But tomorrow is another day...

I often have days where the only thing that brings me comfort is the sanctuary of my room and the security of my bed. There's days that leave me fragile, and weak, and feeling out of control. Days that make me want to throw in the towel, give up, and move away to a remote little beach and live simply.

But each new morning, I get up, I shower the day before away, and I start over. I'm building a future, a legacy, and trying to do everything I can to make my little part of this world a better, safer, happier place.

But often, I fail.

As a business owner, I juggle the daily struggles of my personal life, of dating, of single motherhood, of family, friends, and commitments, of mental health, and everything in between, with the very real commitment to Tiger Bounce, to the children's entertainment facility where I am solely responsible for twenty-two staff members, hundreds of families, the children's safety and security, inventory, bills, events, programming, and everything else that comes along with maintaining and growing a business. I barely make it to bed before my eyes close, but every single day, I am so thankful, I am so appreciative, and so entirely blessed to live the life I do with my tiny girl following behind me.

I am in love with my life.

But often, the trials and struggles and the juggling act, fall and take over. My commitment doesn't change because of rough weeks or tough choices or slow days. I will always be thankful, and appreciative, and blessed, I will always strive to make Tiger Bounce better, to make my employees happier, to make more sales, to meet the needs to my customers and bring smiles to tiny faces... but this week, overly exhausted has climbed to the top of my list.

I am in love with my life, but I am exhausted.

After long conversations with staff members, after sitting up in my bed praying to a God that I hope is still listening, and trying, creating, and implementing new plans to make Tiger Bounce better... tough choices still had to be made and staff members that I adored had to move on.

That's the part of the job that I would pay any amount of money to not ever have to decide.

I struggle. I struggle maintaining Tiger Bounce, I struggle with the balance of loving this staff, having high expectations, wanting the best for them, pushing them to do more, work harder, create new healthy habits, and develop into the very best self they can be. I struggle with that, because there are just days where I can't say "Please, go do your job," one more time. I can't keep saying, "Please, clean this," or "Please, get off your phone," or "Please, please, please stop making me be this boss I don't want to be."

It just gets exhausting.

I often become the bad guy. I become the one who is too hard on them, too strict, too toxic, too tough. I warn, I give hundreds of chances, I show them over and over and over, and I try my hardest to understand the limitations that employees have. I understand bad days, missed shifts, prior engagements, poor work habits, and everything else... but there comes a point, when I have to make the choice that Tiger Bounce needs and let go.

Those are always the saddest days for me.

As a person, I hate being taken advantage of. I hate when my kindness is portrayed as a weakness that is manipulated and driven down. I hate when I am pushed to the point when my empathy and understanding and reason are gone. I hate when I have to become a boss without emotion, without understanding, without feelings... in order for them to just get it. 

Often times though, they don't get it until I am sitting across from them face to face and saying, "We're done here."

Those are the days I hate more than anything else in life and sends me home exhausted, yearning for the moment when I can climb into bed, turn off my phone, and pull the covers over my head and go to sleep.

But each new morning, I get up, I shower the day before away, and I start over. I'm building a future, a legacy, and trying to do everything I can to make my little part of this world a better, safer, happier place.

And that's all I can do. All I want to do. All I strive for.

But I'll love anyways...

I often hear a soft little voice coming from upstairs around 7 or 8 in the morning. She wakes up singing, "twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are?" every single morning, even when she's angry and tired. I wake up in a rush, crabby, tired, and preoccupied to even hold a conversation. 

Am I enough for her?

I have been awaken from a sound sleep by tiny hands on my cheeks, with a little face whispering, "are you awake, mommy?" I find myself filled with guilt, why was she awake before me, why did I not hear her, why was I not there when she opened her eyes? Who cares if it's 2 AM, I should have known she needed me. 

Am I who she needs?

There's moments when I say something so profound, that I become so inwardly proud of myself for the way I worded things in a way a child can understand, only to be met with a "But why, mommy?" that sends me back into a world of doubt.

