Tag: strength

Nurturing Hope

~ Amanda Hoyer ~ 6 Comments

I am not predisposed to subtlety. I live loudly, and that reality inspires and intimidates. I hope that living loud encourages others to do the same.

Overcoming fear is an essential step to nurturing hope. It takes courage to face fear, the same kind of courage required to experience faith and hope.

Since I’m all about spicing up life, embracing the unexpected is my idea of adventure. I’m already pretty memorable, but I’ve struggled with living bravely for several reasons. The biggest reason is a lack of grace, less socially and more so spiritually.

None of us lovely souls is without the potential for grace. I’ve merely denied opportunities to embrace it, letting my fears run rampant. In my disgrace, I felt the need to dampen my personality. The “me” I presented to the world was muted, a wet blanket. I was too disconnected from God, caught up in my fears and doubts.

My spiritual disconnection left me adrift in life’s myriad currents. I needed change, as I felt certain parts of my life stagnating, so I tried to force a future into being. This effort resulted in my poor decision to lessen myself. I couldn’t fit into who I should be, watering myself down.

In this shrinking of myself, I grew apart from God’s plan for me. I found myself tolerating a professional bully. I cared too much for the opinion of those unwilling to change. I let others’ fears and expectations get to me. I turned myself into a victim, inviting criticism, under-appreciation, and ignorance.

The more I watered myself down, the more I resented present people and opportunities. Losing myself meant muting the world’s colors, and I was too afraid to hope again. Instead of giving in to fear, I dared to hope.

Instead of giving in to fear, I dared to hope.

I’ve got a complicated relationship with hope. But honestly, don’t we all? If hope comes easy to you, it’s for one of two reasons.

Either you’re spiritually mature and wise beyond your years, or you’ve never had your hopes dashed so severely you’re afraid to hope again. I mean the kind of put your faith in someone so blindly and intensely, you find even hoping terrifying.

Maybe I’m wrong, and nurturing hope isn’t as hard as I think. But even with the receptivity I’m working on, I find cultivating a space for hope challenging.

Over time, I recognized my weirdness with hope and determined a lot of my fear came from my mind. I overthought, justified, and rationalized myself dizzy. This labyrinthine logic made me feel like I had Mandora’s box for a brain (a nod to the original lady with a crazy box full of dark shit, too).

When I tell people about the melancholic gravity hidden in my mind’s maze, they struggle to see it or believe me. It’s not that this darkness defines me (by no means, I fight any singular dimension defining any person, myself included).

I think people assume my joy comes from some endless faucet of energy and optimism. I’ve never been an optimist in my whole life. I blame my childhood fascination with Greek mythology and its all-too-common tragic endings for my less than sunny outlook.

Of course, this doesn’t mean I’m a pessimist, either. I don’t do idealism in more than a moment, as it often leads to dangerous ideas like daydreams and desirous delusions. And I can’t afford nonsense like that in my heart or head.

My joy doesn’t come from nothing. It comes from the deepest recognition for the gifts of suffering. Last week, I addressed some of my journey with mental health and its subsequent growing pains.

Finding this joy came at a cost, one I’m glad I paid. And I think my past battles with fear, vulnerability, and courage put me in a space to hope the right way.

In lieu of passionate, angsty daydreams, I can feel clearly. I used to think my feelings were the problem, but they’re far from it. When I get nervous about hoping for something or someone, I learn something from it.

Today, I experienced so much hope, despite my heartaches, old and new. I went to Confession (since Easter’s around the corner, I needed a check-in with God). And the number of souls I saw there brings me so much joy.

I’m grateful for the solidarity and the dedication, and I’m hopeful that people care so much about forgiveness and redemption. These are critical to experiencing true hope.

And hope’s a gift bestowed on the faithful. It’s a balm for those with unquiet minds and hearts (mine included). And I felt that today, too.

Hope’s a balm for those with unquiet minds and hearts.

In the past, I hoped for those who used me to step up and make amends, to acknowledge my worth with more than a single night’s pleasure. I’ve hoped for people to solve my problems and take away my pain. But I hoped for the wrong things from the wrong people.

As I’ve matured, I recognized misplaced hope and learned where to place it: not in other people but God. I’ve hoped beyond myself, too, realizing hoping for others is a good and beautiful thing.

