear.

Are you holding on to your old hats? Are you feeling scared to let them go? Or scared to let them change? You aren’t alone. Let’s move forward together as we loosen that grip, hang our familiar hats up on a hook, and begin adding the new ones to our collection. Just imagine the beautifully colorful hat rack we could have by the end of our journey!

If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She has released her Membership Site providing her signature coaching as a self-paced program. Dive deep into all areas of life in order to find balanced health, reach your health & life goals, and discover a renewed sense of joy.

Visit her website listed below for more information.

http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Too…Whatever.

Too Late.

Too Tired.

Too Busy.

Too Young.

Too Old.

That last one is starting to get me these days. I turn 50 this year. How this happened, I have no clue. I clearly remember planning my mom’s 50’th birthday and it doesn’t seem all that long ago. The thing that really sucks about this age is I don’t FEEL 50. But, what does that mean, really, to FEEL 50? I thought about that today…what are my pre-conceived notions about what it means to turn the big Five – Oh? What is my definition of a fifty year old woman?

As I contemplated my question, I realized that I had a rather crappy idea stuck in my brain of what it meant to age; at least when it came to myself. I remember looking at my mother’s hands when we would stand in church…resting our fingers on the back of the pew in front of us. I thought, “Man, her hands are getting wrinkly.” Now, she was in her 30’s at the time – shows how ridiculous I was and how caught up I was in the societal worship of youth and beauty. One day about ten years ago, I was standing next to my teenage daughter…in church…my hands on the back of the pew in front of me. And guess what I saw. My mother’s hands stuck to the end of my arms! As I’ve grown, I thought I’d overcome that whole “Gross! I don’t want to get old” mentality. Apparently not. Oh, I know all the right things to say:

“Aging is a gift.”

“I earned every wrinkle and each gray hair.”

“As we get older we gain wisdom.”

But deep down…buried inside the recesses of my mind and gut, I still reeled from the belief that once you turn 40, your life was basically over. INSANITY!

Diving deeper into my thoughts on this topic, I remembered something I learned from my trips to Kenya. In that culture, the aged are honored…they’re revered. The elderly are not disregarded, pushed aside as family members that need to be “handled” or become a burden. The older generations are treated almost like royalty.

I remember, on my first trip in 2005, walking with a new friend from the village. He was telling me all about their culture, their traditions…as we walked, he stopped to introduce me to an older gentleman who was sitting peacefully outside of his mud-walled home. He described how I was to shake his hand: After a verbal greeting of the very basic “Jambo” (‘Hello’ in Swahili), you respectfully place your left the elder’s right wrist, then shake with your right. It’s a very subtle and gentle motion, but it shows honor for the elder you are greeting.

After our introduction, I noticed something about the ears of this man we were visiting. As I very delicately continued observing – I didn’t want to be caught staring at the sides of his head – I noticed that there was a mound of skin looped around each ear. After we said our goodbyes, I asked my friend why his ears were like that? He said that in the older generations, and as a tribal practice, people would cut their earlobes and hang some sort of weight on them to cause them to stretch. As they grew older, the skin would continue drooping further and further towards the ground. The longer the earlobe, the more obvious their age group, and the wiser they were considered to be. It was a sign of how long they had been walking the earth; a visual cue to those around so as to know the level of respect and honor they were to be shown due to their age. I remember loving this so much. Coming from a culture that definitely does not value age, it was so refreshing. I soaked up every instance of a younger person feeling honored to be in the presence of someone older. Not once did I see anyone from an advanced generation disregarded. In fact, the opposite was true. They were searched out for guidance – ALL THE TIME…BY EVERYONE!! How amazing is that?

So, why is this rattling around in my brain these days? Obviously because I’m 4 months away from turning 50. YIKES! But, also, I’m in this weird transitional time of life. Believe me, I’m trying to handle it with style and grace…insert sarcastic laugh…but often find I fall short.

I’ve been battling the process of re-inventing myself now that my children are grown. They were my “Why”. They were what got me up in the morning from the age of 21 to 49. My oldest left home when I was 39 and the last one permanently left the nest one year ago. It’s been a decade of adjusting, preparing (or so I thought), and bracing myself. The problem is I didn’t actually know what I was bracing myself for. It’s like your first pregnancy, as you prepare to have the baby. You hear stories. You can imagine what it will be like. You even make decisions on how you will handle it and you’re absolutely certain it will go exactly as you expect right? Then the first real contraction hits and everything you thought you knew flies right out the window. That’s exactly what happened to me. I truly thought I had myself all prepared to let my kids move into the world. Every time I confidently told a friend, “I’m going to be prepared when my kids leave the nest. All it takes is some planning” I’m pretty sure I heard an audible laugh coming from above…I make God laugh on a regular basis, I’m convinced.

This past year I’ve adjusted to having no kids at home. It’s been messy, but I made it through.

Now? I’m wrestling with the voice that’s telling me, “You’re too old to start a new business.”

“It’s too late. You missed your chance.”

“There isn’t enough time. Your youth is behind you.”

Well, as you can see, I’m a quote junkie. I love finding little nuggets of motivation when I’m feeling defeated…searching for examples of others in the same boat to encourage me to move forward. I went exploring and found the standard list of successful people who finally hit their stride later in life. I’m sure this list isn’t new to many of you, but in light of feeling discouraged for the late start, I want to include it here (FYI – I don’t even know who some of these people are, but they’re people none-the-less, right? And let’s be real…there are probably millions of other “regular” people who made a difference or reached their dream later in life. Their stories just weren’t floating around on the internet.)

~ Henry Ford didn’t get rolling on the Ford Motor Company until he was 40. And the Model T came out 5 years later.

~ Martha Stewart was in her 40’s when she began writing her cookbooks and promoting her domestic living presence.

~ Ray Kroc was 52 when he began the McDonald’s chain of restaurants.

~ Sam Walton was 44 when he opened his first Walmart

~ Julia Child was 51 before she had gained enough knowledge to host her first “The French Chef”.

~ “Colonel” Harland Sanders FAILED at age 65 when he opened his first fried chicken restaurant. His social security checks helped support the next venture that turned into what we know as “KFC – Kentucky Fried Chicken”.

~ Vera Wang didn’t enter the fashion industry until she was 40 years old.

