When I needed more money, which was often, I could call Grandma. Grandma’s money was given in exchange for my attention. I loved Grandma, but she was difficult. It took some work to get money from Grandma and it took a big swallow of guilt to take it. Grandma, money, attention, guilt, became a revolving door of shame and justification. My self worth was tied to this notion of divvying up a pile of money (good feelings) until it was gone (bad feelings) and then starting all over again.

I discovered this truth so profoundly stated by C.S. Lewis: “Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art .... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.” I did not require friendship to survive a seven month deployment. But friendship made the deployment bearable, and not only bearable, but life-giving and sweet, nurturing and redemptive.

Women tend to become invisible as we age. The charm of graying temples is a term of endearment reserved for men. Our society is conditioned to equate beauty with youth, intrigue with speed, and attraction with shallowness. And as you age, you realize fewer people notice you.

The news of relocating came so fast that I didn't even have time to let it soak in. I hit the ground running so fast that I was numb to the thought of leaving home. It wasn't until the unpacking was done and the empty boxes were hauled away that I had time to actually let it sink in. It hit me, I am starting completely over.

No one gets married with the expectation of getting divorced some day in the future. When you promise to love and cherish someone for the rest of your life, you don’t picture what it will be like to be alone again. And there’s no manual on how to put your life back together when “forever” is cut short.

I adore the idea of a hygge house. You know the kind; they’re the ones you can find on social media filed under inspiring, peaceful sounding words like #darlinghome, #myhousebeautiful and #simplehousestyle. Scrolling through the feeds is like entering a world of pristine calm. All is white, organic, natural, and clean. Spotlessly clean. I look through the galleries of domestic perfection, and feel gratitude, joy, and Zen criss-cross my computer screen. I want some of that, I think.

It is in these weakest moments that we are at our worst. That we treat ourselves the worst. I love my son. I already love my daughter, who is just weeks away from making an appearance into this world. But there are days, more than I want to admit, where I do not like being a parent.

I find ‘go-getter’ women have the hardest time with asking for or accepting help. I run and own a successful business, employ a small team, and manage our small farm. I’m the one typically hosting events, organizing groups, and dropping off the casseroles and helping wherever needed. When someone needs something - I fix it. But why was it so damn hard when it was my turn? Pride? Ego? It's all wrapped up in there somewhere.

In our culture, women especially tend to apologize for not being perfect and as a result overlook their own amazingness. This has got to stop, ladies! Men, too. Instead of worrying about all the things you did not accomplish today, let’s celebrate the tiny victories you did have.

It never occurred to me that I handed over control of my self-image to everyone around me. And they all had an opinion. If I let the unsolicited feedback affect me positively and carried myself with confidence I often received a clear message from my contemporaries that I was vain, conceited, self-absorbed, or worse. If I dared to complain about a perceived flaw I was met with chuckles and eye rolling; “what do you have to be self-conscious about?”. I was not allowed to feel good or bad about myself.

I sat silently hoping Professor Forsythe wouldn’t notice me turning white and clammy as tears streamed down my face. History of Ohio was my least favorite class at CSU, but my discomfort had little to do with boredom. The pain in my lower abdomen sent me reeling into a panic; I would soon black out from the agonizing throbs.

I promised myself that when I got to the other side of grief I’d come alongside those just beginning with real support. I would offer helpful advice cultivated from my experience of healing, despite the lack of support I’d received from a confused and unprepared culture. Even more importantly, I didn’t want anyone to feel as lonely as I felt if I could help it.

I have learned that what family looks like or who is part of it changes as we change. People who were once close to me became part of the scenery or even distant memories. While initially challenging, these comings and goings eventually became a comfort.

While it’s definitely true that good can come out of loss, it’s not healthy to only view what’s gone in a negative light. If I completely dismiss the good that was lost just to make the whole ordeal less painful, it’s almost like I’m pretending that a portion of my life didn’t happen. I can’t live like that.

Riding the high of a marathon, I found myself in the hospital getting a whole bunch of tests and scans. I’d been laughing it off, saying it was nothing to worry about. Apparently it was.

I lived with my partner before getting married, and I had marriage 101 covered. Good communication + intimacy + teamwork + quality time = a bulletproof marriage. While my success formula had been a reliable tool pre-marriage, something changed. I began wondering if I would make it to the new year as a married woman.

We all have a story inside of us about the courage we've shown in the face of fear, adversity, health issues, relationship/family/career worries, and other life struggles. Since we're obviously huge fans of women sharing their stories through writing, we'd love to share these 7 writing prompts with you to explore how courage has impacted your life.

Our gut has saved our lives for hundreds of generations. So why do we struggle with listening to it? Because we’re taught as children to ignore it.

I wasn't officially diagnosed until I was 31 years old. My symptoms had gotten so bad that I knew I had to see a doctor about it. More specifically, my husband told me that he was worried about me and that it might help to go see someone. After one 50-minute session, the doctor said to me, "You are the textbook definition of someone with depression and generalized anxiety disorder." I was so overwhelmed that I couldn't formulate a response, so I just looked at the floor, tears filling my eyes. She prescribed medication for me and told me to come back in three weeks.

I’d agreed to the Pitocin when my contractions didn’t strengthen after eight hours, the Nubain when a day had passed under the fluorescent hospital lighting and I still hadn’t slept, the epidural when the contractions weren’t dilating my cervix according to established medical timeframes. The full buffet of medical interventions I’d vowed to avoid was up for the taking, and I’d sampled many of the offerings, starving for the bliss of my newborn child against my skin. The c-section was the final course, served up like the dessert I knew I didn’t want but just had to try.