Cheers to 27.

At 21, I was going to be married. At 22, I was going to have a college degree and start a brand new career. At 23, I would have a child with the love of my life, and by 25, I would be settled in with a great career that I loved going to every day, happily married, with a child on my hip and one growing in my belly. I would have this huge house, with a white picket fence, and a dog sitting on the front porch, ready to greet me when I came home every day. 

This was going to be my life and I was going to be so happy. 

I don't know when that life faded out of sight or when I gave up on nearly all of those things. I don't know when those dreams were born or even why I thought those are the things I needed so badly. As time went on and there was no man in the picture that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I realized the impact of society on my life. The world has told me that this narrative above is my story... it's supposed to be my story. The world told me that I was going to have it all figured out by 25. But it wasn't. It wasn't who I was. 

It isn't who I am. My story is much, much different.

Does that make me less than everyone else?
What will people think if none of that happens for me?
What if I never want to get married?
What if I don't want kids?
What if I never want a great big house, or a white picket fence, or kids taking up all of my attention?
What if I never want to share my bed, or my bathroom, or my kitchen?
What if all I ever want in life is a dog on my lap?

It has taken me a long time to be okay with those questions, and even longer to be okay with the dreams fading off in the distance... 26 years to be exact. This year has been one of the hardest of my life, in more ways than one, as I have felt the guilt of not living the life I was supposed to and dealing with the trauma at the same time that came along with ignoring what I wanted. 

I have had to learn to survive in a world of business this year, an opportunity that I daily remind myself how lucky I am to have. I know that this is a privilege beyond comprehension. (Please, please, please understand that I am in no way complaining about one of the greatest blessings in my life). But in June of this year, I sat in my doctor's office, crying and staring at the floor as I told them that my life was absolutely perfect and that I had everything I ever wanted and that I couldn't be more grateful even if a million dollars walked through the door. I talked about how great my family and friends were, how my business was doing great, and how I have dogs to come home to every night. After all that, tears rolled down my face as I said, "What is wrong with me? I have everything, but I'm not happy." 

Depression and Anxiety was exactly what was wrong with me. 

Those monsters creeped in my life years ago, but I pushed every feeling I ever had deep down within me, and I kept it all at bay by telling myself, "That dream will happen, you'll get there next year, don't worry, there's someone else out there, you'll be happy once you get married, have kids, get a great job, and have a perfect house." As year 26 rolled on for me and I was no where near closer to reaching any of those milestones, I struggled. Hard. I struggled with the huge opportunity I was given and the guilt I felt for not being able to wake up every day grateful, ready to jump out of bed, run through the doors of Tiger Bounce, and make this huge impact on the world around me. As the months wore on, and the newness faded, I started to struggle more. I was a business owner, why was I not passionate enough? Why did I have no energy? Why was I taking two and three days off? Why was I not answering my staff with their urgent messages? Why was I not picking up the phone or answering emails? Why was I not wanting to be there? Was this all a huge mistake? Why did I take on this responsibility when I'm a hot mess of a person in general? Would anyone ever love me, need me, see me for who I was? What if I was unable to do all the things that were expected of me? 

I have learned that the monster of anxiety often creeps up in the form of doubt. It creeps in, without a word of warning, telling your mind all the failures and mistakes that ever happened to you, and once it gets comfortable, it starts poking and kicking and yelling, "WHAT ABOUT THIS? WHAT IF YOU CAN'T MAKE IT? WHAT IF YOU NEVER GET THERE? WHAT IF THIS FAILS?"

And with me, it pushed on until I had no other options. Me, the girl who had this fancy business and perfect life and seemed so fun and happy on paper, was sitting in her bed for days, contemplating suicide. Me, the girl, with a masters in social work and years of education behind her on nearly every area of mental health there is, was unaware that it had taken root in her own world. I was not okay, far from it, and I no longer had the will to live. 

I had the perfect life, but I was so unhappy, that all I wanted was to end it. 

Does that not speak volumes of the pressure that we place on each other? on ourselves? I have learned this year, through owning a business, that sometimes it's okay to just let go. It's okay to let go of the control, to put down the phone and close the computer. It's okay to go home, crawl under the covers, and fall asleep under the drone of the TV, as long as you don't stay there. It's okay to not be okay. It's okay to cry until you can't breathe, for no other reason, other than disappointment in yourself. It's okay to let go of this persona that you're strong, untouched by hurt or grief or sadness, and it's okay to stop being someone you're not... even if you don't know who you truly are anymore. 