Even now, I hope for old friends to discover truths that will bring them closer to joy. I hope for peace in my family and their struggles. I hope my friends find love and peace outside of superficial satisfactions.

Sure, I hope for love. But I also hope to be the best person I’m meant to be for those already in my life. I think that’s the point of nurturing hope. We’re not doing it just for today, but for tomorrow, too.

With the Flow

Making space for hope means flexibility, the kind that stems from honest vulnerability. I’m relatively flexible in that I say I like change but resist it once it’s happening. But I usually experience gratitude somewhere before a full transformation happens.

But going with the flow isn’t in my DNA (it doesn’t come naturally to me, really). I’ve learned to adapt, but I’m pretty feline when it comes to change. If you have a cat, you know what I mean.

Most of the time, I feel like I’m up a creek without a paddle. I tend to fight the currents of life. Most who know me personally would agree that my “element” is not water.

If I did live a life aquatic, I’d most likely be an ocean or a major river like the Nile, maybe a small sea. Either way, I’m not good at going with the flow. Instead, I’m more like a tidal wave or the waters held back by the Panama Canal.

I’m not something that flows calmly. I don’t slowly wear away at mountain ranges until they become Grand Canyons. Nor do I move as a giant mass and melt into great lakes.

I’m not gentle rainfall. I’m more like sleet or hail, a snowstorm if you will. I fall, crystalline and brittle. I might sting your face or bring you mild delight. Or I might dent your car. All of this depends on how hopefully I approach change.

I’m not gentle rainfall. I’m more like sleet or hail, a snowstorm

See, as we’re not entirely water, change takes time. How we approach a time of transition determines just how ready we are for a change. Essentially, throwing a fit about not getting my way with the flow of God’s plan would be like throwing my paddle into the river.

Water ebbs and flows, constantly changing and moving. Humans are only 70% water. I guess we’re only changing that much of the time. Then again, staying still and growing stagnates water as much as a person, and water does freeze.

It might stay chemically H20 but easily changes states from solid to liquid to gas. Although this level of state fluidity is not so simple for humans, metaphorically, it is. The hardest part is being open to a change of state.

Most of us suck at being too open or too closed. We come up with all sorts of excuses or guards to not change. We maintain pretenses and pressure ourselves to be what we should be vs. who we are or could be. We rush growth, or we don’t grow at all.

We never know what twists and turns life will throw at us. They require patience, grace, discipline, and willpower. Heading around life’s bends isn’t something you do alone, either. You only stay where you are when you fight the current.

Going with the flow is in your best interest. It means following God’s plan for your life. Sometimes, you’re merely along for the ride. Maybe you’ll get tossed about in some Category 5 rapids.

Don’t fret over life jostling you about. If you want a permanently smooth ride, I think you’re looking for the River Styx. When it is smooth sailing, lay back and enjoy coasting along. When it’s not, that’s your opportunity to fight for the path you’re supposed to be on. Usually, those grand rapids come from pressure to meet false expectations, throwing you off course.

I could wait hopelessly, gripping my oar and lamenting my lack of control in the situation. That’s not really me, though. As someone who elementally identifies with fire, I won’t sit still for long.

Of course, I don’t want to burn up my metaphorical boat, so I’d probably contain the flames of whatever I’m feeling. That being said, if I’m open to no longer resisting the current flow of God’s plan, then I’m going to have to turn down the heat.

You can throw your oar overboard, lament about your inability to change life’s current, or you can relax and enjoy the ride, or fight the current.

You can throw your oar overboard, lament about your inability to change life’s current, you can relax and enjoy the ride, or you might have to fight the current when monsters try to knock you off course.

It isn’t easy to go with the current when things don’t go your way. Sometimes we misinterpret the water. We take risks that might put us off course or bring us closer to our next resting place.

After the last few weeks, I’ve been struggling to make space in my boat for hope. But have I thrown my oar out yet? Nope. I share about my pain and learned resilience as a lesson and personal reflection. Going with the flow means reveling in the journey as much as the destination.

I hope y’all enjoyed this week’s post! If you missed out on last week’s post about pain and the gifts of suffering, check it out here. If you don’t wanna miss out on stuff like this, sign up for email reminders (since Facebook seems to refuse to notify anyone).

