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. 

.

Let her hate me, I can handle it.

When I first decided I wanted to study social work, I sat down in front of an advisor and said, "Well... the only thing I'm really good at is talking." Looking back on that conversation, I still laugh because I had exhausted every option when it came to a future career and I had no interest in becoming something I wasn't. She looked at me oddly and while holding back a smile, she said, "Well... social work is more of a 'listening' job."

I nodded. I would just learn to listen, then.

Those first few weeks slowly turned into months as I learned to shut my mouth and open my ears to the stories of the lives of real people inside case studies, and then those months turned into finished semesters and then years went on, and finally after nearly six years of being in college, I graduated with my Master's in Social Work. My life was finished, over, done... everything from then on out was supposed to be a downhill race. 

I started my first real, big girl job at the beginning of November, last year. Whenever someone asks me about how long I've been with Children's Division, I pull out my fingers and count, "November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August... 10 months." I've been adulting now in a real job for 10 months, two whole hands worth of time, where the things I say and the things I do have an actual impact on real people and their lives. I don't know if I somehow skipped over this reality of social work while I was in school, however, lately the weight of truly messing up someone's life has left me feeling overwhelmed and unprepared and anxious.

What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make a choice and a child gets hurt or a family is destroyed... or what if in 10 years, some kid sits in front of his therapist saying, "Well... it all started when this lady came and took me away from my parents," or what if I just simply fall on my face and fail? What if I become the person a child hates or a family begins to see as an enemy? What if what I am asking a family to complete would be impossible for me to do myself? What if the very thing I studied for my entire adult life turns out to be just something else I'm not good at?

These are the thoughts that run through my mind every single day. Every single day. I know for a fact, that while I never truly understood "burnout" prior to working at Children's Division, these are the thoughts and these are the feelings that are more emotionally exhausting and mentally draining than anything else about my job. It's the feeling, the contest nagging thought, that every decision I make could forever impact someone else. For me, that's almost debilitating and more days than not, it sends me wanting to run out the door and never come back. 

In the last 10 months, I have met some of the most courageous people, which despite everything going wrong in their lives, continue to still show up and put a smile on their face and attempt to do what is best for their children. I have seen drug addicts become sober, children become stronger, and grandparents start all over and choose to raise children that they shouldn't have to. I have seen families make sacrifices, parents give up addictions, pride set aside, and in the toughest of all situations, I have seen parents choose to be selfless to willingly allow their child to be adopted in a home with a family that can love and support and parent in ways they just aren't able to. I've seen it. I've watched as a system, a completely broken system, work together to reunite families and to make the lives of children better. 

I sat on the floor with a kiddo the other day in her foster home and talked with her about the good things that she was doing and focused all my energy on making sure she knew how much progress she had made. However, about 10 to 15 minutes in, she looked at me and said, "Okay... you can tell me the bad now." When you grow up in the foster care system, you realize that it's a roller coaster. It's 15 minutes of good things and then as always, the bad follows. In that moment, I hated that I had to tell her that her family had to continue to be separated and the thing that she wanted more than anything, for her family to be back together again, would likely never happen. I had to hold her as she cried for her mother who is fighting an addiction that is much stronger than the will of a seven year old to go home... and every day, even though I do see a lot of good, I see a lot of heartbreak. 

If I have learned anything since last November, it is that social work is hard. Plain and simple. My job is hard. However, when I take a step back and look at the lives of those I work with, I realize that the job of the person sitting across from me, who I am trying to help, is harder. My job is nothing compared to that of a child fighting to go home or a mother fighting demons or a father fighting to keep a job and provide for his kids. My job is hard, but most days, it doesn't compare to the job the families I work with have to do every second of every single day. 

