We started on a mountain top, in a sports bra in one degree weather, and I called you on.
I'd survived 2014 and my shattered ankle rehab, and 20-frickin-15 with it's kidney stone, liver lesions, hobo-IUD-surprise-open-
abdominal-surgery triple whammy, followed by a job change. "Let's do this," I said. Five days later you dropped me off a 16 foot ladder and giggled while I laid on the floor in a puddle of paint with a foot broken in four places, a torn shoulder labrum, and a raging case of PTSD. We said goodbye to our home of 10.5 years, but took our baggage with us. We declared war on suicidal thoughts and had some pretty deep therapy sessions together. We survived more kidney problems and hospital visits. EMDR did us up right, just in time to discover brain degeneration, early MS and early Alzheimer's symptoms, more liver issues, crescendo my Joint Hypermobility Syndrome, and find a rather surprising propensity for carving wood.
I didn't stop climbing mountains.... even when I was falling over. I ran a trail half marathon and climbed the Tushar mountains. I stood on Lone Peak- one year older and 20 pounds heavier, but surrounded by the few friends I could still relate with and ridiculously grateful. I searched for experts that could help me and fought like hell. I learned about trauma and my brain and took care of my body. I stopped falling over. I gained a new appreciation for things like reading, driving, coordination and cognitive function. I started teaching yoga again. I ran a 30k. I made friends with my adrenals and my thyroid. I dropped that 20 pounds. My babies are growing into incredible humans, and my marriage is stronger than ever. My husband is a frickin' rockstar. I started writing a book, and turned my mountain love into a creative project that is turning into a business.
We were a hot mess, you and I, and I won't miss you when you're gone. I have outlived you. And you taught me things I'm proud to know. Things like self-love and true connection, and fire and spit and fight. Things like humility and grace, and the deepest kinds of caring and all the right kinds of detachment. You made me so weak and so, so strong. You showed me that being brave means being scared and trying anyway. You taught me that I can't do everything, but I can do a few things really really well. You taught me that being broken just means more cracks to shine light through. You taught me that kindness matters most. So I thank you. I know more what I'm capable of surviving from here on out. And I'll step forward into 2017, on a mountaintop, feeling like kind of a badass, with only a healthy amount of trepidation for what is to come, and enough faith to take it head on.