A Coming Home-Again

We drove two and a half hours to the coast with Anika’s photography class for whale watching. Leo was wildly overstimulated and sensory-seeking. The car ride was long, and the wait to board the boat required every skill I’ve honed over the years with them. I worried about how the next four hours would unfold.

But as the boat began to move, I watched Leo regulate. The vibration of the motor, the sound of the water surrounding us, the rocking lullaby of the waves—all of it seemed to hold them.

Leo grew quiet, gazing out at the ocean. Then they turned to me and said, “It’s like a coming home.”

I asked what they meant, and Leo explained: “This is the beginning of life. We were created here.”

As only Leo can, they reminded me how to be fully present. I told them how I always cry when I first see the ocean. I began, “I’m always overcome by—” and Leo interrupted, finishing the thought: “Its power.”

I nodded. We both grew quiet again. I looked at Leo and whispered, “It is a coming home.”
Leo smiled, and together we turned back toward the water. The boat carried us forward with more gentleness, more patience, more joy.

Later, my dad came by and I shared what Leo had said. I translated to his language: “I am the ocean and the ocean is I.” He nodded and said simply, “That’s it.”

For me, standing before the ocean always brings awe. I long to bow before its power and beauty. It reminds me of my own worthiness. We are made of the same. How humbling to feel part of it all—and at the same time, to feel as if I am an equal to all that beauty.

My dad and children stood side by side- scanning the ocean for whales. I watched them laugh and giggle together. And then, without warning, the voice again echoes inside of me: moments like these are fleeting. My whole being wanted to grasp it, hold it, not let go.

My heart's clench was broken by a juvenile humpback surfacing beside the boat. I didn’t reach for my phone. I knew I didn’t have time. All I could do was witness—and remember.

As global warming tightens its grip, as the ocean faces its death, a baby humpback still plays. Fleeting moments but they are not lost. They are within us.

How silly it is to grasp-the ocean lives here. And isn’t that what it all means? Isn’t it all a coming home again?

The Observer

A message from the marionettist 

Please know I wish I could walk beside you

And for awhile in late morning I believe I can

Movement echos with belief

Inevitably by afternoon heat radiates my muscles

Doubt grows to acceptance

The world is no longer my domain

Caged without bars

Service to my family has been my purpose

But it dissolves

My role now unable to be played

My absence is now the burden 

By evening I only pretend to be there

My body a barrier

Disconnection to those I love

Relationships strained

Pain waves radiate

I watch it all before me

The trails I want to walk

A voyeur to my life

Silence muffles the pain

Engagement no longer an option

Retreat

I wonder if this is it now

Death while alive

The marionettist grips on to the last of bit of involvement

But even that slips away

I exist and observe

Remember This

A few weeks ago, Aviana, Anika and I went to the Hozier concert at Fenway Park in downtown Boston. As the concert got going I was taken aback that nearly everyone had their phones pointed at the stage. Small clips, your favorite song—fine. But the whole show? It struck me as proof of how much the younger generation struggles to be present without documenting it.

At the same time, I recognized that I, too, wanted to document the moment—but not the performance. What I wanted to capture was my daughters.

So often, I see them wrestle with taking up space in the world. I remind them constantly. When they leave in the mornings, I yell, “Remember to take up space today!”—usually followed by an eye roll. But I wonder if they know what I mean: what it looks like for a woman to be unapologetic—in her body, her emotions, her needs, her opinions. To own her power.

I can’t fully articulate it in words, but I know it when I see it, and I know it when I feel it. It’s magic. It’s the purest form of contentment. As a mother, watching your child step into themselves with grace and confidence is one of life’s most rewarding moments.

The concert itself was the hottest four hours of my life. We danced in 100-degree heat, plus humidity, plus 30,000 people. It felt like being trapped in a massive, wet sauna surrounded by radiating bodies. People danced, sang, and wiped sweat. Makeup melted, clothes clung. Vanity disappeared. Music remained.