Am I enough for her?

I watch in wonder as a tiny little person dances and runs and shouts and plays just minutes before bedtime while my feet drag up the steps and my body collapses into my bed at the end of the day. 

Am I who she needs?

I listen on the other side of her bedroom door as she serves her dolls tea and cookies. Somedays I sit beside her dolls and am served the same pretend tea. But sometimes, the sometimes I wish to never admit, I sit on the other side of the door, exhausted and in need of a break. 

Am I enough for her?

I watch her and stare in wonder as she lays on the bed next to the puppy and drifts off to sleep while petting her nose. Her goodness is unmatchable and makes me question my own. 

Am I who she needs?

I watched in shock as she figured out how to open a bottle of apple juice in just under 3 seconds that I struggled with for nearly 20 minutes. 

Am I enough for her?

I have watched her learn to brush her own teeth, wash her own hair, and buckle herself into her carseat. I have listened as she proclaims in a voice higher than my ears can handle "I did it, mommy, I did it!"

Am I who she needs?

I have seen masterpieces drawn on my walls, stickers permanently adhered to the side of my brand new car, and every time I think a tantrum cannot possibly get any louder, she proves me wrong. 

Am I enough for her?

I have watched her regress in behaviors, only to excel days later, as if she has always known and mastered all the skills that come with being 3 years old. 

Am I who she needs?

I have prayed and cried and given my soul away to help her learn her ABC's and how to count to 10. I have dragged her week after week to speech and celebrated each new sound she learns, only to forget to practice her words with her at the end of the day before bedtime each and every night. 

Am I enough for her?
I just don't know.

Foster care is hard.

Today marks 120 days of life together and we celebrated with a picnic on the living room floor, ice cream and cookies, way too many cartoons, and letters to each other. She colors me pictures, while I write my 3 year old letters that she will never read. I do this every now and then when I find my heart overwhelmed and filled with doubt. 

Am I enough for you?
I really, truly, just don't know. But I will continue loving you anyways. I pray and trust and hope that you never remember the days that I do. I hope you don't remember the day you moved in with me. I hope you don't remember today, even though it was a fun one where we laughed and got ice cream on our noses. I hope you don't remember day 30, day 60, day 90, or any of the days in between. I hope you don't remember the late nights, the shrieks you screamed as you relived nightmares, or the times when your feelings just became so big that you had no other option than to melt down. I hope you don't remember one of our first days together when I had no idea how to comfort you so we stayed awake all night crying together. I hope you don't remember fear or hurt or abandonment. I just hope you remember how much you are loved, and how much of my heart you occupy. I hope you remember that I would have fought off bullets and swam across oceans to make you happy and to see you safe, and have your little body healthy. I hope you remember the times when I let you stay up late, the nights I gave you extra cuddles, or the times I said yes to chocolate milk before bed. I hope you remember the day we yelled and screamed and smiled when you learned to skate all by yourself, completely unassisted. I hope you remember the day you ran into my room, jumped on my bed, and sang "Happy birthday to me!" seven months before your actual day. I hope you remember the love behind every thing I do for you. 
I hope above everything else, all you remember is that you are loved and that you have always been home. 

If I haven't said it before, foster care is hard. 
It is just so hard. 

It is hard loving with your entire heart, knowing there's a very real possibility that this little person calling you mama might go back to her first home or another home or anywhere else and she may forget all about you, while you know your life would never be the same. It is hard for me to live every day under the weight of guilt that I have been given the gift of this child, while the mother who gave birth to her struggles somewhere unknown. It is hard for me to not be angry. It is hard for me to not wonder, to not question, to not resent her first mother, wondering why I am picking up the pieces she broke and putting the time and effort and love into her flesh and blood, while she does nothing. It is hard for me to think past tomorrow. It is hard for me to think about her future, or mine, knowing it's all up in the air right now. Everything is uncertain, except the depth of my love for a child that is not my own, who calls me mommy... and because of that love, I question, "Am I who she needs? Am I enough for her? Am I what is best for her?" But I love anyways. 

