When Failure is a Guarantee

As many of you may know, I am currently in shift toward copyediting and writing as a career and away from nursing (see Why I Quit Full Time Nursing). The transition into the writing world has taken place over the past few weeks, and though I mainly feel peace and excitement about the change, I'd be lying if I told you I'm not nervous.

I am. I'm nervous, and I'm worried, and sometimes I'm overwhelmed.

Adobe stock photo

Yesterday as I drove down the road under the cloudy Texas sky, I thought about my fear of rejection. Over the past few days I've submitted freelance articles and queries to various websites, with the knowledge I will eventually either be rejected or accepted. At one point in life (okay, for most of my life), the possibility of rejection would have prevented me from trying at all. My fear of failure and the belief I had to be the best simply wouldn't allow for such a huge, unnecessary risk. For all those years, failure was not an option.

As I slowed my car down for a red light yesterday, I suddenly realized that still, failure is not an option.

Failure is a guarantee.

Over the years, I've read accounts by writers and bloggers about the rejection letters they received from editors, publishers, magazines, and websites. They described heartbreak and frustration and anger and discouragement, and they also described perseverance and perspective.

As I submit my articles, I know my work will be rejected sometimes (probably more often than not in these beginning stages). It's inevitable. Yet I am learning to maintain my sense of self-worth and identity so I can move past it. I know who I am, and I know my work is not a reflection of my value.

Still, it is disheartening to know failure is a guarantee—and about the only one I could think of that comes with writing. That, and a low budget.

All afternoon, I pondered the change within me from being terrified of failure to accepting it as a part of life. Later that evening during a time of worship with my church small group, I had another realization, just as sudden as the one about failure. I knew in that moment I had to lay down my editing career and writing dreams at Jesus' feet, and I had to leave them there. For the first time in my life, I found how easy it is to become a workaholic (now that "work" was something I loved). I had to invite Jesus into every word I wrote and every article I completed. If I did these things, I knew:

Success was not an option either. It was a guarantee.

Success is living and breathing in the presence of Jesus, holding onto the hem of His robe and offering my talents and gifts at His feet. It is using my work to glorify Him, yes, but more than that it is a continuous, desperate, building desire for more of Him. With this unquenchable thirst for more of Jesus, with Christ as my whole world, there could only be success. There already was success. Perhaps success isn't something attained or accomplished but something as fluid and active as recognizing the presence of God.

Moving and breathing and talking in His presence is success. I have success in my lungs as I breathe and type now because I am breathing and typing with Jesus. Success will never be a thing that can slip from my hands because success is knowing Jesus, and His Spirit lives within me. And if ever I become desperate to grab hold of success again, I have only to remember:

Turn to Jesus, for not just success but life is found in Him.

Reentry: Still on the Road

It's no secret I've had a rough time in reentry the past few months. I washed my clothes by hand and hung them up to dry for weeks, and I binge-watched Netflix and drank Dr Peppers by the case to make up for the time my favorite soda and I were apart.

Now, several months (and seasons of Bones) later, here I am.

Life in Waco is falling into a pleasant rhythm, and for the most part things have calmed down both externally and internally. However, every once in a while waves of grief and feelings of missing Cambodia hit me rather suddenly, like a flash flood with no forecast of rain. I'm still learning to navigate these surprise storms. Recently during one of these waves of grief, I heard a song my friend Marc wrote called "Heading Home." The song begins, "There’s a groaning, an aching in my bones/There’s a longing in my heart to find a home." As I listened, it seemed to gather up within me leftover remnants and threads of reentry--the values I've learned, the pain, the hope, and the lessons I'm still learning now--and place them in a bundle right in the center of my heart.

The lyrics didn't tie up the loose ends or weave the threads into a stunning tapestry. No, they simply brought all the frayed fibers to one place so I could see them. All of them, in their varied colors, sizes, shapes and textures, all at once. The hurts and hopes and tears and shouts, all at once.

All of them, all at once, were beautiful. I no longer felt the need to tug at this thread or change the color of that one. With all their quirkiness and shortcomings and distinct characteristics, they were beautiful.

Stock photo from Adobe

While I quieted my soul and listened to this song, I realized a few things. First, even though I'm settling down into life in Waco, I'm still heading somewhere. For a woman with an unshakable travel bug coursing through her veins and wanderlust written on her heart, knowing I'm still traveling is a comforting notion. (However, I am excited for no more reentry processes when the journey ends!!)

Second, the place I'm heading is to be with Jesus in person. To have more of Jesus, to spend more time in His presence, to know Him more. This lines up with one of my greatest prayers and desires lately, which has been to want Jesus more than I want a country, and for my loyalty to be to Him and not to a culture. Home is a Person, not just a place.