~ Dawn M. Blackman Sr. turned her hobby of gardening into a way to serve the community. At 55, she created the Randolph Street Community Garden in Champaign, Illinois. This project makes a huge impact on her community. The city is considered a food desert where it is extremely difficult to obtain fresh produce. Her dedication has provided nutrition to those around her and has also inspired future generations to invest in their communities, as well.

~ Duncan Hines was 55 when he wrote his very first review. And it wasn’t until he was 73 that his name was licensed by the company making cake mixes.

~ Samuel L. Jackson was 46 years old and recovering from drug addiction when he got his big break in the movie “Pulp Fiction”.

Ok, as I mentioned above, there must be millions of other stories of people finding their stride well into mid-life. This is what I choose to hold on to. This is where faith in myself MUST kick in. Each day I get a fresh start. Every morning I’m given a new opportunity to take steps toward my next big venture. My children are grown. That was a gift and an amazing success as far as I’m concerned. But that doesn’t mean I’m finished.

credit: positive energy

Let’s begin to change the way our American culture sees our elders. And let’s do that by changing how WE see OURSELVES as we move forward in time. If we degrade ourselves for the number of candles on our birthday cake, then we will never hit the point of those Kenyans I admired so deeply. I want to have those long earlobes that the younger generations see as a sign of wisdom (Not really, because, OUCH! But you get what I’m saying.) I want to be honored and embraced for all that I’ve seen and endured in my life. And to get that, I have to honor and embrace myself.

How about you? Are you limiting yourself because of how old you are? Do you catch yourself saying, “I can’t do that anymore, I’m too old.” Or, maybe it sounds more like, “I need to dress my age. I shouldn’t wear that shirt.” Wear the damn shirt!! Just like Cameron Diaz was quoted above, let’s reframe the way we talk about our aging. If we do that, maybe it will slowly start to catch on. Maybe we’ll find a new energy, a new path toward even more milestones in our life. Let’s make every day count, right up until we give our final bow. Because it’s NOT too late. We AREN’T too old. And if you’re too tired, then take a quick nap, get up, and do it anyway!!!

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Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of 30 years. She offers private health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She will be releasing her monthly Membership Site in January, 2022. This site will provide multiple resources and guidance, helping the member explore all areas of life in order to find balanced health and a renewed sense of joy. Visit her website listed below for more information.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Bring Me All the Sevens…Part 2

(Previously titled: When the Bones Are Good)

More talk about bones? Yes. Let’s do it! I love this analogy. If you haven’t read Part 1 of this little series I’m creating, go back and take a look. It’ll help you understand what this is all about.

When I was going to school for my certification, one of the presenters read us a quote by Alice Miller. It hit me so deeply that I had it printed, framed, and it sits in my sight across from my desk. It goes like this:

“The truth about our childhood is stored up in our body, and although we can repress it, we can never alter it. Our intellect can be deceived, our feelings manipulated, conceptions confused, and our body tricked with medication. But someday our body will present its bill, for it is as incorruptible as a child, who, still whole in spirit, will accept no compromises or excuses, and it will not stop tormenting us until we stop evading the truth.”

YIKES!!

What does that mean if we break it down? Basically this…We can read books, tell ourselves that everything is fine, ignore it, or take pills. But at some point in our life, our body will let us know it’s done pretending everything is ok. It will demand that we deal with and work through the garbage that happened to us as kids, or, really, at any time in life. But we’re talking about the “bones” of our lives…the beginning part…the foundation. So, as for this post, we’re looking at our childhood.

I’ve known many people who believed very strongly that it’s best to “let it go” when it comes to childhood trauma. I’m not just talking about abuse; I’m talking about the adults in our lives who were supposed to be our protectors, our guides, our examples. I mean those people in the generations ahead of ours who we were to feel completely safe around making degrading, hurtful comments that get engrained into your mind. The inappropriate slapping on the butt, or other uncomfortable places. The relentless teasing. All of these things then rationalized away with the whole, “Oh, he was only joking. Don’t be so sensitive” response if you ever gather up enough courage to speak up about how it made you feel. That one absolutely incenses me! Especially when we’re talking about kids.

Once again I want to ask you to think back to your childhood. What was said to you that still rattles around your brain today? What happened that you just can’t seem to forget about? It might be time to work through it! Forgiveness to the one who hurt you? Yes! That’s important. But, you need to dissect it and see how it influenced what you say to yourself. How do you think about yourself because of what was said or done to you? THIS is where the work comes in. Only you can reprogram that glitch. Search out the truth and begin replacing it. It’s not easy, but it’s possible. Believe me…if I can do it, anybody can!