Growing Pains

~ Amanda Hoyer ~ 6 Comments

There’s no such thing as life truly lived without pain. The world wounds us, and we hurt one another. Strangers and loved ones alike, we all share in suffering.

 Different kinds of pain hit you differently. Most pains sit in your chest or your gut, but the way they feel differs. Some pains are heavy, long-lived, fleeting, or come in waves.

 That loss can drain you down into a seemingly abyssal chasm. Betrayal snakes its way through your intestines, hooking itself behind your navel and resting there uneasily.

 Heartaches and various rejections come and go in waves—their pangs of hurt swell in your chest, an unrelenting tide. Just when you feel as if the waves might break, the oncoming tide fills your heart until you’re fit to burst.

 I find bearing the weight of suffering survivable. It’s not pleasant or easy but is livable. I find it a heavy burden, one I struggle to carry at times but must do to avoid falling under its crushing weight.

 Adjusting to suffering’s no small thing. It takes a lot of time, silence, and intent to acquaint yourself with its weight.

 With heartache, as with other sufferings, there’s a different kind of healing. You can’t build levees to hold the flood of hopes, dreams, and ideas you clung to.

 Instead, you have to learn to weather the pain. Whether it’s high tide or monsoon season, it’s a matter of sink or swim. As my mom says, “You can always do nothing. Doing nothing is still doing something.” But doing nothing often means we drown. And I’m done pretending I can’t swim.

 But doing nothing often means we drown. And I’m done pretending I can’t swim.

 Working through pain can strengthen us. We can’t rush healing, or we risk not fully recovering from the hurt. And the kind of suffering determines how much or how long we need to recover.

 My rational mind is impatient. It often rushes past sentiment and steamrolls my heart’s needs. I learned this soldier-on, grin-and-bear-it mentality from my father. Forcing ourselves through suffering isn’t always the solution.

 The mind’s a fickle thing. Even now, I’m inundated with whorls and eddies of possibility, each as one-of-a-kind as fingerprints. Yet, I lament these perceived “opportunities” as undertows of impossibility. Ideas are dangerous, intoxicating things.

Brutal Truth

 I stand by the value of a life fully lived with difficulty, effort, and suffering. And I stand by the belief that most things worth doing are rarely easy. Make sure you don’t confuse ease and simplicity. Sometimes, the simplest things in life are the most difficult.

 I find difficulty arises most often in representations of pain. Adjacent to the effort, suffering (often but not always) indicates growth.

 Over the years, I’ve transformed from an anxious, withdrawn bookworm into something else. I’ve been told I always had no problem expressing my opinions. For the most part, I believe this claim about my childhood self.

 My best friend reflects fearlessness and strength, and courage even in our youth. It’s the first thing that drew me to her, this ability to be herself unapologetically. It was and is a source of inspiration to me. It’s the same innate reason I dared voice my opinions, despite my fears of rejection and judgment.

 I remember holding back my thoughts, feelings, ideas—myself. I was so afraid my truths would hurt others or isolate me in their intensity.

 Once upon a time, I used to fear the truth. As I aged and matured, I recognized the importance of sharing the truth with others. I learned to share truths there, only mine to share, becoming vault and confidant to peers and close friends.

 Holding onto others’ truths bestowed a sense of power and entitlement. Fortunately, I took pleasure in simply knowing. As a result, I never intentionally betrayed another’s trust.

Knowing hidden truths is as dangerous as having ideas. You can learn things you never wanted to about yourself

 But knowing hidden truths is as dangerous as having ideas. You can learn things you never wanted to about yourself and others. Turning away is difficult, too, as it removes a sense of ownership or belonging.

 And when you’re faced solely with truths of self, it’s the loneliest damned thing. So I came to learn the emptiness of withholding the truth. Yet my fullest appreciation of truth didn’t arrive until college.

 My time in college wasn’t all it could’ve been in part from the mental health roller coaster ride I experienced. I discovered what depression and suicidality do to a person. I discovered the truth’s brutality.

 Accepting I wasn’t okay and needed help hurt. A lot. It also brought on unanticipated relief, the kind only brought in discovering truth. Truth is brutal but is fair.

 So I spent four years fighting an uphill battle. At times, I was alone. At other times, I had a friend or boy who loved me along for the ride.

 It’s either you or the monster driving your life.