Third, I realized the journey home can be beautiful in itself. A road trip by myself through the Texas countryside is one of my favorite things. More than getting to the destination, I enjoy simply driving, soaking in the landscape and praying or listening or singing until my throat hurts. I may be homesick, and reentry may be hard, and I may not truly arrive home for a while, but the journey home can still be beautiful and is uniquely qualified for enjoyment.

As I sat examining this bundle of threads and these lessons learned, I stopped struggling for a moment. Instead of trying to reconcile two very unique cultures and countries, I simply began to thank God for each lifestyle and cultural difference as it came to mind.

Thank You for the communal way of living in Cambodia, and thank you for the individuality of American people.

Thank you for rice and fish and the Mekong. Thank you for microwaves and refrigerators and ovens and pre-packaged food.

Thank you for my students in Cambodia, for the church, for the rhythm of life there; thank you for the job I have in the States, for my coworkers, for healthcare here.

I could keep going for hours, but the point is gratitude humbles me and reminds me how beautiful this world is, even with its pain and frayed edges and tangled up threads. In some way, all those worn out threads create something beautiful in their messiness. I cannot and will never be able to make sense of the disparities between countries and the heartache that hits every time I leave a country. Yet when my focus is on the Maker of cultures rather than on the cultures themselves, I find rest. I don't have to stress about reconciling the differences and similarities and roughness and tangles—because no matter what, I'm still on the road, and I'm still heading home.

Lessons from the Bedside: What Foley Catheters Taught Me about Emotional Nakedness

It’s undeniable we celebrate weird things at the hospital. Things like bowel movements, being able to walk without assistance, and really big, long, straight veins. The day when patients’ Foley catheters come out also calls for celebration (except when patients are incontinent; then our little nursing hearts sink a little...)!

It was on such a day when a patient should have been celebrating his Foley catheter coming out that I learned an unexpected lesson about my emotional health.

“Please, can you take this catheter thing out?” my patient had begged all day.

Several hours into the shift, I heard from the doctor: the Foley catheter could be discontinued. I gathered supplies for wound care and for removing the catheter before knocking on the door.

“Good news!” I remarked cheerfully. “The catheter can come out!

Stock photo from Adobe

Surprisingly, the patient sighed deeply, as though disappointed. Although confused by his sudden change of heart, I proceeded to provide wound care, and the conversation turned to other things for a few minutes.

“Okay,” I finally said, “if you’re ready, let’s go ahead and take out the catheter now.”

“Do I have to take my pants off?” he mumbled as he started to roll his pajama pant legs up (up, instead of pulling his pants down).

“Um, yes.” Questions patients ask will never cease to amaze me. (Also, how anyone can wear pants over a catheter by choice will never cease to amaze me.)

“Okay. I just feel so humiliated…” More mumbling. Another deep sigh.

Finally, I understood his hesitancy. He was embarrassed and would rather wear uncomfortable, inconvenient pants than have his privates bared.

As nurses, often we forget it’s abnormal to see people’s bodies — all parts of their bodies. We wipe butts on a daily basis, put in catheters and take out catheters, and deal with every kind of bodily fluid you can imagine. Human anatomy is no big deal; it’s our job to assess it and make sure it’s functioning properly.

However, it is a big deal to most other people. Once I clued in to why this patient was balking at the chance for his number one request of the day to be granted, I was able to address his fears accordingly. Thirty seconds later, the catheter was out. Mission accomplished.

After washing my hands and stepping out into the hall, I began thinking about how this patient had considered discontinuing his Foley “humiliating.” His use of this specific word was actually shocking because to nurses there is nothing humiliating about having a catheter removed. In fact, to me the words “humiliating” and “catheter” have no reason to be in the same sentence.

Yet something about this patient’s words struck a chord with me. I knew that same hesitancy, the same feeling of being humiliated, the mumbling and the deep sighs — but not because of physical nakedness. Because of emotional nakedness.

Despite years of dealing with depression and some serious time spent in therapy, I still find it difficult to open up emotionally, even to my therapist. I still hate admitting my weaknesses and the natural anatomy of my feelings to anyone , myself included. What seemed ludicrous a moment ago when I was with a patient I now recognized in myself: I would rather wear uncomfortable, inconvenient masks than show others the fear and sadness I once believed were ugly and shameful. I would rather roll my pant legs up and acknowledge just a little ugliness than pull my pants completely down.

Yet in the same way healthcare workers in the hospital don’t think twice about seeing patients’ naked bodies, I finally realized mental healthcare workers probably don’t blink an eye at the raw, bare truth about people’s mental and emotional states. When something isn’t working right, someone has to look at it. Nakedness is simply part of our jobs.

With this perspective, I’m learning to be more intentional about overcoming my habit of stalling before getting to the heart of my struggles when I show up for a counseling appointment or pick up the phone to call a friend; I’m learning to try to pull down my emotional pants and check my shame at the door.

