Terrified: A Blog on Dating

Terrified.

That’s how I feel when I sit down to write this. It’s been well over a year since I published a blog, mostly because my writing is an overflow of what I’m learning—and what I’ve been learning has seemed far too vulnerable to share. Because it revolves around dating.

I chose not to date for the majority of my life for a variety of reasons: I was too busy, it was scary, no one seemed interested in me…and mostly, because I hated vulnerability. It was vulnerable to say yes to dating someone, even more vulnerable to ask someone out. 

Yet after a few years of therapy and a truly supportive group of friends, I decided to try a dating app, which led me to Josh. Two years later, Josh and I are still together, and dating has taught me more than I imagined about God, about myself, and about others. Vulnerable as it may be, I hope to write about the moments that have changed me most—starting here.

It had been a long day, and I was overwhelmed by emotions. I had spent the previous two days wondering about the relationship, worrying I was making the wrong decision, and paralyzed by the mere concept of a long-term relationship. When I make plans, I always have a plan B and plan C—I always have a way out, an escape hatch, if you will. I also tend not to share my concerns or worries with others because firstly, they’re often absurd worst case scenarios, and secondly, to admit my fears is to admit weakness. And as we all know, that’s not my strong point. 

It turns out that this kind of thinking does not lend itself well to dating; in fact, it produces a huge amount of anxiety and will land you on your boyfriend’s futon, crying and covered in snot, refusing to hold a conversation and repeating, “It’s fine,” over and over.

This is why one of the things I appreciate most about Josh is his willingness to face difficult things head on. When I lay there on the futon, I repeatedly turned my head away from his, trying to hide my tears. 

He knelt on the floor by my side and gently—but firmly—put his hands on my face and turned me so I was facing him. 

He broke through my desire to stay hidden, to live in the facade I had created where tears meant weakness, where denial of weakness meant it didn’t exist.

When he turned my face and I looked into his eyes, all my fear and my shame were met with concern and with kindness. Instinct told me to pull away, but each time I did, he gently turned me back toward him so he could look me in the eyes. Eventually, he held my face in place so I could not turn—and finally, when the shame was gone (but the tears and snot were not), I didn’t want to look away at all.

Josh isn’t perfect—actually, this whole story occurred in the middle of a fight—but still, I met Jesus in a new way in that moment, and in the moments to come (there have been many), when this same scenario played itself out over and over again.

When I think back on this experience, I think of how I so often turn away from Jesus’ face—on a daily basis, even! How in shame, I make split-second choices not to pray about something, or I believe there’s no way He could want to see my tear-stained, sinful self.

Yet He does. Gently—yet firmly—He puts his hands on my face and turns me toward Him, turning me to look in His eyes. And I am met with grace, with kindness. 

How tenderly He redirects my gaze! Over and over again, I look to myself to fix earth’s problems, and over and over I find myself entangled in a web of shame and guilt, believing lies and fixating on unfixable things.

The root lie is that I am not worthy of love and belonging—and then, the web of solutions entangles:

If I lose weight, I will be worthy.

If I make more money, I will be worthy.

If I own a business, I will be worthy.

Gently—yet firmly—He turns my eyes back to Him. There is nothing in the world as stunning as His face, but somehow I get distracted anyway. Slowly, I am beginning to understand that the brokenness of the world can be a blessing, if only to show me there is nothing like His face.

I am like a child standing at a locker with the combination lock code written down in bold letters before me, but who chooses to try to open the lock by trial and error. Jesus, in His patience, stands with me.

0000 doesn’t work. He redirects my eyes to the key—to Himself.

0001 doesn’t work. He turns my face toward Him.

0002. He puts His hand under my chin and lifts until my eyes meet His.

0003…

Again and again, gently—yet firmly—Jesus puts his hands on my face and turns me toward Him. No amount of shame (or snot) will deter Him from turning my face to Him.

And it hits me: He doesn’t just want me to see Him. He wants to see me. Because I am valuable. I am worthy of love and belonging. 

Love, belonging, and me—we find our place in His eyes.

Lessons from the Bedside: Constipation, Oversharing, and Mental Health

No, not oversharing about constipation. As a nurse, is there ever oversharing about bowel movement woes? There's nothing like the feeling after a really good, healthy poop.

Several months ago, I was talking on the phone to a friend from nursing school and was explaining how it's been a long journey learning to process things with others instead of holing them up inside me like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. 

"Sometimes," I told my friend, "I forget to process things and go back to shoving them deep inside and trying to forget about them. It's so unnatural for me to talk about everything and process it. Every time I go to counseling, I have to relearn to open up. The longer I go without consciously processing things, the harder it is to start again."

My friend graciously agreed, and then the perfect analogy popped into my head.

"It's like I get emotionally and mentally constipated," I decided. "And sometimes it gets so bad it's impacted, and I need an enema to get things going again..."

Too cute. I couldn't resist. (Stock photo from Adobe)

Thank God for nursing friends who, rather than being grossed out, laugh richly and loudly at these kinds of things. In fact, I'm pretty sure she even said she was a big fan of the analogy. Nursing friends. They are wonderful.

Like bowel movements, everything in life flows a little easier when we regularly practice owning and processing emotions, events, and struggles in life. The longer we push the need aside, the tougher it is to begin. When I was a child, I spoke so few words I could remember everything I said to everyone and when I said it. Naturally, I figured everyone else was the same way and wondered why some people would tell me the same stories over and over again. I genuinely believed they were intentionally telling me the story for the fifth time because they thought I needed to hear it five times. I didn't realize until much later it was possible to talk so much you actually forgot what you said and to whom you said it! Though I have since conformed and routinely have more conversations than I can recall, it's still not my natural bent to process life out loud. It's taken a long, long time to develop this habit that's so easy for other.

Of note, conversely, some face the challenge of oversharing and lacking boundaries (the opposite of constipation would be "the runs"). This, as you can imagine, can get really messy, really fast. The nurses who are reading this know what I'm talking about. Sometimes we walk into rooms and have to wonder: "How in the world did they get stool in that spot??"

Sometimes, life gets a little crazy and our ability to process life gets put on hold. Traumas or deaths or major life events alter our habits, and in those times all we can do is lean on each other. We turn to each other the best we can, give supportive care, and clean up the messes as they come. From my own experience, I know we often feel ashamed and judged for our involuntary reactions when life overwhelms us. There was a season after returning from working in a Cambodian hospital I broke down every few hours and breaks between classes were spent in the nursing building's chapel crying. I was embarrassed, but I didn't have to be. Sometimes we lose control. It's temporary, and it's okay.

Unlike bowel movements, learning to share appropriately—enough, regularly, and with boundaries—is a trial and error process. It's one I'm constantly challenged by and one I think we will all continually be adjusting and tweaking throughout our lifetimes.

So I'll keep trying and tweaking. A little daily stool softener like Colace may resemble a phone call to my best friend or a journal entry spilling my thoughts. A little laxative like lactulose or milk of magnesia may take the form of a therapy session. A little antidiarrheal like Imodium may look like the restraint not to tell that person my deepest fears or post a blog about a wound that hasn't yet healed.

The analogies could keep going and going, but the main point is this: we all get a little constipated or have diarrhea mentally and emotionally, and this is okay. Health is the goal, because we all know it's true:

There's nothing like the feeling after a really good, healthy poop.

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.