A couple days ago, I listened to a little girl yell at me for over 20 minutes. Brutally yell. I saw anger come out of her that I didn't ever know was inside. She yelled, she kicked, she screamed, and when she was calm enough to sit down, she soaked my shirt in her tears. Where does a caseworker even begin to pick up pieces that have fallen from the broken life of a child and work like hell to make pieces fit together that never should have been broken? This child, this little girl, who is no bigger than a cricket, who I always thought liked me well enough, yelled through tears that she hated me. She hated me. She meant it, too. She did hate me. When her foster dad pulled her onto his lap and told her that she couldn't talk to adults that way, I instantly felt overwhelmed with this need to protect her and to advocate for her and in that moment, I didn't see a kid who was being defiant or who was acting out, I saw a child who had really big feelings and had no where for them to go. 

So I just listened.

My job as a caseworker is to reunify families. My job is to alleviate safety concerns and to send kids back home. When that fails, my job is to find a place, a permanent place, for that child to thrive in. My job is to put families back together. It's to keep kids safe. My job entails a lot of different hats, it means sitting in court and telling the judge everything going wrong. It means asking a parent to do drug tests, to provide proof of employment, find housing, make efforts to become better parents, and so forth. My job is to place kids in good homes, to schedule therapy, and arrange visitation. I have a professional job, where I interact with people who I don't always agree with or even support, but my job is to help.... and some days, my job means I sit on the floor with a screaming 7 year old and allow her to hate the only person she can. Me. 

Some days, I am hated. I am the easy one to hate because I am there. I am the physical reminder of everything going wrong. When you can't hate the drugs, you hate me. When you can't hate your mother, because she's your mom and she's not around, you hate me. When you can't hate the choices of all the other adults in your life, you hate me. When you can't hate yourself anymore, because therapy has taught you that you're not to blame, you hate me. 

My job, by nature, makes me hated. 

I was overly annoyed tonight, about circumstances in my personal life and about the inability for me to turn my job off. Some days are just hard. I was already in a rush and running behind, but as I stood in the check out lane tonight at the grocery store, I felt little hands grab my arm and a little familiar voice yell, "Look! It's my caseworker." I couldn't help but smile at the tiny little human staring back at me, who was the angriest that she has ever been not even a couple days ago as I sat in her living room. I chatted with her foster family for a few minutes and this little girl asked a lot of questions like "why are you buying pizza rolls?" and "where's your vegetables, you have to buy at least some?" She also told me about how for the first time today, how for the first time in her entire life, how she was brave enough to get in the water and swim without crying. I told her how proud I was of her and as sweet as can be, she put her little arms around me and buried her face into my shirt and whispered, "I love you, Miss Tedi," before running off towards the candy aisle. 

In that moment with her, it all came back full circle. Just like my advisor said way back when, "social work is more of a listening job," It absolutely is. But in the silence of your listening, when you're really able to listen and just be, you realize the reason for it. When someone is given an outlet, even the tiniest of people, can grow and heal. That's what social work is all about. 

There's a lot of responsibility when it comes to my job, so naturally, there are days when I am overwhelmed. Some days I want to throw my hands up and yell and scream and hate everyone around me. But some days, when everything is going right and you're able to overcome these huge obstacles, and everything starts to turn around, I'm not the enemy. 

Some days, a little girl comes up to you and in the midst of your own chaos, she makes not just your job, but also your life, completely worth living.

That's what keeps me going. 

You, my dear, have a purpose.

I entered the "real world" just over a year ago, "adulthood" as they call it... in many ways, it seems like it has only been a few weeks since I graduated from college, but when I look back over the last year, I am reminded of how far I have come, the things I have lost, the things I have gained, the blessings and joys and hurts... when I think about the last year of my life, I think about how hard things have been, how I cannot possibly recognize the same girl who walked across that stage last May, and I am simply amazed that it has only been a year. 

I have only been a real adult for a little over a year... 

This year, although tremendously difficult, has brought a lot of good things... new job, new car, new house, new friends, new perspectives, new beginnings, new hope. As I sit on the counter of my kitchen and write this, while eating icing straight from the tub, I am reminded of the great words one of my professors said to me before I graduated, in which she said, "Find the things that motivate you and you will be just fine. You, my dear, have a purpose." 