Then Hozier paused to speak. He reflected on the state of the world, on the connections between American and Irish independence, on the sacrifices made so we could live in a free democracy where all have the right to prosper.

The crowd erupted in agreement at every pause. And yet, I couldn’t help noticing the disconnect. This was a mostly white, young, economically secure crowd—people who, in truth, are not actively working to protect the freedoms of minorities or to confront genocide happening now. They are living privilege and, often, unwilling to change the power dynamics that benefit them.

It made me wonder: what is the point of famous people saying these things if the cheers don’t translate to action? If ideals don’t become practice? (I include myself here—I, too, live with privilege and struggle to find meaningful ways to create change.)

But as my thoughts churned, I looked back at my daughters. They were clapping, whistling, yelling out. And I realized: this is where change begins. With awareness. With cheering. With a spark. And from there, it grows.

At that moment, I only saw them. I could see their light without the weight the world tries to place on them. They weren’t just connecting with the crowd; they were connecting with their own voices, their values. And as the music started again, they danced more freely. Free of society’s expectations. Free of their struggle. Free of the self-critical voice they often carry.

I was proud. Proud of who they are, proud of what they value, proud of the good they will create.

And then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me again: moments like this are fleeting.

I am preparing for the second greatest change of my life—second only to becoming their mother. Soon, I will no longer be raising my children. Soon they’ll go to concerts with friends, partners and hopefully together. Soon they’ll decide how they want to show up in the world, what causes they’ll fight for.

I’ll still watch, but from afar. I’ll hear their stories in phone calls, in check-ins, in the moments when they still need their mom. I’ll see glimpses in photos. I will hopefully become a welcomed guest in their life.

I know this is right, but my chest aches at the thought. 

As my breath returned to rhythm and I wiped tears from my face, I put my phone away, centered myself in the moment before me, and whispered to them both:

“Remember this.”

Home Is Where I Am

It’s been a bit and A LOT has happened. Now that things are finally calming, I find myself reflecting on the last two years. My nervous system is taking a much needed exhale. 

In the Fall of 2023 I had out-patient surgery. Once in recovery, I was not feeling well but the staff pushed me to get up in preparation for leaving. They had called Jared back and were starting to transfer me to a wheelchair when blood started squirting out of my incision line. They put me back into the bed and tried to control the bleeding. The one nurse caring for me and the front secretary helped apply pressure to my abdomen. My vitals were getting worse, I was not fully conscious and I was in a lot of pain. They made the decision to bring me back into surgery to stop the bleeding. I lost a lot of blood and my body had gone through a lot. Recovery was long and painful. Jared and I both had to process the psychological impact of me almost dying.

By March 2024 I was finally feeling back to myself. But just as we all began to heal from one traumatic experience, our dog Maple, that was the heart of our family, was killed in a hit and run in front of our house. It will be one of the darkest days of all of our lives. Losing Maple and the grief that followed left me gutted. Watching my kids process trauma and grief was torturous. Maple was my soul dog. She healed my broken heart. The trauma of her death, mixed with the void she left behind, turned our life upside down. 

On top of this, we felt the loss of people we loved around us. The vision we had held of a life in Rio Rancho was no more. Days, weeks, and months went by with the absence of family and friends. All of this loss made us rethink every aspect of the life we choose to live.

Jared was having a crisis of conscience and identity when it came to his job working his Government IT job. He is not an engineer. He does not develop weapons. But he was becoming increasingly troubled supporting the military-industrial complex. We watched the news and saw dead kids in Palestine every day. His job was part of the bureaucracy supporting this genocide. He told me that he was always troubled with this job. That there are a lot of ways to rationalize the work. But at the end of the day, he contributed to war, death, and destruction. He felt stuck between a well paying job needed to support his family and living his values.