My second bone…

**********************************************************************************

My memories of being a little girl come in fragments.  I can often find one screaming back at me when I hear a song, catch a scent or, obviously, see an old photo.  These memory fragments, though, more often than not, replay moments of me noticing what was around me, thinking about it, being aware of everything and everyone.  I noticed smells, sounds, and mostly, feelings.  If I were to try and put them on a timeline, I would guess that at the beginning, I would be at either of my grandparents’ homes.
Grandma and Grandpa Fields, my dad’s parents - they lived in a two story corner house in Yorba Linda when I was young.  I’ve tried to return there once with my kids, to show them this place that holds so many memories for me.  But this was before the days of navigation systems and I failed miserably.  Anyway, it was on the corner of a busy street and across the street were train tracks.  Trains would race by on a regular basis, day and night.  I would often spend the night (especially while my dad was living there).  Grandma would tuck me into my Aunt Sandi’s four poster bed that was so high off the ground I’d have to run and jump to get on it.  She would keep the little glass lamp on the side table turned on to the lowest setting, kiss my forehead, say goodnight & close the door.  I’m not sure if this was the beginning of my being afraid of the dark or not.  But it’s definitely when my memory of the fear begins.  When a train would be headed our way, I’d tuck myself tightly underneath the covers because, as everyone knows, if you’re under the covers, you’re perfectly safe.  The train’s whistle would wail hauntingly, first from far away, warning me that it would soon be right across the street.  Then louder and more demanding as it approached.  When the sun was down, in my young mind, trains were nothing more than giant creatures hoping to derail so that they could catch little girls and carry them away forever.  I was terrified of them when nighttime hit.  They were big, very loud and the intense power they displayed as they raced by, creating wind that usually only God could make, was too much for me to take in.  Luckily for me, those evil night monsters were never able to unhook themselves from the steel tracks.  Or, if they did, those covers were strong enough to keep me hidden.  Too bad for them!  But, to this day, the sound of an oncoming train, that warning whistle that blows long and loud, still sends a chill down my spine.  And I prefer to be far, far away from the tracks.
But what I remember the most is that the walls on either side of the staircase were covered in family photographs.  Every time I traveled up or down those stairs I would see my family smiling back at me. Grandma and Grandpa in bold flower outfits on one of their trips to Hawaii. Uncle Freddy’s senior photo.  Aunt Sandi with the “Beehive” hair.  Aunt Robin in her pretty dress the day she married Uncle Cliff. A family photo of Robin, Cliff, Michael and Chad.   My dad in his Army uniform.  Nonie, Papa, Aunt Teri, Aunt Pat, Uncle Neil.  Baby pictures of Michael and Chad and me.  There were pictures of me.  This was my family.  Yet, even as a child, I remember feeling like I didn’t fit with these people.  I physically matched them, sure.  I loved them and they loved me.  But my world was separated from theirs.  My cousins had their family photo up there.  My mom’s face was nowhere to be found on that wall.  My family was broken so I felt broken.  I knew my mother was considered a sort of enemy.  She wasn’t included.  She wasn’t liked.  And I was a part of her.  It made me feel like I wasn’t completely good enough.  There was always this feeling that I needed to work extra hard to be liked.  I couldn’t talk about my mom or share anything about my life that happened away from my dad’s side of the family.  If they asked about school or friends, I’d make sure to choose my words carefully.  There was nothing worse than beginning to tell a story where I’d slip and end up using the words, “then mom and me…”  This would bring on the eye rolls and the whispered comments that I couldn’t ever quite make out, but knew they weren’t nice.   So began my system of compartmentalizing my life.  When I was at Grandma and Grandpa Fields’ house, I would keep my mouth shut about everything not pertaining to them or that side of my family.  I had no clue that this was what I was doing beyond telling myself, “Don’t talk about mommy” over and over again.  My young brain was incapable of this sort of intentional plan.  Instead, it was what naturally began to happen.  The desperate need I had to feel as if I “belonged” to my very own family drove me to stifling my thoughts, my stories, my feelings, and, in the end, myself.  I would only allow them to know the Kim that I believed they wanted.  
I loved my family.  I wanted them to love me. I wanted to fit in with them.   I wanted to be with my family.  And I wanted them to want to be with me.  So, I adjusted.

Did you experience divorce? How did your parents handle it? Did they find a way to get along, or was it WWIII? Were you caught in the middle? Were you a pawn in their battle? How did this carry into your adulthood? This would be a fairly large level bone structure right here…I’m talking femur size! I challenge you to explore your thoughts. Think about how you speak to yourself based on whether you were required to compartmentalize yourself in order to keep the peace or feel accepted by those who were meant to give you a sense of security and confidence. Dig in…then rewire that garbage! Because you’re worth it. Your health is worth it. Your body is worth it.

It’s time!!

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Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She has released her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, which provides 12 weeks of intensive digging into all areas of life in order to find balanced health and a renewed sense of joy. Visit her website listed below for more information.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Bring Me All the Sevens…Part 1

(Previous title: When the Bones Are Good)

Think about your bones. We’d be a floppy, droopy mess without them, right? They hold us up. They protect vital organs. They endure smashing, kicking table corners, bumping into cabinet doors. If they crack or snap, they’re capable of healing back again. Our bones aren’t just an important part of our bodily structure, they’re pretty bad ass!

Bones are the base of our body. So, as I considered how to describe the “base” of our lives, my mind went there…to our awesome skeletons.

What were the bones of your life like? How would you describe them? Nobody has a perfect scenario as they emerge from childhood into adult life. Some, however, have better life bones than others. Think about yours. Were they a solid, functional, healthy set of bones? Or was there a malformation? Maybe just a lack of strength…Maybe they were broken and not set properly so the healing didn’t happen correctly…Maybe a piece was missing causing a lack in function.

I’ve noticed throughout the last decade or so, that my life bones set me up for a bit of a struggle in this third quarter. Back in 2012 I began writing my story. I got to about age 5 or 6 and then the laptop I was writing on broke and I was unable to recover my documents…until now. I found the story! And as I started to read through it, I noticed something. Being 9 years further in life than when I began documenting my memories, knowing where I am now and comparing it to what I was reading from then, I see that our childhood circumstances most definitely influence how we handle major life transitions. Think about it… we develop coping mechanisms, defense strategies, habits in order to protect ourselves…and we carry them right into our “grown up” worlds.

My memoir (sounds a bit too fancy for me, but I’m going with it), begins with my first child leaving the nest. I was 39 years old, 40 at the time I was writing. Now that my last two kids have moved out, I have more experience on the whole “Empty Nest” scenario. So, I’m finding it interesting to read my thoughts when it was such a new experience. Even then, though, I was aware of the fact that my life bones were the cause of why it was such a devastating transition.

I want to share my story. I won’t dump the whole thing here, though. Maybe in pieces over the next few weeks. But, definitely the first part about my son heading off to college, along with my very first bone…

**********************************************************************************

“I still need you, mom, just in a different way, now. ”

This thought rolls around and around in my head as I try to get some sleep.  It’s not the first time I’ve heard it in the past twelve months, either.  What’s happening to me?  Why do I feel so afraid? It’s not as if I thought my kids would stay small forever.  I’ve always been fully aware of the fact that the day would come that my son and two daughters would eventually take off into their own lives. Isn’t that what the goal of parenting is?  And not only did I want them to take off, I wanted them to go on their own volition, with excitement and purpose, ready to handle whatever they might encounter.  I was determined to release three amazing adults into the world.  It was always my goal. 

Nearly one year ago, the first part of this goal was met.  My son, Bradlee, graduated from Grace Preparatory High School. And two months later, August 2011, Brad, my husband, our two daughters and I packed up the Buick with boxes, Rubbermaid containers, a stereo and so much more.  The five of us literally wedged ourselves into the car. We buckled up, gave one last wave goodbye to the friends who’d gathered in our front yard to say their teary farewells to Brad, and began the trip toward Santa Barbara to drop him off at Westmont College – the school he’d wanted to attend since junior high. 

