elle-christine

[elle-christine]

It’s me again, 29 (almost 30) year old me. Passing by, taking a quick little peek at my mind from 10 (!) and 6 (!!) years ago. Stopping in to write about yet another boy. Although this one is currently nestled into my chest, breathing quiet baby breaths, sound asleep knowing he is safe in his mama’s arms. He’s known this world for a little over a month. He’s yet to learn about pain or heartbreak, worry or panic or fear. He’s holding onto the newborn bliss that as long as his belly is full and he’s warm and dry, everything is right in the world. Oh how I wish he could know this safety forever. Oh how I ache to protect him from anything bad. But I read my past words and I reflect on the groan of growing, and I know that to truly live is to sometimes lose. And that it will be okay. And that I will always be his mama, ready to welcome him back into her arms and make everything better. 

Dear Me of 19:

When I was 19, a few things happened. (Many things happened, but these select few are exceptionally important to this story). 

1. I broke up with my long term, high school sweetheart boyfriend.  2. I met a boy. The Boy. We can call him Sir, for now. 3. I met another boy. One that flipped my world inside out and upside down and forced it to go crooked in all the wrong ways. 

Point #1 is important, because although I did the breaking upping, I walked away from a long relationship feeling broken, hurt, lost, devastated, etc. I didn’t know who I was, where I stood, what the world meant. 

When I first met sir, I was intrigued. Similarly to how I always felt towards humans of his nature and position in my life. (I would be more specific, but you never know who is reading this…hi.) Let’s just say, that I had met a handful of people similar to him for the few years prior to this night. And at first, he fell into that similar category. But something about that night, and him in that night, took a hold of my heart and mind. I crushed for a few weeks (days?), before I met, the other boy. 

The other one, we can refer to him as “it”, came storming into my life soon after. He sunk himself into everything that did not belong to him. He captured my mind by pretending like it wasn’t worth much. He took what was a broken girl, and used her up until there was absolutely nothing left, and then walked away. He was pretty broken too. We had no business entertaining one another’s time. 

When he walked away, I picked myself up (quite literally off of the bedroom floor of a friend. Everything kind of exploded at once, and I found myself the morning after, a mess in every literal and figurative way.). I picked myself off, hid myself and my heart away for a while, and slowly, quietly, put back together the pieces of who I was and wanted to be. Some people can point to a moment in their life as a turning point. This was mine. Everything changed after that day. 

As I tucked away and healed, I was reminded of another kindness. One that came from a sir who I had found at the beginning of the summer. He weaved himself back into my life. Without realizing it, I’m sure. And this blog pays homage to a time in my life where I was so invested in self-growth, self-acceptance, and self-love. And he was a catalyst for that. Without knowing. My heart ached for someone to be kind to it. My mind ached for someone to challenge it. 

In many ways, I am so very grateful for that time in my life. I learned so much. So many tiny lessons. The problem is, I’ve never let it go. Never let go of it being a time in my life where I was so strong. So motivated. In years since, I have struggled with trying to get back to that place. Trying to regain the knowledge and the depth that I was feeling at that time. 

This post doesn’t have much point, other than that when I wrote those words 4 years ago, I’m sure I wondered what and who i would be at 23. And here I am, 23 to tell it. 

The truth is this. It can be best explained with my bedroom wall which is covered in pictures of the past 4 years. At least 100 of them. Of faces I love, places I miss, moments I could spend 10 minutes a piece describing. 19 year old me let the way to those memories. She sheltered herself in daydreams so that she could be open to the love, the beauty, the peace of the next years to come. 

I hope that 19 year old me is proud of 23 year old me. 

P.S: I wish I could say that Sir was just a moment on the path of my life. And that I moved on from those thoughts and feelings that I wrote so passionately about in those days. But for some reason, he’s not. He hasn’t left my life. Both physically, but mostly emotionally. He continues to haunt my thoughts. And it’s frustrating, because it’s been so long. So many years. Often, I wish I could just pretend that it doesn’t mean anything to me. But in complete honesty, I have to question “why”. Why is it like this? Why do I do this? It’s the one thing that I think I can whole-heartedly relate to 19 year old me on. 

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

Dear Me of 23;

I've been sipping red wine and traveling down the messy lanes of my younger self's mind, preserved in this digital time capsule. Lock and key, this little space holds the corners of my immature heart.

I read these words and remember the ache of those days. Those candle-lit, tucked up in bed nights. I yearned to be known, yearned to be loved. But also needed the time and space to just be. To be alone. To heal. To make mistakes. To grow. To fall on my face and be picked back up.

I'm proud of the me of 19. I'm proud of the me of 23. I'm proud of the stages in my life that allowed me to grow, to push past the pain. To move forward.

Dear Me of 19:

When I was 19, a few things happened. (Many things happened, but these select few are exceptionally important to this story). 

1. I broke up with my long term, high school sweetheart boyfriend.  2. I met a boy. The Boy. We can call him Sir, for now. 3. I met another boy. One that flipped my world inside out and upside down and forced it to go crooked in all the wrong ways. 