On my birthday we went to a concert. Micheal Franti & Spearhead were playing in Santa Fe. They shared messages of love, the importance of family, and the beauty of living your values. They challenged everyone to take the risk to create the life of our dreams and to offer the world our gifts. The messages resonated deeply with us. Something magical happened that night. We danced, we cried, we released all that happened and we listened to our “knowing”.

We knew we had to move. That house represented so much pain. And it was never us. It was never the community we wanted. We no longer wanted to play it safe. Money, good jobs, security, moving up the ladder or existing in the status quo would not make us happy. Maple’s testament to our family was an unwavering desire to follow our dreams. We took one hell of a risk. Jared and I both left our jobs, we left family and friends, we sold our house, we sold most of our belongings, and we moved across the country. 

We wanted our kids to be in a progressive area where they could feel fully free to be who they wanted to be. We wanted a smaller community, lakes and rivers, four seasons, a slower pace of life, no more freeways, no more road rage, no more cookie cutter houses, no more strip malls, no more HOAs. We wanted a place that felt like home. Brattleboro, Vermont has been exactly that. We feel welcomed and supported. We know our neighbors. We rake leaves and shovel snow for our elderly neighbor. She drops off treats and tells us we are the greatest gift to her life this year. We go to the co-op and see people we know. Nature hugs us with trees, running water, animals, and the stars light up the night sky. The snow is magical and the cold encourages us to cultivate a cozy home to hibernate in. We see electric vehicles instead of trump flags flying on trucks. We rarely see police but instead social programs that line the street. We see a community that is deeply invested in making the world a better place for everyone.

There have been many voices that have not understood the decisions we have made or the priorities we hold. Though it was not our intention, we are not blind to the fact that people were deeply hurt by our move, or simply just did not understand it. Our decision was not made lightly. We took months and a lot of soul searching to feel assured that it was the right decision for us at this time.

Not once have I thought, this was crazy or a bad decision. It was a magical calling we felt and that we answered with a fervent ‘YES!’ We still don’t know many people yet but it feels like home. Rio Rancho felt disconnected and hollow. It lacked a soul. It was not a community or place I would ever want to call home. The people serve themselves and feel no connection to anything larger than the truck they drive or the HOA they call “home”.

We left our huge sterile house that lacked character or a history for this amazing little house we now call home. We are the third owners of a home built in 1880. The seller passed, the sister of the previous owner, declined a cash offer equal to ours. She knew her sister would want a family to enjoy the house and did not want another home becoming a rental property serving to only enrich the already wealthy. But the house needed work. It had areas where the floor was rotten, bathrooms that were not functioning, five layers of wallpaper on every wall, a roof needing repair, mold growing on walls, renovation and restoration needed to be done in every square foot. BUT, as they say, it had good bones. The original woodwork was intact, it had a near perfect layout, and amazing neighbors that welcomed us. After six months of renovations it is absolutely gorgeous. We mended ourselves alongside this house. We continued the house's story. This house now holds our laughter, joy, creativity, and sorrows. This house has become our home. 

I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia a couple years ago after years of unexplained muscle pain. On top of this both hips are highly arthritic.I struggle putting words to what it feels like living with chronic pain. Pain is the most isolating circumstance I have ever experienced. More than being a single parent, mental health struggles, or the raising of young kids. My attention and awareness is always in my body.

Last fall Jared and I went to our first local concert. We got there early to make sure to claim two of the very limited seats available. I had accepted that my days of dancing for hours are in the past. I was determined to find a way to actively experience life in the ways I love. As the music started, I shifted my body back and forth to the beat while sitting. I watched all those around me dancing. I felt invisible within a bubble that surrounded me. As the night moved forward I decided to give myself a couple songs to dance. A couple turned into more. I consciously knew I would pay for days if I continued to dance but a larger voice was heard, “Myah dance when you can! Be here now. Feel your body move.” Again the world around me melted away. It was me and the music. I felt all the nights of dancing in my life. I felt joy. I felt the expression of sensuality and creativity. The laughter of all those nights echoed in me. For a moment, I willingly belonged in my body.