 But they never made it into the driver’s seat. With depression, it’s either you or the monster driving your life. On the best days, you’re doing the steering. On the worst, you crash.

 Learning no one could bear the weight of my illness but me was terrifying and painful. It angered me, too, more than I’d ever been in my life.

 I cursed a God who’d let me be so broken, one who gave me the conscience to know withholding truth was the best way to spare my loved ones’ pain. Part of me is glad I held back because supporting someone through depression is no walk in the park.

 I lost more than one friend and ended a relationship while I was unwell. Knowing I spared my family that hurt brings minor solace. When I recognize how many times we could’ve loved one another, I regret not telling them.

Vale La Pena

 After my anger dissipated, I started to experiencing gratitude. It wasn’t an overnight resolution. As peace gradually trickled in, I had the purest clarity. I saw the truth of my pain and realized its purpose.

 In peace, I found the necessity of my suffering. The greatest gift my journey through depression gave is the utmost appreciation and gratitude for this brief, miraculous life.

 I’ve discovered so much about humanity, my loved ones, my faith, and myself since wandering that lonely road. I can honestly say if I hadn’t walked that path, I’d be a shadow of the woman I am today.

 Bearing this life takes a hideous strength, once accompanied by growing pains. But surviving that pain strengthens and invigorates the soul.

 It makes us the best versions of ourselves, cutting away false security and idle comfort. It brings us closer to something higher than ourselves (if we let it). Pain teaches us things are worth doing because we’re growing—closer to truth and stronger in ways we’d never imagined.

Pain teaches us things are worth doing because we’re growing—closer to truth and stronger in ways we’d never imagined.

 This journey into the unknown has taught me the value of pain. The suffering and struggle are worth it. A friend recently told me, “Vale la pena,” which roughly means “worth the pain or sorrow; it’s worth it.”

 It’s this same experience with pain that reminds me why I opened my heart to the unknown. Beginning to date, even allowing myself the option, was about so much more than “putting myself out there.” It was casting off old habits, beliefs, and comforts—an emergence to a willingly-accepted unknown.

 I walk these crossroads, these paths of uncertainty, knowing I asked for it. I am exactly where I should be, even if I don’t know why or where that is. The things I’m learning and rediscovering alongside the growing pains bring me ever closer to the true path intended for my life.

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Ponderance

~ Amanda Hoyer ~ 2 Comments

One of my biggest pet peeves is willful ignorance. People close themselves off to the truth, especially when it contradicts their preconceived perceptions. It’s a terrible habit we’ve all normalized to lull ourselves into false security. I’m no exception to this rule.

 I deny the truth for security or self-protection too often. I don’t typically consider myself a close-minded person, but I’m the worst when it comes to my head and heart. Closing myself to the truth seems like a good idea sometimes.

 Anyone who knows me personally wouldn’t argue my intensity, passion, or expressiveness. Rarer are those who recognize my tendency for deep introspection. My propensity for self-reflection often conflicts (and eventually resolves) and opposition between my head and heart.

 Most often, my heart’s dragging its heels as my head leads the way. Occasionally, my heart grabs the reins and sends me on reckless adventures. When I’m feeling brave yet afraid, I’m usually open to my heart’s yearnings.

 But other times, I guard my heart (and not necessarily in the best way). I overprotect myself, deny my feelings, and ignore God. And that’s no bueno.

 I’ve been blogging a lot recently about vulnerability, courage, and bravery. But today, I wanted to address a special kind of strength I struggle with most. I wanted to talk about the power that lies in acceptance.

 This conflict confuses the heck out of me, leaving me with one big question: WHY. And I have done so much to try and answer this question in my life. A lot of what I’ve done hasn’t helped but has hurt me (and others).

Responding to Uncertainty

 Lately, dating has me all kinds of shook up. My endless internal conflict is only magnified as I fight the intoxication of my ideas. When I dream about “missed opportunities,” I miss the life in front of me.

 Past me couldn’t stop this dangerous pastime of thought. I’d spiral out of control, wending my way through a labyrinth of pain and false hope. And it was a path I used to walk alone.

 I fought acceptance at every turn, isolating myself. This pushed me further and further into a downward spiral. It made the truth stranger than fiction (and thus, easier to dismiss).

 Healthier, stable me finally understands chronic vs. event-based mental health issues. And it’s made me a better human being. But knowing I’m an anxious mess makes me proactive.