Driving home two days later, the car one person lighter, I felt as if I’d left behind a part of me that was vital to life.  Pulling into the driveway that night, I no longer understood what my purpose was – at least not in my son’s life.  And, not long from now, I’d be doing the same thing with my two girls.  This was one of the single most terrifying realizations to ever hit me.  Not because I was living in some sort of dream land where my children were never going to leave me.  But because I’d now experienced watching one of my birds leave the nest.  It was no longer a future event I knew would happen, someday.  It had actually already happened. And it happened a lot faster than I had expected.  Wasn’t he just a little guy playing with his army men and Legos while watching SpongeBob Squarepants on Nickelodeon? 

It hurt.  It hurt really badly.  It hurt more than I think it should have.  I had this all too familiar feeling of being left behind.  I felt unnecessary.  I felt insignificant.  I felt……abandoned.  And mixed in with all of this, I felt guilty because I knew none of these feelings were right.  My amazing son was at the exact school he’d always wanted to attend.  Brad was about to set the world on fire.  I was so excited for him.  I was so unbelievably proud to watch him drop right into this new phase of life with confidence and ease.  I mean, isn’t that proof that I had accomplished my goal of preparing him for this exact moment?  What an awesome event in the life of a mother!  But as I rolled these truths around in my mind, I realized that this had nothing to do with Brad.  It had never been and would never be the responsibility of my children to provide me with security and life purpose.  That wasn’t going to start now.  No, I realized that there was another level of garbage from my less than ideal childhood trying to rear its ugly head.  I could tell already, it was going to be a bad one.  And I had no idea how the hell I was going to handle it. 

Dropping the boy off at Westmont College – 2011

Sevens part #1…

1976

Refrigerator magnets…I remember focusing on the refrigerator magnets, so neatly arranged on the front of the freezer door.  I think staring at those magnets, finding a pattern in how they were hanging symmetrically gave me a tiny sense of comfort from the screaming that was going on in the peripheral area of where my eyesight was focused.  Mommy & Daddy were fighting again.  Memory of the exact words that were being yelled is gone.  But what I can recall is the intensity of the voices, the sense of hatred that was being torpedoed back and forth between the two people who were my very foundation.  I was four years old.  It’s my first memory – finding a pattern in those refrigerator magnets while listening to my parents tear each other apart with terrifying volume.

Whether it was later that same day, I have no clue; Most likely not.  But it couldn’t have been more than a few days before memory #2 hits. Closet doors…I was sitting on the side of their bed, now staring at the closet doors.  “Daddy’s going to go live at Grandma’s house.”  There were four closet doors – the kind that slide on a track.  And above those sliding doors were cabinets; Three of them.  Another pattern.  Sliding door, cabinet, sliding door, cabinet, sliding door, cabinet, sliding door…”sometimes mommies and daddies just can’t live together anymore…”  Seven doors all together.  Seven doors.  Seven…”We still love you so much.  And this has nothing to do with you…”  Seven doors…”and you can come and visit me every weekend…”  The sliding doors have big, circle handles and the cabinets have small knobs.  Circle handle, small knob, circle handle, small knob, circle handle, small knob, circle handle.  Seven…”and I’ll call you every night and you can call me any time you want…”

And just like that, my family was gone.

Here’s the thing about this first bone; it started a habit – a coping mechanism. I STILL count things in sevens. I decorate my walls in a way that I can always find a pattern of seven when my husband and I have a fight, or if I’m having any type of anxiety. When I enter anybody’s home, I find my seven immediately. This started when I was four years old…for 45 years I’ve been finding patterns and counting in sevens for comfort.

That’s a bone!

What is your first life bone? What was your earliest memory? What was the result of that memory? Has it influenced how you handle life circumstances today? Mine sure did! Think about your bones…be grateful for them, nurture them, honor them, and if they need healing, do that, too. We can work on that healing together.

If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

What Would Betty Do?

Betty and her beautiful smile – 2006

I’m 34 years old. Married for nearly 15 years. My children are 13, 11, and 7. I’m running two small businesses, leading the children’s ministry at my church, and running my household. This is when I decided it would be a good time to go on a second trip to Kenya. You’d think having gone the year before and experiencing crippling home-sickness, I would’ve learned my lesson.

But, no. I’m one of those people who needs to make a mistake and have a lesson dumped in my lap three for four times before it begins to sink in. (On a side note – I went a third time in 2011…like I said, slow learner here!)

A tiny snippet of the village in Kipkaren, Kenya

The thing about my trips to Kipkaren, Kenya, though? They weren’t mistakes. Difficult? yes…Could there have been a better time? Probably…Mistakes? Absolutely not! The lessons I learned from this international chapter in my life were the good kind. The kind that inspire and motivate. The kind that leave permanent imprints on the very fabric of who I am. Betty was one of the most impactful people I have ever encountered. What I learned from her is what set me on the path to what I do now; helping others find their way out of the hole they feel lost in. Let me share Betty with you…

I’m not sure on dates or time lines. What I do know is that Betty was suffering with advanced AIDS. I remember her explaining that she had lost her husband already, leaving her alone to care for her young children. As time went on, she began getting quite sick. One particular day, a nurse visiting from America found Betty face down in the dirt outside of her home. She was horribly ill by this point; dehydrated, malnourished, unmedicated, and on death’s door. She was in a desperate state. The nurse got Betty to the nearby village clinic, assessed her and began the process of getting her on a treatment protocol.

The Kipkaren River

Now, there’s something I learned while I was there. One of my Kenyan friends explained to me that when a villager is diagnosed with a fatal disease neighbors basically write you off. It isn’t because they are uncaring. The mentality in a struggling country is one of survival. Resources are terribly limited. Think about it…if you had very little food or clean water, no guarantee that you’ll be able to get more any time soon, and a family to care for, it would be difficult to spare any for a person who wouldn’t be alive much longer. I realize that seems extremely harsh. But we need to remember that our way of life is very different here in America. Understanding this perspective, you can see why Betty had gone without assistance from nearby neighbors.

*Photo credit: Christie Hemm Klok

Over time, Betty began to bounce back. She regained her strength, and was able to care for her children and home again. To say she was grateful for the care from the clinic staff would be an understatement. What could she do to repay the goodness that was shown to her? There was only one answer…go out and find others who are suffering and alone. Help them find a way back to a vital existence. Show them how to get treatment and care so that they can prolong and improve the quality of the life they had remaining. That’s exactly what she did.