It's okay to let go of these dreams you think you're supposed to have, it's okay to create new ones if old dreams fade away, it's okay to throw away old ones when they start to hurt you, and it's okay to let go of people dragging you down, telling you that you're not good enough, or unworthy, or unlovable. It is also 100% more than okay to recognize how perfect your life is, but still not be okay on the inside. There should never be any guilt in that. 

For me, 26 was all about learning those things. It was about talking through problems I ignored for years. It was all about learning how to address hard things, deal with conflict, move forward, and become this badass business woman who can compete and hang in the world around her, on a good day or even bad. For me, it was saying out loud, "I want to die," that pushed me to find the will to live and to find dreams that were truly mine, rather than things pushed upon me or implied. 

I don't truly have a plan. I wish this was the point in the narrative where I said, "Here's me and this is what I'm going to do to have the life I dream of," but I don't know what the dream is yet. I don't really know what tomorrow brings. I don't really have any dreams that I'm so excited to share with the world, yet. But... year 27 for me, which starts today, is all about figuring out who I am and what I truly want... even if that means a house full of dogs and a counter to sit on where I can eat icing from the tub in peace. 

All I want for this year is to figure out what makes me happy, and I want to tirelessly, wholeheartedly, and passionately pursue whatever it is that does that. 

This is going to be a good year. 

The best. 

Thank you all for standing by me, loving me through it, and pushing me to keep going. Love you all!

 -Ted

You.

My doctor sat across from me and handed me a tiny piece of paper with a scripture passage scribbled across it a few days ago. I had just had an in depth conversation with him about the mystery of God and His impact on my life. This conversation with my doctor, the man with education and years of experience behind him in the medical field, completely left my brain clearer than it has ever been sitting in a church. 

After I finished telling him everything that I felt and everything wrong with me, he looked at me and for the first time in my entire life, I felt like someone saw me. Actually saw me. And he said, "I don't "get" it. But you have a God who doesn't just hear you, but understands everything you're saying."

Truthfully, I just wanted a prescription to make my anxiety more manageable. 

My relationship with God and religion and church and Christ has been everything but easy. I don't always "get" the way in which things work and the absence of concrete answers for a girl who thrives on solid facts leaves me struggling. Faith is a concept I just don't understand.

When I was a second semester freshmen in college, brand new at Mizzou, I had a girl sit across from me at lunch and laugh as I told her a story about growing up in the church I did, as she said, "I would have had no idea you've ever even set foot in a church." As an 18 year old, confused college student, the very thought of christianity couldn't have been farther from my mind. I was lost and I had no idea. The memory, today, nearly a decade later, leaves me cringing. I have spent years running away from that part of my life, simply because it is painful to admit that I have failed and I have missed out on what a testimony it would have been, back then, to live as a Christian in a not so Christian friendly college world. If I stay in that place though, I give more power to the sin and allow those thoughts of inadequacy and the lack of self worth to creep in. 

It's a place I cannot live anymore. 

As a child, I was the happy kid. The kid who laughed at all the wrong times, and talked too much in the back of the classroom. I was the kid who's parents shook their heads in wonder as I danced across church pews and hung off tree limbs. I laughed, had this odd sense of humor, and told inappropriate jokes that I overheard adults laughing over. I didn't match my socks or my clothes for that matter, and kept everyone literally on their toes from the moment I said my first word. I never paid attention, never followed the rules, and I hardly ever existed in the same world as everyone around me. I had a zest for life and I believed anything I wanted was achievable. Anything I wanted was within reach. Anything I wanted was mine as long as I chased after it.

Most importantly though, I was a child who grew up on faith. I believed in all things church, Wednesday night dinners, and youth group shenanigans. I believed in laser tag, in bowling on Saturday nights, and in reading last week's passage of scripture as fast as possible in the five minutes before Sunday School began. I believed in bringing casserole dishes to every gathering, picking out perfect bible covers, and in closing your eyes before meals as deacons prayed over food. I believed wholeheartedly that if a couple people sat around a table, somehow, supernaturally, God would also appear too. I believed in memorizing the 10 commandments, however, I lacked all understanding of what it actually meant to follow them. I believed in mouthing the words to every hymn and to smile and wave and hug all the little old ladies who sat on the back pew. I believed in church and having relationships with the people who occupied the member list, but somehow in the midst of all of this believing, I failed to create a relationship with the God who created me and who was the reason for religion in the first place. 