Is stripping emotionally vulnerable? Sure. Should we be careful whom we share our emotional and mental nakedness with? Of course. (Wouldn’t want to moon anyone by oversharing inappropriately!) Should we be ashamed and humiliated by emotional nakedness? I’m starting to understand the answer is no.

As a nurse, my job may include physical nakedness. As a human, it will always include emotional nakedness. Because of this encounter at the bedside, I’ve decided: it’s time to stop fighting it and strip right down to emotional nakedness.

12 Reflections on the Past 24 Months

I turn 24 today. Two years ago I was fresh out of nursing school and two days into my first nursing job. One year ago I was living in Cambodia celebrating with Khmer friends over a dinner of bun xeo. This year I'm laying in my Cambodian hammock at a park in Waco, sipping Dr Pepper and crunching on baked Lays chips (don't judge. I exercised...sometime this week...). So much has happened and I've learned so muchin the past two years! Here are 12 reflections on the past 24 months:

1. Therapy is not for the faint of heart. I used to think asking for help was weak, but now I know it's one of the wisest things we can do. It's also one of the hardest things. I mean, who wants to spend an hour with someone pushing you to exit your comfort zone (even if it is the healthier thing to do)?

2. Switching cultures can trigger my depression. It's no secret I've struggled with depression overseas, in the workplace, and just in general. I've learned a lot about coping mechanisms and mental health, and I've also learned about triggers. Switching cultures between the States and Cambodia is one of the most thrilling and life changing experiences, but it's also extremely stressful and can trigger unhealthy habits and thinking patterns in me, leading to depression. 

3. Nursing is hard. Every nurse I've met had said they didn't know what nursing was like until they were in the middle of it. I didn't really know what to expect, but it's certainly up there on the list of physically and emotionally demanding jobs. 

4. Boundaries are also hard (but necessary). "Part of being an adult," my friend Jena recently told me, "is knowing what you need and asking for it." I hate causing others inconvenience, but I'm learning doing what's best for me doesn't just benefit me - it benefits all those around me too. A prime example is quitting full time nursing because that’s what benefits me, my patients, and my coworkers most.

5. It’s okay not to be okay. Nursing, along with some rough experiences in a Cambodian hospital, brought out my belief I could be a superhuman (and super nurse). In the past couple years, I've had to face the reality of my humanity and begin to embrace it, leaving people pleasing and HCAHPS scores behind.

6. Khmer language. I've learned lots and lots of Khmer language. I've learned how to make new sounds that aren't in the English language, and I've been stretched to acquire vocabulary because I love the people of Cambodia, and I want to be able to communicate with them.

7. Life as an expat is hard, and so is life in the States. It's all hard because I will always be missing someone. Yet, it's worth it, and it's the people around me who help me make it through the hard parts.

8. I’m not meant to do any of this (life) alone. My friend Erin told me that a long time ago, and it took me a couple years to figure out it's actually true. Jesus wasn't messing around when he prioritized community, and even He allowed Simon of Cyrene to carry his cross part of the way to Golgatha. Life isn't just harder if I do it on my own; it's impossible. 

9. I’m beautiful. The past couple years I've come to peace with insecurities about my ethnicity, culture, and heritage I didn't even realize I had. This has made me more confident and allowed me to relate to others a little more from a place of love and a little less from a place of fear.

10. Rejection. I applied for a job last fall working with students in an after school program, and they never called me back. This program was one of the reasons I felt God has called me back to the US, so it was s pretty big disappointment (ok, also rage-inducer and self-esteem-crusher) not to get the job. However, in lieu of the job I started volunteering at the Cove with high school students, which had been incredibly rewarding and one of the best experiences I've ever had with students!

11. Loving and investing in people is always worth it. I wondered if it was worth loving others when I experienced the pain of leaving and the grief that came with moving back to the United States. I wondered if it was worth loving myself when I was in the pits of depression. In the end, though, it’s worth it. Because loving others (and myself) is only possible through Jesus, and practicing love brings me closer to Jesus. And knowing Jesus more? Knowing Jesus more is always worth it.

12. Fulfillment and meaning aren’t found in a job or a community or a relationship. As “millennials,” we’re often stereotyped as job-hopping to find meaning in the workplace. I wonder though if a cultural shift away from spirituality is the culprit behind what appears to be an enigma. I know it’s true for me—when depression and doubts cloud my view of Jesus, I look to other things (including switching jobs), trying to figure out what needs to change for me to find meaning in life. But when I know I have Jesus, nothing else matters; as long as He’s here, I have everything I need and more, regardless of job, geographical location, culture, or financial status. With Him, I have everything I need and more.

For more adventures from the past couple years, check out my ebook or other posts (and be on the look out for new ones soon!), email me, or get coffee with me in Waco!