As time moved forward, Betty began traveling around with the medical staff. She would sit next to the beds of those living with HIV/AIDS and explain to them that this isn’t an immediate death sentence. Her experience became a testimony to, regardless of how ill you are, there is always a chance that you can improve. Life doesn’t have to be over.

Here is where this woman absolutely blew my mind…

As I sat on a chair next to her, Betty spoke these words, “I thank my God every day for the gift of AIDS. If I had not been blessed with this illness, how would I be able to go out and help others who have it, too? It is difficult to take advice from a person who is not suffering the way you are. But I am suffering. And I am still standing. And as long as I stand, I will sit next to my fellow brothers and sisters, comfort them, encourage them, and support them as they live with this disease.” WHAT?!? I immediately felt ashamed of every time I complained about anything I had ever had to deal with. Thankful for AIDS? Blessed with this illness? How on earth could a person truly think like this? I decided right there that I would adopt Betty’s outlook on suffering.

Now, listen. I have most definitely NOT been consistent with this. I get caught up in life, go back on auto-pilot and have my moments of feeling sorry for myself. But inevitably, something smacks me upside the head and I remember Betty’s words.

In 2011, I returned to Kipkaren a third time. This trip included my two oldest children – both teenagers. I couldn’t wait for them to meet my Kenyan friends. But most of all, I wanted them to meet Betty.

I was one week too late. Betty finally reached the end of her battle with AIDS. Her funeral was seven days before we arrived. Yes, I was sad that I would never be able to speak to her again. I was frustrated that I would never be able to tell her how much she had inspired me. I was disappointed that my children would never be able to meet her. But, I was thrilled that she had stayed strong to the end. And I was incredibly honored to have been able to sit at her side and hear her story that afternoon five years earlier. What a gift that was! I will share her story as often as I can. I will hold it close to my heart every day. And when I get caught up in my own self-pity, I will see her beautiful face framed in my office and remember…no matter what pain I face, no matter what difficulty I am enduring, what would Betty do? She would be thankful for it and then go out and help others who are feeling the same exact thing. Isn’t that what gets us through this life? Holding each other’s hands in the dark moments.

*photo credit (left): Christie Hemm Klok

There is one more odd addition to this particular perspective I’ve adopted. As I said, what Betty shared with me that day set me on a path. But there was something else I stumbled upon that has concreted this mindset for me. It was the final piece that pushed me to get certified as an Integrative Health Coach and help others struggling with similar autoimmune, chronic health, and life issues that I have experienced. This last piece came from West Wing…yes, the TV show. Weird, right? We’ve gone from a rural village in Eastern Africa to an NBC drama from the early 2000’s. But I heard Betty in this particular scene. Take a minute and watch…

This is my absolute favorite scene in the entire series. It wraps up beautifully everything that Betty was saying. It encompasses the very reason I want to find all the people living with autoimmune disease, overwhelm, chronic stress, etc. Because I’ve been in that hole. Betty was in a hole. She found the way out and spent the rest of her days jumping back in that hole to show others their way out, too.

What holes have you climbed out of in your life? Are there others around you stuck in that same hole? Would you be willing to jump back in and show them the way out? What a beautiful way to turn what you went through into a gift…something you can be grateful for. The next time you see someone in the hole you were freed from, ask yourself, “What would Betty do?” And then follow her lead.

Visiting Betty’s grave in 2011, just one week after she passed away.

If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

* Photo credit: Christie Hemm Klok

A Saturated Heart

Someone caught me contemplating at Lake Nakuru, Kenya

I’ve always been one to ponder. My mother used to admonish me quite frequently stating that I needed to stop “dwelling” on one thing or another. From a young age I thought something was wrong with me because my mind would never shut up. My feelings ran so remarkable deep inside of me, even as a little girl. When I was four years old I suffered a trauma that would set me on a path of searching for coping mechanisms, a search that led me in an extremely introspective direction. I blocked the memory, which didn’t come to the surface for decades. In the meantime, though, I had been left with a ridiculously loud mind. My thoughts are always swirling around, banging from one side to the other. And these thoughts are tightly connected to my heart…my emotions. In my 49 years of life I have been told repeatedly that those emotions were a problem; they were something I needed to either gain control of, or eliminate altogether. Believe me, I tried to rid myself of feelings, to no avail. It’s simply woven in my DNA. Control them? This I can do, however, when you feel as deeply as I do, what I consider “control” is often still looked at as chaotic.

Caught deep in thought once again

Have you ever been told you were an Empath? Are you familiar with what that is?

An empath is someone who feels more empathy than the average person. These people are usually more accurate in recognizing emotions by looking at another person’s face. They are also more likely to recognize emotions earlier than other people and rate those emotions as being more intense. (Excerpt taken from:https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/what-is-an-empath )

I am most definitely an empath. Another term for this personality trait is “Highly Sensitive Person” or HSP. This is me. I can sense a person’s energy. I can feel the mood in a room as soon as I enter it. If someone near me is hurting, angry, sad, excited, etc. I feel it. I’m like a human sponge. It has also been found that empaths or HSP’s are more likely to develop chronic illness. (I’m not going to go into that here, but if you’re interested… https://drjudithorloff.com/ask-dr-orloff/empaths-prone-to-illness/ )

Now, I’m not saying that I have super powers. I can’t read minds. And I’m not like Jasper from Twilight (Oh, Lordy, did I just expose myself there! Yes, I was one of those “Twilight moms”. Please don’t judge me.) It’s just this really weird thing I have where I can sense what others are feeling. And then I feel it too. Living as an empath, being so sensitive, I’ve carried around a heavy heart for a very long time. It’s not always bad. When I’m around happy, excited people, I get to feel those emotions too. There’s always a silver lining, right? But when you have your own garbage you’re processing, soaking up everyone else’s stuff leaves you walking around with a double load. And not ever learning proper coping skills, it began to weigh on me, eventually leading to anxiety trouble, panic attacks, depression, and finally complete emotional exhaustion.

That’s right…they caught me again

So, why am I feeling led to post about this?

Recently I was told my feelings made me untrustworthy. That because I was “always feeling something”, there was no credibility to anything I said. That has been rattling around in my head for days now (Of course it has…that’s how my brain works). It’s important to me that I always grow as a human. I want to make sure I am always striving to become a better version of me so I listen to things I’m told about myself. I consider them. Then I begin to pay close attention to how I function in that particular area of behavior. Not because I allow others to change who I am, but because if I have a quality or habit that needs to be tweaked, I want to tweak it. It’s called “Self-assessment”.