Again, I laugh as I write that, just as I did when I heard the words the first time. How can Tedi Ellis, the girl who has made a mess out of adulthood and failed more than she has succeeded, who has made people who don't even know her shake their heads in wonder, who falls down the stairs more than she doesn't, and who finds herself pretending to make it just to get through the day, who is literally sitting right now on her kitchen table eating a tub of icing with the soundtrack of "Cheetah Girls" playing in the background... how can that Tedi Ellis have a purpose?

I have spent the great majority of my life trying to find that purpose, trying to find that reason to get out of bed and to keep trying... I have tried and I have failed. A year out of college and I still find myself wondering if a purpose even exists out there for that Tedi Ellis... for me. Who am I outside of ridiculous snapchats and witty, funny Facebook statuses? 

At the end of October last year, I accepted a job working with Boone County Children's Division as a caseworker... my first real attempt to find some kind of purpose outside of blowing up bounce houses and entertaining birthday kids. However, in the weeks before I officially started, I found myself terrified of failing, of messing up some kiddo's life and leaving a part of their story forever scarred by my actions. What if what I thought was best was not actually best? Who was I to decide if a child was safe, or cared for, or protected? Who was I, the girl lacking purpose, to tell a parent how to raise their child? 

To put it simply, I was terrified of royally screwing up some kid for life. 

In the last 7-8 months, I have learned a lot. I have felt the immeasurable pain that children in foster care experience. I have held babies as their parents walk out the door knowing that they are not allowed to leave with their child. I have rocked a baby to sleep in a hospital, while machines all around them record every breath. I have gotten on a plane and been handed a child, that was not my own. I have buckled children into carseats, kissed scratches and bumps, braided hair, and tried to comfort little hearts that were breaking. I have reassured foster parents that they are doing everything right and have begged them to keep on trying, to keep on showing love, to keep on giving every piece of their heart to a child that is not their own. I have chased after little legs and have played board games with teenagers. I have watched as every belonging a child has is stuffed into laundry baskets and trash bags and packed into a backseat. I have watched as a little girl stared out the back window knowing she was leaving the only world she knew. I have laughed and learned and cried and watched in wonder as this system, as this child welfare system has unfolded before me. I have prayed and prayed for hours for little faces to have a better life, to get the life they deserve. I have held hands with the littlest, most precious souls out there, and every day, I am reminded that my job is not just a job, but rather a privilege. 

I have seen cruelty... but I have also seen great love. 

In those moments when I can literally feel my heart just breaking away, I struggle to hold onto the purpose of it all. So many times, I am the last person a family wants to work with or a child wants to see... they want their mother or father or grandparents or siblings, and rightfully so, but they do not want me. No child wants a caseworker. At the end of the day, no matter how "normal" we try to make it, there is nothing normal about the process of child welfare or about foster care. That fact alone makes things exhausting. 

Life as a caseworker is exhausting. 

In the beginning of training, we were asked to create posters of our lives and share timelines of things that have happened in the course of our life, both the good and the bad. I remember writing down the big things for me, like graduating college and getting my dog and the death of family members and "normal" things like that, but one thing that stuck out to me as I sat and listened to the other new workers introducing themselves, was a girl who shared her story of being in foster care herself. She shared about feeling "passed around" and "not really wanted, but not really unwanted, either." As she shared her story, I remember thinking and wondering why that was her story... why, of all the things before and after those two years when she was in foster care, would she choose to talk about those two years when she was. I didn't know her story other than from the surface, but as I have continued to work with kids in care, she always comes back to mind. 

Her story was forever changed by foster care... who she is now was altered when she was 8 years old... who she is and will be and could have been was changed... her life, her dreams, her future, forever impacted by the decisions of the adults around her. 

Why does that story, her story, impact me? Why does it stick out to me so much? 