 Knowing proactivity is a good thing, I usually take action. The issue lies with taking the initiative when you need to sit back and listen. Taking a less traveled road to acceptance is still taking action.

 I waver one minute from anxious to peaceful to hopeful resolution. The next minute, I’m hurting over fear, questions of self-worth, then struggling with acceptance. Sometimes, I’m in a rage and exhausted and want it all to stop.

 My feelings about uncertainty put me out. When I’m only certain of my uncertainty, I itch for action. But not looking before you leap can land you in shark-infested waters.

 I suck at waiting. And the path towards graceful, peaceful acceptance is an uphill battle. I get tired of climbing that muddy, uneven slope.

 The upturned earth trips me, chips away at my resolve. Each step gets harder the closer I get to the top. I persevere, knowing that view is so worth it.

 What slows that climb isn’t the earth I trod. It’s the weight I bear. It’s a weigh unborn by the likes of Atlas or Sisyphus. It’s a weight all women carry.

 We, as women, were made for receptivity. We receive the phenomenal weight of life, no matter how we try to deny it. Our literal capacity for bearing life defines so much about our inherent strength.

 To be a woman is to receive the weight of so much expectation. How we bear that weight and what we do with that strength is what defines us as individuals. It’s what makes or breaks a phenomenal woman.

In a world where femininity is thwarted by a culture prone to cancel the truth, the weight we bear increases evermore. It’s a two-way street, too. The more we have to accept, the more support we need from our male counterparts. Eventually, it’s too much to bear for anyone.

 One of the truths of feminine genius is the crossroads of acceptance, vulnerability, courage, and strength.

 One of the truths of feminine genius is the crossroads of acceptance, vulnerability, courage, and strength. We don’t roll a boulder uphill until it hits the top. That’s the punishment of a purposeless man.

 Those of us women who try to follow the same Sisyphean path are bound to the same fate-never reaching a proverbial top. And those of us who bear the world on our backs will bow and eventually break (just like any man).

 And this is not our calling. We’re called to a grander ponderance, one of mobility and progress. We may never literally bear life (not all of us are privileged with this gift).

 I spoke with a couple of girlfriends last weekend about our calling to receptivity. And I boldly claim, “I can’t befriend someone who’s not open to life’s possibilities.”

 And I stand by this claim. If you’re not courageously vulnerable to life’s uncertainty or can’t accept you won’t always understand or have clarity, then you’ll never fully live. The beauty of acceptance is its simplicity.

 Earlier this week, our morning formation struck a particularly relevant chord. I hated how true it was. The relevance was providential, as the apostolic letter came out last December. Here’s what hit home the most,

 …Set aside all anger and disappointment…and embrace the way things are, even when they do not turn out as we wish. Not with mere resignation but with hope and courage. In this way, we become open to a deeper meaning.

Patris Corde of the Holy Father Francis

 There’s nothing overly original about these words, but their context shed new light on uncertainty. My ongoing and historic struggle for clarity and forced resolution revealed something. The desperate pursuit of truth distorts the objective truth.

 Despair, often fueled by fear and faithlessness, reveals weakness and doubt. If you chase down answers, you blind yourself to other possibilities. One of the joys in faith is a revelation of something already before you in essence; it’s a mere perspective shift.

 Understanding the toll desperation takes creates a space for hope and patience in your heart. This space is vital, especially for pondering tough stuff like suffering, trauma, and old hurts. The only way out is through. Otherwise, you get stuck rolling a boulder up a hill for a proverbial eternity.

 At the Crossroads

 I find myself in a place of uncertainty pretty often. But I know that being amid possibility and potential is a rare place to be. That up-in-the-air feeling permeates my very fiber, thrilling me to the core.

 The thrill invigorates me, pulling taut the muscles of my patience and preparation. The courage needed to open myself to this thrill comes from hope, not strength. The thing that takes the most strength is acceptance.

 Bearing a weight, considering a burden, being a woman necessitates ponderance. Ponderance means weight, importance, a thing of consequence. It’s the intention behind acceptance that requires strength.

 When you take desperate action, you ignore the weight of a thing. And avoiding ponderance leaves you clawing for a “why” you might never get. That’s a dangerous thing in any part of life, especially with love.