My disability is not normally visible to others but sometimes I wish it was. It seems easier to exist differently when others know. When in public and I struggle standing, I feel seen. Jared says he can gauge how I am doing by my eyes. I pay attention to how quiet and withdrawn I feel. 

We went to New York City in December to see the Christmas lights. I did okay walking around the first couple days but on the third day my pain hit a level I have never felt. As I stood in a subway, waiting on a train, my legs shook, tears fell, I became my pain. The kids all helped support me walking and made sure I did not fall. I struggle so deeply with having them help me. It feels codependent and a role reversal that I am uncomfortable with. Jared was busy trying to figure out a way to get me back to the hotel as fast as he could. I saw his panic and I saw the kids' concern. I spent all my energy trying to not scare the kids or show them just how bad it was. But it was a battle I was losing. It felt like an out of body experience. I was an observer to a scene that was now mine.

Jared and I have had many conversations about how to handle these moments. How to protect the kids. How to have Jared keep caring for himself. The reality is that I am not an able bodied person and Jared has to pick up a lot more responsibility with everything. At the time, I could not work and I could no longer contribute at home like I once did. I have to pace myself. Prioritize every bit of energy I put out. 

My doctor is working hard to make sure nothing has been missed in my diagnosis and to help me with pain management. He gave me some new medications that I use only when things get really bad. Those moments seemed to be occurring more and more. I am so very thankful to have options that help me stay engaged with life. In moments I would normally retreat to my room, I can now get some relief to help me stay present with my family. Jared told me he saw a glimpse of the “old Myah” after I treated my pain. I was sad to know that others can see my personality disappearing. I too felt more distant from her each day. 

I went to see a new local orthopedic doctor. All the doctors before have said that I am too young for a hip replacement. I fully expected to walk into that office and be told the same thing. That I had to live with my hip pain for the next 20 years. That did not happen. The doctor fully listened to my experience, did a physical examination of my range of motion and my clicky hip. He said, “It's pretty clear to me what the problem is. You need a new hip.” My x-rays showed advanced arthritis that no amount of NSAIDS or physical therapy could fix. I got my new hip in March. It was the easiest surgery I have recovered from. Within a month, I was more mobile than before. 

We have gone to amazing concerts this summer. I have done things I no longer thought I would be able to do physically. I have danced. Yes, I have paid for it, but not for days. I have figured out if I take a dose of steroids on days I want to be more physically active, I recover much faster. I feel like my life has been given back to me. 

The kids are doing well. Not once have they told us that they wish we would have not moved. They are finding their way in this amazing community that has accepted them for who they are and the gifts they give to the world. We lived in a huge metropolitan area but this little town of Brattleboro has offered more than I could imagine; theater, Boys and Girls Club, photography, teen events, schools, amazing teachers and special ed staff.

Jared is my beloved, my safe space, my constant, my best friend. My kids are joy, they are hope, they are my teacher, they are my why. My dad is my cheerleader, my therapist, my wise force, my friend. My pets are my companions. I am held. I am loved. I am home. 

I am reminded of the dialectic, that two seemingly opposing things can both be true. That life is full of pain for me AND I feel the most content with life than I ever have. I have far less people in my life AND I feel less alone than I have in a long time. Money is much tighter AND I am immensely fortunate. I feel grief AND I feel joy. Life is lived in the dialectic. We are never here or there. We are everywhere. I see the beauty in all. I am so very grateful. I am home. It is good. 

I embrace the lights’ return to our life. I am grateful for the opportunity to rest, to reflect, to notice. I am thankful for all those that have come into my life to help me heal my heart and care for my body. I am thankful for those who share my joy. Home is more than a building, belongings or a place that houses your body. Home is the people I love, the community I choose, the nature that embraces me, the pets that give me joy, the ones that walked before me and the ones that will walk ahead of me. Home is where I belong. Home is where I am.