Truthfully though, looking back, I chose not to form that relationship. I made a choice, unintentionally, even from a young age. I didn't grasp the importance. I didn't understand the privilege. I didn't understand the need for God in my perfect world as a child. 

As a child, and even young adult, my world just wasn't in need of the saving grace of God and the hope I could only find in Him. 

As I've gotten older, I could list every detail of my life where something didn't go as planned, or every opportunity that failed, or every disappointment, heartbreak, and moment that made my heart drop... but my feelings on life can all be summed up in one easy sentence without going into gruesome details; Simply, this life has been really hard to live.

So many times even just scrolling through Facebook or casually in conversations, the same theme is brought up time and time again. Why do bad things happen? I've asked myself that same question a hundred times. Whenever I get sick or hurt or upset, I constantly think, "Why me?" Why did this happen to me? Why did I get that cold during the busiest week of my life? Why did I fail that test in grad school that would've opened doors for me? Why did I date that guy, or fall in love with this guy, or why was I rejected by those friends? Why did I lose my job, a job that I was so passionate about, one that I was good at? Why did I make that mistake, walk away from that opportunity, or why was I the one laying awake crying over something that meant nothing to everyone around me? Why me? Why was I asked to live this life, to have this story, and to be the one girl who desperately searched for answers, only to come up empty handed? Did God not promise that whoever searches for Him would find Him? Why am I not finding Him when I am looking for the very thing he claims to give out freely?

Why me?

As I rolled over the passage in the Bible that my doctor handed me this last week, it was as if my questions that I have been asking over and over and over again were being listed out before me. Why are bad things continuously happening? As a child, I gave my life to Christ. As a teenager, I gave my life again. As a young adult, I gave my life back to Him time and time and time again. But the problem is that my life has been God's since I was born and since the first time I gave him my heart, but I have failed time and time again to live my life in that freedom I received. See, I was giving him my past, but not anything more. Each time, I handed over everything that I had done and thought and sinned, but I refused to give him my future and my plans and my life that I was going to have. 

Why did all these bad things happen to me?

As a young adult on my own, I walked out of the church that I grew up in, lacking a foundation to stand on, held my breath, hoped for the best, and walked away completely without any form of faith grounding me to the childhood I lived inside the church walls. It was a moment, just like all the others, where I made a choice saying that my life was mine. It belonged to me. Me. It was mine. No one else, and sure as hell not, the God of the Universe who knows my name and created the hairs on my head. He was not going to have a say. How can I expect God to shield me from everything around me, when I was the one shielding Him the entire time from truly knowing me?

What was I thinking?

You see, it's simple. I wanted God to save me, but I didn't want Him. I wanted Him to get me out of all of the tough situations, to reach down and make the hurt stop and to see me sitting on the kitchen floor, but I didn't want Him to stick around afterwards. I searched for God, but I came up empty handed, because it wasn't what I was searching for that was failing me, it was how and where I was searching. I searched in people, in guys, in relationships, in fancy clothes and perfect nails, and on social media, pinterest, and twitter. I searched everywhere that I could find, even at the bottom of a bottle, but somehow I could never find Him... and all of that hurt convinced me that I must not be worthy of knowing the God everyone else claims to worship so easily. so freely. so genuinely.  

How did I get here?

This life has been really hard to live. Hard. Difficult. Trying. Exhausting. 

Because even while I was looking in all the wrong places, I knew I was intentionally moving one step at a time further away. I smiled and prayed and posted fancy scriptures, I pinned quotes that sang about the grace I wanted to appear to know, but my heart was turned so far away that even the depth of grace couldn't be felt. I was intentionally choosing my life, the plans that I had, the goals that I wanted, and the dreams I could barely see. 

You see, I didn't want God. I didn't want a life that had God in it. Truly in it. I didn't want Him. I didn't want His grace or mercy or hope...

You see, I wanted to be my own savior. 

But, I am not. I am not. I cannot save myself. I cannot carry on with a life, no matter how much I wanted it, without the God of this universe in it. 