 Opening my heart to dating to another kind of crossroads brings memory lane into view. Some things come back I’d tucked away or artfully forgotten. And working through those things without regretful dwelling is hard.

 I used to think love was a waiting game, something I needed to bide my time for until it came along. But I was so very wrong. Love is no waiting game, but vulnerably living, brave yet afraid.

 Love is no waiting game…

 Suppose you’re not full of self-doubt. I applaud your superhuman ability to forgive yourself and accept yourself as who you are.

 Usually, it’s a particular person (or series of similar persons) we allow to hold back our growth. Much of our time is spent resenting exes or never moving on, maybe trying to win them back.

 Meanwhile, said exes are moving on and growing up. They’ve chosen to let the past be in the past. It’s not necessarily apathy as much as having outgrown past relationships. Ideally, this doesn’t mean cutting all ties, but that is now all too often the case.

 Until a few weeks ago, I’d chosen not to date. What began as yearlong abstinence from dating eventually became three years.

 After two relationships ended back to back, I needed some me-time. As a wise friend put it, “Concentrate on you, girl. In a correct, positive, nourishing sense. Not the silly, modern selfish sense.” And that’s precisely what I’ve been doing.

 Three years ago, my mom and I spoke about the difficulty of growing up. As she accurately put it, “You’ve been in a holding pattern ever since you got out of college and came home.” There was no disagreeing with her then.

 Now, I have space and desire to grow. When I graduated from college, I was so set on forcing the things I wanted to happen. Instead of preparing myself for what I wanted, I “waited” with impatience and resignation.

 Impatience reflects reactivity; patience reflects proactivity. One comes with clear, targeted goals, the other with muddled feelings of frustration and resentment. It requires more strength to accept where you are instead of forcing change.

 I speak of strength, for I am a willful woman. Too often have I attempted to force fate’s hand. It began in my eighteenth year, before one of my more significant life changes.

I speak of strength, for I am a willful woman. Too often have I attempted to force fate’s hand.

 I was in a two-year relationship, and all I could think of was its end. I feared what parting ways meant or what a burden another year of long-distance dating would be without any declared intent. I was selfish and afraid, so I forced change.

 This began a series of forced changes, some in the ending of relationships or trying to initiate them. I’ve learned since then that turning the wrong way down a one-way street puts you in a world of hurt. At best, you’re in for an awkward turnaround. At worst, you get wrecked.

 During the paths of growth I wandered while single, I set some new rules for myself. Considering my past willfulness and frustration in the realms of romance, these rules are necessary for many parts of my life, especially dating.

 Let the Chase Happen, But Don’t Wait

 Men are supposed to take the lead for a reason. It’s only natural for men to be the ones to seek a woman’s attention. Every other mating species on this planet has some ritual. The males prance, dance, engineer, or coerce (yikes) to seduce a mate. Of course, their mating is a 9.5/10 about genetic propagation.

 So why are men any different? Despite cultural adjustments or gender revolutions, men are still proposing marriage, and women still have to say yes. What’s the difference between a man asking a woman out on a date?

 So much of modern dating involves inorganic interaction. The removal of that face-to-face pressure also removes any impetus for men to be truly masculine.

 The responsibility for initiation becomes a question when it’s not supposed to be. If you match, swipe, select, et cetera on someone, who’s supposed to message first?

 Some dating sites and apps are engineered to give women the first choice. As much as I’ve appreciated this in the past, it’s entirely uncharted territory. Too often, forward women have a higher agenda than men lacking initiative or in need of organic encouragement (i.e., higher stakes with other men around, potential friends serving as a wingman).

 That’s why I’m not dating like I used to. I’m letting men do their thing, as they’re supposed to. Despite any mutual feelings I may share with some, it’s not on me to have the cajones and initiate. Too long have I been the one deciding how things should be, and it’s exhausting.

 This is my whole new world. It’s going to take some getting used to, certainly. Impatience has been my holding pattern for so long. I’ve finally realized that patience requires clarity of purpose, firm intent, and cultivated willpower. I’ll get there eventually, and when I do, it’ll be life-changing.

Thanks for bearing with me as you read about my journey through love, dating, and life in general. I hope my stories help you in some small way. If you’re a big fan of my stuff, sign up for email reminders or follow me on Facebook to get notified about my latest posts.