I worry about this tiny girl who will one day become a teenager and a woman and maybe one day, a mother. Will she know love? Will she feel love? Will she look back on her childhood and say, "I was loved." Will she raise her kids to know security and happiness and safety and love? Will her children be okay? Will she be okay, today or tomorrow, or in a week or a year or ever?

Will her family, the one now, me, her, the future, will we all be okay?
I just don't know.
But I'll love anyways...

She calls me mommy!

I know there have been so many questions and words being spread around the last month or so, and I have tried to come up with words that would summarize the last 30 days of my life, or something that would give it justice and would put all the questions to ease... but I tend to come up short every time I try. Please don't think I was intentionally trying to keep anyone in the dark. That was never my intention. I just struggled to keep privacy for her, settle in to a routine, and figure out exactly how life was going to work, first, before I let everyone in on the last 30 days. 

I answered a phone call in the beginning of January and before I could even think or ask a ton of questions, a tiny little familiar face was plopped down in the middle of my life who immediately started calling me “mommy” on day 1. Day 1. 

Life changed quickly after that. 

It's been 30 days. 

Thirty days of laughter, changes, love, discipline, healing, and hope. Thirty days of learning how to live life together. Me, a 27 year old, single, hot mess of a girl, who still eats cereal for dinner and Her, a 3-year old, innocent victim of trauma, who still shows love in every twinkle in her eye, foster child. 

My schedule of doing whatever I wanted whenever I wanted turned into appointments and visits with doctors, therapists, family members, social workers, and caseworkers. My nightly ritual of watching TV until I fell asleep while multitasking to finish work turned into reading “three little bears” and kissing a little sweaty forehead multiple times after chasing her back to bed. I started shopping for bandaids, fruit snacks, and sippy cups. I started listening to Disney radio, learned the lyrics to “baby shark,” and memorized the little tickle spot on the back of her leg that would send her into a little ball of giggles. 

It’s been 30 days.

I have laughed harder than I imagined... mostly while trying to find the balance between redirecting bad behavior and explaining that my job is to make sure she is safe and that she grows up understanding right from wrong, all while the 27 year old child inside of me finds everything she does absolutely hilarious. I have found my “mom” voice that tells her I mean business... only to laugh in her face while I explain why it is not okay to take an older man’s cane and run away. 

I have redirected her as she pinches the cheeks of a toddler friend at daycare and says, "Oh, she so cute!" while this small friend is sent into a whirl wind of anger and pain. 

I have watched her repeat every inappropriate thing I say when I think she isn't paying attention, watched her intentionally do the opposite of what I say with a grin on her face, and have listened as she teaches the dogs to be nice. 

I have listened as I have told her to stop doing a certain behavior, only to have it met with her saying, "No talk, mommy. No talk." I have choked back laughter and forced a smile away as she watches me brush the knots out of my hair as she says, "Be strong, mommy!" I have listened to her greet me nearly every morning by saying, "Where's your smile, mommy? There it is!"

It’s been 30 days.

I have seen hope flourish under the most difficult situations. I have seen hope change the entire world for this child, who trusts easier than she did 30 days ago, who talks more, who thinks clearer, who throws tantrums more, and who embodies healing after nearly a lifetime of trauma. 

Hope has this way of changing everything, and while I have spent a lifetime knowing this phrase, for the first time in my life, I have seen it. Never in my life did I ever think I would have tears of joy and my heart would burst wide open over a tantrum. But it does. It does every single time because she finally feels safe to let it all go and show vulnerability in a world that is completely out of her control. She feels safe to express how she really feels. She feels safe to be three years old. Finally. 

It’s been 30 days.