Here’s where I’ve landed on the whole “I can’t trust you because you feel too much” thing…

It’s total bu*^sh#t!

Yes, I feel deeply. Yes, I think constantly. Yes, I have made mistakes. Yes, at times I have allowed my emotions to get the better of me. But, also… Yes, I have matured and realized that there is a time and place to let emotions out. Yes, I have learned that being in touch with my feelings provides me with incredible insight into other people’s behavior and reactions. Yes, I understand that because I feel what others are going through, I can be a better friend, better mother, better health coach, and better overall human. It is a gift. It provides me with an additional category of wisdom, if you will. I believe that we are feeling beings who think, not thinking beings who feel. Look at a newborn baby. They are surviving strictly off of instinct. They aren’t compiling rational thoughts. They aren’t making pro & con lists in order to make a decision. They FEEL hungry, they cry for food. They FEEL uncomfortable in their diaper, they cry for a change. Something startles them, they FEEL and then they react. As we grow, we learn to think things through. Feeling beings who think…

I have been through a lot in my life. I was born to unhappy parents, I suffered abuse, my parents divorced, I watched my grandpa take his last breath when I was 16, my step-dad (who I love dearly and consider to be my true father, and who was suffering from PTSD due to his time in Vietnam) was a functioning alcoholic, then when I was 22, I sat next to his bed and watched him die, too. My husband went to work for a man who required his 100% dedication at the expense of our marriage and our children. I lost my best, more-like-my-sister, friend with absolutely no explanation whatsoever – she just disappeared from my life. My friend and I raced a starved, sick, dying infant to a hospital in Eldoret, Kenya, learning the next day that she just wasn’t strong enough to pull through. I developed an autoimmune disease which led to me giving up everything I loved to do, lost my church, my friends all moved away, need I go on… I don’t list all of these happenings in order to feel sorry for myself, lead you to feel sorry for me, or to adopt the label of “victim”. My point here is, a lot of crap has happened in my life. Just like all of us, right? I have felt every one of these events to my very core, and they have molded me into who I am. They haven’t RUINNED me, they have MOLDED me! There’s a huge difference.

The day he became my dad
At his grave

Here is the beauty of being an empath…of being one of those HSP’s –

Yes, all of those things I listed above are part of my life story. But also? I got a fabulous step dad who always treated me like I was his biological daughter. I have a mother who has literally been the ONE human being who never left me from day one. I got two awesome sisters, then a bonus sister and brother later on. I became an auntie for the first time on my birthday. I was honored to be in the room with all of my sisters and my sister in law when they had their first babies. I had excellent grandparents who loved me dearly. I have a husband who cares for me, three kids who I couldn’t love more if I tried, and a fabulous daughter in law who I adore. I’ve traveled to Kenya three times and encountered people who I will never forget, learned more about what’s truly important in life, and am honored to still maintain friendships that I made in that beautiful country. My friends may have moved away, but now I have new places to see when I go visit them. I have 14 nieces and nephews who have brought me so much joy, I have wonderful in-laws, a fantastic family, amazing friends – some clear back from my childhood. And I live in the cutest little house in the mountains where I can watch squirrels run and play right outside my window (Seriously, there’s one running around out there right now as I type this!)

The view from my window right now
Not just the sorrow, but the beauty of life is felt deeply, too

You see, all of those moments were also felt with every fiber. They also had a hand in molding me. The fact that I feel deeply does not make me untrustworthy. Actually, the opposite is true. I FEEL, but I THINK, as well. I can see all sides of a situation and that gives me greater insight. I’m not going solely off of logic. I’m not going solely off of emotion. I see it all.

Are you an empath? Are you a highly sensitive person? Can you read the mood in a room or sense when something is wrong with a friend? Have you been told you’re too emotional? If yes, how do you feel about that? What do you THINK about that? (See what I did there?) If you have ever felt “less than” or ever felt shame because somebody told you they couldn’t trust you due to your emotions, I want to challenge you to let that go. Search yourself…make sure you are balancing that emotion with accurate thoughts…and if you are? Own that truth and move forward. Only you know your own mind and heart.

And if you are someone who thinks emotions are a negative trait or cause someone to be untrustworthy, I would like to challenge you to change your perspective. Flip the table and think about the opposite observation; that those who show no emotion are heartless, cold, and uncaring. Is that true about you? Or is it that you simply do not expose that side of you? Maybe that is the case for those who do not expose their thinking side.

Something to THINK about…and see how you FEEL.

If you would like to receive blog posts directly into your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Drop The Rock.

As I sat down to write this post, I’ll admit, I was feeling angry. Disappointed, hurt, misunderstood…But mostly, just really pissed off. I asked myself, is this a topic that needs to be shared on my blog? As I considered the answer, I literally looked up the definition of the word “blog”. According to Dictionary.com I found this:

“A website containing a writer’s or group of writers’ own experiences, observations, opinions, etc., and often having images and links to other websites.”

I also thought back to my initial post, “Why The Third Quarter?” My goal with this blog is to share my mid-life experiences so that hopefully they can speak to others going through similar situations. In addition, I want to showcase what it is that I do in my coaching program – help others replace negative habits with beneficial ones, find solutions to struggles, and reach the goal of a fully balanced & healthy lifestyle. Anger is definitely a struggle of mine that I constantly have to address. So, yes, I will share it here. Get cozy. This will take a minute.

I’ve mentioned before that we lost our church in late 2016. This place was our second home; the people, our extended family…or so we thought. I won’t dive into the event that triggered the avalanche, but it was devastating, it was quick, and it caused a spiral of painful events that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully overcome. The result was our pastor and his wife, basically overnight, were no longer a part of the church. These people were my husband’s and my good friends, had been our mentors since before we were married. Their youngest son and our oldest were close friends. I could go on and on explaining the depth of importance these two people had within our family, but I’ll leave it at this – It left a tremendous hole in our world. Within one week those who remained in the church were left with shattered hearts, anger, fear, and no direction. My husband was one of three of the church leaders at the time. He and I were heartbroken, but had to move forward. Scott was in the middle of onion harvest, the worst time for something this enormous. He was driving the two hours back and forth for several days, attending meetings as the leaders tried to figure out how to navigate this mess. A friend and I stepped up and took over the Sunday School program that our pastor’s wife had been running. Everything was absolute chaos for weeks. To top it off, the interim pastor that had been sent to help us through this was useless. He was among the group of people who were happy our pastor was gone, seemingly “too liberal” for many of the congregants and people at the district level. So, for them, they saw this as an opportunity to get the church back the way it should be. Whatever that means.