I can't do it anymore.

Today, at this point, I have no where else to look because I found Him in a tiny little office room with the answers I craved scribbled across a note simply because a doctor cared enough to realize that I wasn't just searching for a prescription to feel better, but I was searching for more to life. I was searching for a way to crawl back to the God of the church I grew up in, the God of the stories I heard as a child, and the God who was supernaturally somehow there when two or more were gathered. 

There is hope.

Thank you God for second and third and one hundred and ninety chances. Thank you for grace, for hope, for life, and for doctors who know You and see me and puts it all aside to give the answer You have been trying to give me all along. 

You.
You are the answer. 

To my teachers, 10 years later... Thank you!

When I was in high school, I was called over to the bench during warm ups to talk to my coach. His head was down and he said my name in the way he always did when he was disappointed with something I did... I remember sitting on the bench waiting, trying to think of an excuse as to why I had skipped out on 6th hour the day before and why I was late to class that morning. He looked at me, but I kept my head down... staring at my shoelaces, as I always did when I was in trouble... and he said, "Tedi Ellis, would you like to tell me what I already know before I have to say it?"

He always used both of my names. Always. 

I nodded. I learned a long time ago about the way he phrased things... I had spent several years with him prior to this soccer season and he was not only my coach, but I had him as a teacher as well, and he handled my workouts (when I bothered to show up, off season). "Tedi Ellis," he said. "Last chance."

I held my ground.

"I had a talk with one of your teachers today... He thought it would be a good idea for me to read one of your papers, your 20 page paper, that you turned in today."

I looked up to see him holding a stack of papers in his hand, and immediately I was confused as to whether I was in trouble or if I was being recognized for my hard work in the classroom. He started complimenting my work, the paper, and said that it was one of the best "literary works" he had ever read and asked if it was okay if he shared his favorite part. I nodded, completely sure that I had just earned brownie points with my coach and would probably be recognized for my academic ability, finally! 

He started, "As part of the senate, my plan is..." he looked up at me as he finished the sentence, but because I did not understand his point, I said, "Yeah, that was my favorite part too." Truth is, if I ever bothered to pay attention, I would have probably known what the senate was... and even today, I'd maybe be closer to understanding how it all works together. Who knows? 

He tried his best to hide back his smile and said, "Would you like me to read it again?" I nodded, but slowly I could feel my heart beating faster. I was caught. 

This time he began, fully enunciating, "As part of the senate," with an emphasis on "the SENATE," and he continued. "Tedi Ellis, when were you part of the SENATE?"

That was easy. 

I have always had this problem where my brain goes a thousand miles ahead of common sense and has a hard time catching up with reality, so instead of just doing what the normal person would have done and admitted to plagiarism, I gave a rationale. "No, no... that's not what I meant to say. I MEANT when I become the senate."

He looked at me, with a stare that could kill, and said, "I'll continue then," and he flipped the page, but this time asked me to read the next paragraph as he pointed to what was already highlighted. I started reading when he said, "Out loud, Tedi Ellis."

"I did my professional studies at Harvard under the advisement of..." and I stopped as I came to the the sentence that said, "Although we were both men involved in politics from our early college years..."

I stared down at my shoe laces again, not daring to look up... but I could feel the wrath of my coach about to come out. I knew I was in trouble and I knew I had to admit defeat. We sat there for a few moments when he finally said "Tedi Ellis, either you have some explaining to do as to why you're playing on my high school GIRLS soccer team or you didn't write this paper."

You think by this time, any normal and sane person would have finally given it up, but not Tedi Ellis... I was not one to back down, not even in the face of adversity.

"I forgot to put that part in quotations?" I asked, more as a question than a statement this time.

"Go ahead, flip the page."
"Okay, I get it... if I had changed those parts, would you have believed that I wrote it?"
He shook his head. "Tedi Ellis, you forgot to delete the blue links at the bottom of the pages... and you left the wikipedia table."

I laughed. He didn't.

He yelled a little and told me that he was disappointed in me. He told me about how he expected more... about how he couldn't believe I thought I would get away with it... and about how I knew better. He told me that he wanted a brand new paper on his desk the next morning, so that he could read through it with me before I turned it in with an apology to my history teacher. He told me that this was the only chance I would ever get and from that point on, he expected everything to be my own work and nothing else. I understood. I whispered a tiny little apology, no excuses, just an apology. I messed up and I knew it and I took the responsibility for it. 