My friends have become “aunts,” in ways I could never express gratitude for, my parents added another “grandchild,” and my employees, have without hesitation, stepped up to the plate and carried the slack I couldn’t, they have all watched over and have volunteered without asking to play for endless hours with a little girl that considers Tiger Bounce her stomping grounds and her own personal buffet. My employees are her family and she adores each and every one of them, just like I adore them. She prays for my best friend every night and asks for her kitty cat, and at least once every night, she climbs out of bed to ask for reassurance that she’ll see my best friend and her cat soon. She asks daily for my friends little girl, who has become her best playmate and biggest cheerleader.

This is her village. My community has become hers. My supports are now hers. My family is now hers. She knows love from the people who love me, for how ever long she needs. 

It’s been 30 days.  

I spent half the day that first day trying to help her say “Tedi,” while showing her a stuffed teddy bear and doing everything in my power to get her to say my name. I tucked her into bed, read 10 books that night, made 4 trips to the bathroom with her so she didn’t wet the bed, and then finally after she was under the covers and falling asleep, she sat up, put her arms around my neck, and she said “night mommy,” before rolling over and closing her eyes. 

I was never Tedi to her. I was her mommy from the first day she fell asleep in my home.

I went in the next morning, at the crack of dawn and the earliest I’ve ever been awake in a decade (9 AM), and I sat in her therapists office and said, “She called me “mommy,” and it’s not even been 24 hours yet. What did I do wrong?”

She sat across from me. She explained foster care. She explained 3 year old brains. She explained my role. She explained my job. She explained, in the simplest terms, that right now, in her brain and in her life full of unknowns, I was the “known.” I was the caregiver. I was the one she felt safe with. I was the one she trusted. I was the one, when needed, she knew would respond. I was never Tedi to her, the hot mess of a girl who eats cereal for dinner and forgets to put on pants before answering the door. I was never “Tedi,” but rather “mommy” from day 1, because 3- year olds struggle with everything around them, they don't know much, and they get confused easily, but they all know they should have a caregiver. 

It’s been 30 days. 

Thirty days of upholding promises, of learning, of making mistakes, of advocating for her wellbeing, of sleepless nights of worry, of lots and lots of kid shows with cartoons that all look the same, of redirecting, of reading the same book over and over and over again, of finding hope in small moments, of watching the toddler & the puppy create a bond that is out of this world, of figuring out each other and of living life together. 

I left the therapist’s office just barely 24 hours after she first walked in my home, fully understanding for the first time the weight of the absolute heartbreak it is for another woman’s child to call me, “mommy,” and the privilege it is to keep her safe, and happy, and healthy for as long as she needs. 

All wrapped up, foster care is a desperate need, a devastating reality for way too many children, and a second chance for hundreds of families. 

This is her second chance. 

For me, I vowed that day, that I would uphold the commitment I made to this child when I answered that call, for as long as the state allows, so that she never truly knows an identity as a “foster child,” and is able to know and have a family, to feel care and love, and to finally see hope. For as long as she needs, whether a week or a month or a year or forever, I am this little precious girl’s "mommy," and I will never stop advocating for her, her biological family, and her future.

And the awe of that will forever bring tears to my eyes. 

This little girl is worth it. 

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. 

The end of the road...

"Tedi Ellis is no longer with our agency," was the email that was sent out two days after I resigned from my position as a caseworker. In the days that followed, I laid silently on my couch, eating cereal from the box and watching endless reruns of grey's anatomy and Netflix originals. If I was to be completely honest, there was very little that my resignation had to do with me. It was not, by a long shot, my choice. 

I promised myself in the days that followed that I would never talk bad about the agency, as the root of that agency surrounded bettering the lives of children. They deserved more than the little I could say. I also promised myself that while I felt hurt by some of the people I had trusted for the last 11 months and spent countless hours working beside, I would not spend my energy hating them or trying to destroy their work. There was, even in the midst of all the hurt, freedom in that choice. I promised myself that I would not allow the hurt I felt and the "what ifs" to follow me. I promised myself that I would choose to allow the last year of my life to be used for good, to not allow my words to ruin the friendships I created and the work I dedicated the last year of my life to. So I stayed silent. I think though, to a certain extent, there was also freedom in that choice. 