I don't enjoy my job everyday. I don't love my job everyday. There are days when I can't even think about my job, or the kids on my caseload, or the families I work with. To be honest, there are days when I absolutely despise the child welfare system and I dream of the day when I won't have faces of kids in the back of my head to worry about... but child welfare, Children's Division, motivates me.

The girl in the training, now an adult sharing her story and helping kids like her, motivates me. For the first time in my entire life, there is something in front of me that motivates me and drives me to do better, to work harder, to be a better person, to love deeper and to hope in new things. 

To be honest, while the children motivate me daily, I am most driven by that girl in training, who unknowingly forever changed my perspective and impacted the way I work. Her story was changed, forever altered, forever scarred, forever different, by decisions adults made... and while I am more than aware that most of the children by the time I even lay eyes on them or read their names on papers have already seen trauma, I have an obligation to minimize the effect of that. 

While I don't always know my purpose in this world, at Children's Division, that child in front of me is my purpose... when that child meets me, they will have a different story from then on out, it's unavoidable... but as a caseworker, wanted or not, I can impact the moments when their lives change forever, and hopefully, it can be for the better. 

Yesterday, I sat on the floor of a tiny little room with a little girl in my lap, and as we laughed and played and talked about butterflies and how she couldn't wait for her whole family to be together, I caught myself whispering words that changed my life just a little over a year ago, as I said, "You, my dear, have a purpose." These kids have a purpose, every last one of them, and it is a privilege to watch their lives unfold. 

This job is a privilege, a privilege that is not lost on me. 

What if Jesus didn't die for you?

I tend to want things that I can't have, perhaps it's human nature, or perhaps I was just created with this attitude of "I want what I what when I want it," or as most people say, I have a sense of entitlement. That doesn't necessarily mean that I have no good characteristics or that I refuse to roll up my sleeves and work hard, it just means that I have a little bit of privilege engrained into my DNA. 

I'm not above admitting it. 

When it has come to most things in my life, like sports and school and relationships and money, I have never truly had to work for any of it. I was naturally athletic and the passion I had for the game was innate. School didn't come easy, I was never as great as my siblings who were all much more intellectually gifted than myself, but I never once wondered if I would actually graduate or if I would ever make it to college. I just had this sense of entitlement and through everything, I just assumed that it was my right to attend higher education, regardless of how well I performed. When it has come to relationships, people have always just liked me (or tolerated me) because of who my parents were or what my last name was... in school growing up, I don't even remember making friends (or carrying the ability to), I just remember having friends and for many of the people I am close with, they're close with my family so they like me by default. My people came naturally. As far as money, I have never needed anything and to that I thank my parents, who worked tirelessly to give me the best of everything and there's no doubt in my mind, that they would hand me the world if I asked. 

My life has been privileged. 

So when the idea of religion surfaces, I carry the same attitude. I was raised in a Christian home, where we might not have prayed before every meal or sacrificed goats every night, but there was an expectation that whenever the church doors were open, I was also there, sitting in the pews. I knew hymns before I could read, could recite bible stories without ever opening the bible, and understood the expectation that Jesus Christ would be my savior. 

I remember during a mission trip overseas a couple years back when I visited the country of Belize, a small country in Central America, when an older woman approached me and a group from my team and started asking questions that seemed absolutely ludicrous to me saying things like, "Do Christians really drink blood?" and "Do you really think Jesus goes into your heart?" and my personal favorite, "I head they sometimes put poison in your juice and make everyone drink it."

As an American who has always grown up around Christianity, these thoughts were something that I never took literally and it was the first time I understood the sense of entitlement that Americans have, especially myself. In my world, I know that if I ever have a serious question where I truly don't understand something, I can use a fancy thing called Google or can use my fingers to send a message within seconds to anyone wherever I choose... or heaven forbid, I could just open my mouth and ask a number of preachers or spiritual mentors in my life. Daily, I take these luxuries for granted and I always expect that when I close my eyes at night, that I will still wake up in the morning and have them at my finger tips. 