He told me to go back to the drills with my teammates, but before I ran off, I asked, "If I wouldn't have copied all that and would've deleted the link, would you have believed that I wrote it?"

This smile stretched across his face and you could tell he wanted to hold back laughter as he said, "Tedi Ellis, you turned in a 22 page paper for an assignment that was only supposed to be 3-5 pages."
He smiled as he said, "You'll also be running stairs all of next week after practice."

"Yes," I said. "Understood."

I finished practice with my teammates. I stayed up late that night. I wrote everything I possibly could have from the semester about politics and government and how the system works for America. I put it on my coach's desk the next morning. We went over it. I made corrections. I turned it in with a heartfelt apology and I moved on. I ran stairs every day after practice for the entire next week without complaining. I had shin splints that hurt just to get out of bed and my shins were taped the rest of the season. I learned my lesson. 

It made me a better student and it made me a better athlete. 

However, when grades came out, my teacher failed me. He gave me a zero. I plagiarized, I wrote a new paper, I apologized, I learned my lesson, and I still got a zero. I still passed the class... but he gave me absolutely no credit for the paper I did write. I was beyond annoyed. Frustrated. Mad. Angry. I thought I deserved something, that I was somehow entitled to an A. In my 16 year old brain, it just wasn't fair. 

I did the work, I should've gotten an A. 

As an adult, nearly ten years later, I am thankful my teachers handled it like they did. They showed me that hard work pays off, but only when it is done correctly the first time. They taught me that when I make mistakes, I should own up to them, and acknowledge exactly where I went wrong. They taught me to apologize, without excuses, and to face whatever came with it. 

Every single one of my teachers taught me more than a textbook ever could, they taught me character. They taught me how to become someone worthy of integrity, someone full of honesty, someone who keeps going when odds are stacked against them. They never handed me anything, but rather they showed me how to become someone who worked hard, who believed in herself, and that it was never wrong to admit a mistake. They taught me that school came first, and no matter how good I was on the field, I would be nothing without an education. 

Looking back, I didn't have the best grades and I certainly wasn't the smartest in the classroom... but my teachers saw past that and they gave me a start in life that was based entirely on character. They showed me how to be a better person and how to become successful just because of who I am, not what I will achieve. 

I was a kid, who gave the teachers trouble. I would show up late, sleep during tests, and barely finish the homework. They didn't give up though. I always brought snacks, talked too much, and could never focus long enough to understand lessons. I had a great memory, but I never studied, and I hardly ever put forth effort. My teachers still poured into me. They invested into me, into my life, into me. They never gave up. They were never recognized for that, though. As a country, and as a state, we only recognize test scores and grades and academic performances... but unfortunately, my teachers never got recognized for anything to do with me academically. Sorry not sorry, I just wasn't that kid. 

The greatest lesson I ever learned was when I plagiarized, got caught, apologized and wrote a new paper, and still got a zero... My teachers took the time out to make sure I understood, and more importantly that I never made that same mistake again. 

They might have taught me government, or math, or history, but I couldn't tell you a single thing from that, but I can tell you that my softball coach showed me how to laugh through the mess, how to work hard and see results, and how to throw everything you have towards something you want. I can tell you how my soccer coach taught me to be honest, to show compassion, and to own up to any mistake that I make. It was my math teacher who showed me that there is nothing wrong with being a little different, as long as you stay true to who you are. It was my history teacher who taught me to do it right the first time because nothing will be handed to you in life. It was my English teacher who taught me that my mind was a gift and I should never take that for granted. It was my principal, who showed compassion and grace every chance she got, who taught me that everyone deserves another chance. It was my Psychology teacher, who taught me that it was okay if I didn't fit in a box like everyone else, as long as I was happy. It was all of them who taught me that sometimes the things you least expect are sometimes the most worthy of investment. 

My parents gave me life and they raised me to be who I am and for that I am forever thankful, but it was the teachers in my life who gave me the tools, and the discipline, and the path, and the drive to actually become the person I am now. Textbooks don't teach, it is the teachers who take on that responsibility. 

I wouldn't be who I am now without them, and that is something that is worthy of all the credit in the world.