When I was a student in college, I knew Social Work wasn't for me. I knew journalism wasn't for me, either. Same for psychology, sociology, law school, marketing... and on the search to find a path for myself, I even took a small detour through med school, where I literally lasted a conversation and a tour through the hospital, before I knew that wasn't for me either. I had to make Social Work "work" for me. So I did. I think there is a line, in both directions, when it comes to being successful in a career. If you care too little, you won't be successful... but on the other side of that, if you care too much, you won't be either. In this case, I fell on the later, where I found myself forcing myself to give up, to stop caring, to shutting it all off, just to survive and make it through the day. I mean it when I say that I needed a nap, every single day I got off, to transition from the weight of the work back to my own personal life. I cared too much. I cried daily, my heart broken to the hurt and grief these children I worked with experienced every single day. 

This period of my life, this chapter of my life, was closed before I wanted it to be and the last three months have taught me, that that's okay. I laugh more than I did. I see my family more than I did. I dream more, plan ahead more, make time for the important things, I pray more. I play and chase my puppies around more. I take more pictures, I watch more movies, and I smile more. I go to church more. I lay in my bed more, I sleep more, and I honestly mean it when I say that I just feel more like Ted. Mentally, I am just more. 

I am happier. 

I wanted to make a difference in the world... and I wanted to do that for foster children and I thought that being a caseworker was my calling, but it wasn't. My calling in life got buried under paperwork, missed calls and voicemails, court dates, and meetings, and I lost myself. I lost what I wanted in life and what I wanted to accomplish and I realized that I wasn't making a difference at all. I lost the last year. 

And that's okay. 

Three days after the last day I worked as a caseworker, I got out of bed, showered for the first time in three days, poured a bowl of cereal, and I walked into a new job (an old job) and I knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. It felt like home. It felt like Ted, the old one that I had spent the last year trying to find. It was right. It was what I needed. It was healing. 

When I was a kid, I spent every summer at my grandma's condo with my brother and sister while our parent's worked. Every day of the summer, after lunch, we would go swimming. We would play for hours. One thing I always did was jump in with my sister and we would try to swim the whole length of the pool under water, trying so hard to get to the other side before coming up for air. I could never do it, but there was this moment when I would push myself past my limit and I would have no choice but to swim like hell to try to get to the surface to keep my lungs from exploding, and then I would take this big deep breath of air... and in seconds, everything was fine. 

That's what walking back into Tiger Bounce was for me. 

It was the breath of fresh air that I needed after trying so hard to make it in a field that wasn't for me. I didn't know everything I know now, then. But I knew I was where I was supposed to be. I can't explain it, but it was just good. 

And in a little more than a week, I'll be the new owner of Tiger Bounce, official January 1st... a complete and utter blessing, a gift I did not deserve, and a beginning I didn't see coming. As this new chapter begins for me, I am blown away by the grace of God and the kindness of others. 

In 3 months, I have been broken and shattered and destroyed... I have felt hurt, I have grieved for a life I won't have and broken dreams scattered all over the place. I have been at my lowest... completely unsure of where to turn. But God has taken all of that, all of that brokenness, everything that I lost, and He has created this hope and these dreams and this beginning for me that I never imagined was possible. 

Thanks to everyone who has stayed a part of my life through the last decade, as I have failed more times than I can count, but who have supported me endlessly and remain my motivation for everything. I am so thankful for the friends I have made over the last year and the people I have worked alongside and I hope and pray that the friendships I created in the Social Work field will continue as I transition from social worker to business owner. 

I never thought I would say anything close to this, but I am so thankful September happened and I am so thankful that January 1st is right around the corner. 

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