The months that followed were a roller coaster of emotions and things just kept getting worse. To keep this from becoming a novel, though, I’ll move on to what caused my family to leave the church. As I said before, we were close to our pastor and his wife. There were certain people at church who didn’t like that. They wanted to rid the place of anything connected to the “old way” of doing things. I overheard one of the women talking about the need to get rid of the puppets (us being the puppets). The leadership used an app called Slack to stay in communication. My husband and I, being in leadership, were on that app. Unfortunately a few of the others didn’t understand the concept of channels. One evening there was a conversation being had over the app about my husband and the need to get him off the board. The interim pastor didn’t really like him much and took every opportunity he could to try and sully his reputation. Their mistake? They hadn’t removed me from that channel. I was seeing every word!

From there it was nothing more than us hearing from the few people we had left that we could trust that things were definitely being said behind our backs. I left. I was done. I can’t explain the disappointment I felt. The hurt. The betrayal. It was 100 times worse than the original problem that caused our pastor to leave in the first place. Scott stuck it out a while longer until he was accused of having a drinking problem (which, if you know him, you know is absolutely ridiculous) and told he needed to “get his family in order” by the interim pastor…who didn’t know us at all. The worst part? The people who DID know us, never stood up in our defense. Nobody had our backs. That was the end. Never in all my life of being involved in a church had I experienced this sort of thing. We were crushed.

Now, why did I tell this story? What does this have to do with why I woke up angry today? And how on earth does it relate to the title “Drop The Rock.”?

From time to time, my youngest, my 22 year old daughter, still helps at the youth group at our old church. She has a heart for the kids and hasn’t quite been able to completely cut the cord yet. Last night, late, I got a text from her. She was upset. The head of the youth group is one of the other leaders my husband had served with. We’ve known him and his family for years. He began grilling my daughter about how our family felt about the church, then continued on to say that we should’ve “stuck it out”. That we should know that sometimes people are people and we have to deal with the tough stuff. He basically said that we quit. SO not accurate. It’s five years later. Never once has anyone called us to ask what happened. Never once did anyone stop to consider how dedicated we were to our church, and that it must’ve been something enormous to cause us to leave. Not one call. And now? My daughter is getting questioned and hearing that her parents just quit.

The momma bear flared! I barely slept last night. I was fuming and ready to pounce.

Here’s where the rock comes in…Probably 20 years ago – back in what I call my “corny Christian days” – I attended a weekend Women of Faith conference. There was a speaker named Nicole Johnson who gave a lecture entitled “Dropping Your Rock”. It stuck with me. Her point was focused on our quick tendency to judge others…to throw a stone at those who do wrong in our eyes. She told the story of the adulterous woman who had been dragged into the street to be stoned for her sin, then Jesus walked over and with very few words, “Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone”, got them all to drop their rocks. (John 8:1-11) I feel like those people in our church were throwing rocks at us. I feel like last night, that man speaking to my daughter was still throwing rocks at us. Our family was going through hell at that time and we were receiving no compassion. That man never asked why we left, he simply assumed and made a judgement.

But here’s the thing…am I not also throwing a rock at him? I believe that the only thing we have control over is ourselves. Our actions. Our reactions. Our thoughts. Our words. By me waking up so angry and wanting to call him to lash out for upsetting my daughter and wrongly accusing us, what does that say about me? What do I have control over in this situation? I need to drop my rock and realize that I know the truth. If I want that man to know it, I have the ability to call him and CALMLY explain. From that point, I can’t control what he does with that information. But I can rest easy in knowing what actually happened. I can hold tight to the truth that we did not quit. We simply understood that it was time to go. We stuck it out as long as we could then for the health of our family, made the decision to move on. I must drop the rock.

One last point I want to make…

I don’t want this story to cause anyone to think that having faith brings turmoil, pain, judgement, etc. Faith does not do that. People do that. My faith is what has carried me through this mess since day one. It was the hurtful people who caused the issues. I said above that I had “corny Christian days”. I say that light heartedly. As we grow our spirituality we mature. We learn truths, we gain compassion, we gather wisdom. My corny days were when I was still fairly young in my spiritual life. And, honestly, I’ve had to fight growing callous as the years stack up. The corniness, though, is definitely gone. I struggle with the label “Christian” because so many out there behave terribly and hurt others in the name of Christianity. I do not want to align myself with those people. I love Jesus. I want to be like Him. I want to love others, care for them, bring light and joy into their lives. It is not my place to judge. If I were standing around someone lying in the street waiting to be stoned for their sin, and Jesus told me to throw the first stone if I was without sin, I would drop that rock so fast! Every one of us deserve to be rolled up on the ground waiting for that stone to hit. So who do we think we are throwing them at others? Again, this event in my life had nothing to do with God. It was the result of people who had an agenda. Please don’t let this influence your thoughts or feelings on spirituality.

Now…as I drop my rock, are you holding one? Is there a big jagged stone in your hand that you’re holding onto so tightly that it’s causing cuts in your skin? Who do you want to throw it at? Who is it that you are judging? Is it time to drop that rock and focus on what you can actually control? Yourself? Let’s drop our rocks together.

This is a small excerpt of the Nicole Johnson lecture I referred to above.

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Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Why The Third Quarter?

Honestly, I’m not a sports fan…other than my mediocre support of the Los Angeles Dodgers. I grew up listening to the voice of Vin Scully seemingly always in the background at my grandparents’ house; my grandpa being an avid Dodger fan. Then I went and married another one, sealing my fate. So, I wear my Dodger blue, support my favorite player, Max Muncy, enjoy going to games with my guy, and even decorated our “bonus room” with the memorabilia we have collected over the years. But a sports fan I am not.