Fast forward from then to now. 

I have some really great friends in my life, who never shy away from asking tough questions or from putting me in my place when I start to let my ego get bigger than it should be. This past week, I woke up to a text from a friend who all she asked said, "What if Jesus didn't die for you?" Normally I would have taken this rather defensively, but knowing my friend is a strong woman of faith, I started to imagine what she was actually asking before replying back, "He died for everyone else except me? or are there's other He didn't die for too?"

She replied back quickly saying, "Does it matter either way? What would you do if He chose to die for everyone else, but specifically said, "Not you, Ted." 

I thought for a minute and all I could respond with was, "Well... that would be lonely. I would definitely have a really big case of FOMO."

[For the older generation, FOMO means the fear of missing out].

What if Jesus died for everyone, but specifically said, "Not you." 

In all honestly, I would feel left out... like that feeling of getting picked last to play dodgeball but on like an eternity scale. I was typically picked quickly because I was always pretty aggressive at dodgeball, in fact, my PE teacher in 7th grade said I was the reason we had to stop playing, since I broke a kid's glasses and heads were always my target... so I can't always relate to that line. However, I do have a large family and I know that feeling where you just don't always know if you belong... while I love my family and I never question their love for me, my brothers and sisters, when were all together, have always had their wives and husbands and kids around. By the time they were the age that I am now, they had already settled down and were married and making me an aunt, so sometimes when I'm sitting on the floor coloring with my niece or chasing my nephews around, this sense of jealousy rises inside of me and I get lost because a lot of the time, I am just another kid to them. I remember a couple years back during the holidays, my family was having a conversation that I was not privy to at the time, so when I walked into the room, I asked what they were talking about only to have my dad say, "This is an adult conversation." I remember feeling so hurt, even though I know in my heart of hearts he was kidding... I still felt small, as if I didn't matter, as if I didn't belong.... so I say all of that to say, I understand wanting to be part of something that you're not. 

As I thought about it more over the last couple days, I started to internalize that question, wondering if I would live my life differently or if I would just simply try to fit in and hope that no one noticed. 

Would it change who I was as a person, would I think differently, act differently, live differently? 

Would I care less about how others saw me? Would I sin publicly, having no shame, as I would already be damned to Hell? Would I sin differently? Would I lie more? Would I be self-serving, being more self-involved than I am now? Would I shy away from even more Christians, justifying my anger and hate towards them? 

Thank you Jesus, that I truly don't need to wonder about such questions as I know the truth, but yesterday, I responded back with, "Honestly, I would just try to fit in and be something I wasn't, as I think in that case, accepting the truth would be much harder than just living that lie." 

Boom. 

After I hit send, I realized the point of that question. I'm not entirely sure she ever meant for that question to be about imagining what life would be like had Jesus not died for me, because we all know (or I hope that everyone knows) that He has died for everyone, but rather to reflect on the differences between knowing the truth and living it. 

What if Jesus did die for you? What if you can accept that Jesus Christ really did come to this Earth, took all of the sins of this world, the painful, ugly, terrible sins, and died on the cross anyways? Then He did exactly what He said He would, and He rose from the dead, destroying the power of death, forever. 

That question was made for me to self-reflect, to remember the ABSOLUTE privilege it is to know the truth, and to be someone who just stops trying to fit in to this world that was not made for me and to be who I was created to be. Sometimes, I think I forget that Jesus made a sacrifice and I get all caught up in my messy chaos, that I actually sometimes get entitled, as if believing in Christ and being a Christian is my right. 

Jesus Christ is a gift, not a right.

If you know all that, would it change who you were as a person, would you think differently, act differently, live differently? 

Would you care less about how others saw you? 

Would you sin differently? 

If you actually took the time to think through the question, "What would life be like if Jesus didn't die for you," would you care more, live differently, lose your sense of entitlement, appreciate the gospel more, if the thought of having it was actually not there?