With my favorite Dodger fan

However, when contemplating what I wanted to call my blog, considering the place I am in life and the topics that inspire me to write, it all surrounded the fact that I am an almost fifty-year old woman, new empty nester, who has recently moved away from everything familiar and comforting in my life. What could I title my blog that would wrap all of that up in a neat little metaphorical package? Here’s how my brain walked through that question…

Our first quarter? Childhood. Depending on how that chunk of life goes will inevitably determine how the remaining quarters roll out. Second quarter? The building portion of adulthood. This is where we build our values, build our marriage and family (if that’s the way our story goes), and build our career, financial situation, and the ever important “tribe” that is so necessary to survive this crazy life. I’d say this is anywhere between 21 – 45 years or so. The fourth quarter? Those are our sunset years. Hopefully, if we’ve taken care of ourselves, it isn’t a time filled with too much illness or disease. But simply moving slowly, soaking in the growing grandkids – or maybe even great grandkids, depending on when you started building that family of yours. It’s a time to reflect on the years…pass on stories, wisdom, love, and laughter. It’s that “rocking chair on the front porch” time until we finally pass on to whatever it is that comes next.

My kiddos…2013

But that third quarter? Let me tell you what…it’s not for the weak! Your youth is gone – physically, anyway. Things are starting to droop a bit. We make these odd grunting noises when we try to get up from pretty much anywhere near the ground. Suddenly medical appointments get more frequent and early bedtimes start creeping in. Right about now, though, I’m going to get more personal. Yes, things are dropping. Did you know that our knees get wrinkled? What’s that all about??? I’ve got the aches and pains. And I now have to wear glasses 24/7. But those things I can handle. I had no clue what was coming…what would actually knock me flat on my ass.

Throughout my blog posts you’ll learn the details of my life that I know many of my readers will be able to relate to. For now, though, I’m sticking to the most current events. My husband has been an onion farmer since we were newly married and expecting our first child – 1993. It wasn’t the kind of farming where we lived in the adorable house with the wrap around porch, milked cows, cut grain, and ate dinner together each night. No, it was what I was introduced to as “Fruit Tramping”. My husband, Scott took a job in his multi-generational family farming business. His great-grandfather passed it to his grandfather, who passed it to his uncle. They had to travel to get to the onions. They were hired by the grower to harvest and pack the crop, getting it ready for market. There were two locations each year that they traveled to and stayed throughout the week – Lancaster, California and Calipatria, California – a little over three months at each location. This meant Scott was gone for 7 months a year. This did NOT mean that the five remaining months he was able to make up for lost time. Scott worked for someone who felt that if the boss was working, everyone was working. Family was not necessarily a priority to him. Because this was our lifestyle the entire time we were raising children (25 years to be exact), the kids and I were often on our own. I homeschooled them for 18 years through a group in our town, led by our pastor’s wife who also happened to be my mentor and close friend. Most of the families in this group belonged to our church as well, so we had built an excellent situation in which to raise our kids. My world became my son and two daughters. In an attempt to be a “healthy, well-balanced mother”, I also jumped head first into ministry at our church – our second home and where I found that “tribe” I spoke of earlier. I got involved in mission work in Kenya, got certified to teach Jazzercise, Pilates, and earned my certification in Nutrition Counseling leading me to start my own little business. That backstory was important because it will help clarify why my third quarter has been so difficult.

Visiting dad at the packing shed
Walking the onion fields
Homeschool field trip
My second Kenya trip…2006
Kipkaren, Kenya
My Jazzercise crew

In 2016, we lost our church…long story, but it wasn’t pretty and left me with zero desire to ever step foot into another one as long as I live. The explosion of our church family caused nearly every one of my friends to move out of state. We were all devastated and needed a fresh start. Also in 2016, I was diagnosed with two autoimmune conditions making it impossible for me teach Jazzercise anymore. I absolutely LOVED doing that, and was pretty damn good at it. That loss hurt, too. No more traveling to Kenya either since my immune system was busted. Next up? My husband left the family business which he had been deeply dedicated to for our entire marriage. This company was our retirement, our security, our future. The circumstances behind his leaving were difficult, but inevitable. This change was unforeseen, turned our livelihood upside down, and led to a spiral of fear, confusion, and a total lack of direction. Scott had been built up to run that company…then 25 years later, after his youth had been invested in the business, it was gone. My incredibly hard working husband now had no clue what his career would look like. He found himself in his mid forties with a very specific skill set and no clue who could utilize it. It was terrifying for him. And, as anyone who is married understands, when your spouse hurts, you hurt. I didn’t know how to help him. I didn’t know how to ease his fear. It was a bad season.

We decided a move was needed; a fresh start of our own. We packed up our home of nearly 14 years, where we raised our kids, where our families all lived (seriously…all of our parents lived on the same street and our church was a 30 second drive away) and found a transitional home about 20 minutes away.

We were in that house for three years. During those three years, our son got married, our oldest daughter moved out into her own place, and the baby started college locally, still living at home. And Scott? He took a job at the Lancaster location he used to work at with the family company. It was now under new ownership and he would be there year round, participating in the entire farming process. This meant we would be apart all week, every week. After a year of living apart, we decided it just wasn’t conducive to a healthy marriage. We needed to make another change.

Neither of us had any desire to move to Lancaster, even though it would be the most convenient. Instead we compromised and settled for a tiny mountain community in the San Gabriel Mountains, about an hour from his work base and a little more than an hour from my family, friends, doctors, my whole life, really. Our youngest still lived with us, so she came along too. But, the little lizard that she is, couldn’t deal with the cold weather. Two months after we moved in, we were packing her up and moving her back down the hill. This is when everything crumbled for me.

Our new mountain home

That last bird flew out of the nest. My mom and sisters were too far to just pop over and visit. My friends were all too far to grab a quick coffee. It was a big production to see anyone. Traffic on Interstate 15 had to be considered. Jazzercise was gone. Kenya was gone. My community was gone. I didn’t know my way to the grocery store. I needed my GPS to find Target. Everything was foreign. And I was alone all day; alone and with no purpose. I could stay in bed all day and nobody would know. It got really dark in my head, for a really long time. And to be honest, I’m just now dragging myself out of it.

Taking a breath in nature

This third quarter has kicked my ass. As I sit and process all of it, I find it hard to believe that I’m the only one who feels this way. And so, my blog is born. To anyone who is staggering their way through their third quarter, join me. You aren’t alone. I believe with everything in me that there is a light at the end of this tunnel. And my goal is to reach that light well before I hit quarter #4. Because I refuse to let this time in my life be wasted. Let’s walk through this tunnel together and arrive at the fourth quarter smothered in joy, satisfaction, and so much wisdom we’ll be unable to contain it.

My whole heart, right here

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com