Point #1 is important, because although I did the breaking upping, I walked away from a long relationship feeling broken, hurt, lost, devastated, etc. I didn’t know who I was, where I stood, what the world meant. 

When I first met sir, I was intrigued. Similarly to how I always felt towards humans of his nature and position in my life. (I would be more specific, but you never know who is reading this…hi.) Let’s just say, that I had met a handful of people similar to him for the few years prior to this night. And at first, he fell into that similar category. But something about that night, and him in that night, took a hold of my heart and mind. I crushed for a few weeks (days?), before I met, the other boy. 

The other one, we can refer to him as “it”, came storming into my life soon after. He sunk himself into everything that did not belong to him. He captured my mind by pretending like it wasn’t worth much. He took what was a broken girl, and used her up until there was absolutely nothing left, and then walked away. He was pretty broken too. We had no business entertaining one another’s time. 

When he walked away, I picked myself up (quite literally off of the bedroom floor of a friend. Everything kind of exploded at once, and I found myself the morning after, a mess in every literal and figurative way.). I picked myself off, hid myself and my heart away for a while, and slowly, quietly, put back together the pieces of who I was and wanted to be. Some people can point to a moment in their life as a turning point. This was mine. Everything changed after that day. 

As I tucked away and healed, I was reminded of another kindness. One that came from a sir who I had found at the beginning of the summer. He weaved himself back into my life. Without realizing it, I’m sure. And this blog pays homage to a time in my life where I was so invested in self-growth, self-acceptance, and self-love. And he was a catalyst for that. Without knowing. My heart ached for someone to be kind to it. My mind ached for someone to challenge it. 

In many ways, I am so very grateful for that time in my life. I learned so much. So many tiny lessons. The problem is, I’ve never let it go. Never let go of it being a time in my life where I was so strong. So motivated. In years since, I have struggled with trying to get back to that place. Trying to regain the knowledge and the depth that I was feeling at that time. 

This post doesn’t have much point, other than that when I wrote those words 4 years ago, I’m sure I wondered what and who i would be at 23. And here I am, 23 to tell it. 

The truth is this. It can be best explained with my bedroom wall which is covered in pictures of the past 4 years. At least 100 of them. Of faces I love, places I miss, moments I could spend 10 minutes a piece describing. 19 year old me let the way to those memories. She sheltered herself in daydreams so that she could be open to the love, the beauty, the peace of the next years to come. 

I hope that 19 year old me is proud of 23 year old me. 

P.S: I wish I could say that Sir was just a moment on the path of my life. And that I moved on from those thoughts and feelings that I wrote so passionately about in those days. But for some reason, he’s not. He hasn’t left my life. Both physically, but mostly emotionally. He continues to haunt my thoughts. And it’s frustrating, because it’s been so long. So many years. Often, I wish I could just pretend that it doesn’t mean anything to me. But in complete honesty, I have to question “why”. Why is it like this? Why do I do this? It’s the one thing that I think I can whole-heartedly relate to 19 year old me on. 

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

I’ve been self-admittedly playing the comparison game. Almost painfully. Forcing myself to. I’m not sure why. This isn’t one of those posts with a happy ever after ending. It’s just my scrubbed heart aching to put words onto (metaphorical) paper. *Speaking of Happily Ever After Ending’s; why can’t all of life work like a 90′s family sitcom? I wish I were a Tanner or a Matthews and knew my problems would be solved in less than 20 minutes. Roll credits, canned laughter, see ya next time, folks. 

Comparison is already a challenge. Media entices us into this CONSTANT barrage of lookatme. You NEED this *thing*, you WANT this *bod*, etc. etc. Enter Social Media; hey, now not only do you get to compare yourself to actresses post 4-hours in a makeup chair who pretends to be a 20-something “I just woke up like this” BUT now, you get to see infinitate scrolls of people “living their best life”. Perfectly curated, pre-set filter, pose and pose and pose. “Who me? my life? It’s simply perfection. I am ALWAYS this happy. Things are ALWAYS this good.” and what you don’t see are the muddy monday moments of lying on the couch covered in crumbs, but I’d bet they’re there. 

Those two comparison’s aside, what happens when you find one particular person who has YOUR life? Or rather, the life that lives inside your head yet is just a teeny bit out of reach. I’m talking, her hair? It’s shinier. Her home? It’s cleaner. Her marriage? It’s happier. She’s got flawless style and is constantly adventuring and smiling and happy happy life. UGH. 

Here’s where I don’t end on a happy note. I’m feeling crummy, crappy, like I’ve already lost this game I didn’t want to play. 

#me #personal

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

artist: sacrée frangine

[elle-christine]

Avec toi, je suis moi • With you, I am me • /a.vɛk twa ʒə sɥi mwa/

[elle-christine]

[elle-christine]

Posted November 2011 (Close enough, right?) In ten years I’ll be 28; so I would like to be done with college working a really good job. Right now I love the idea of being a labor and delivery nurse but I somehow doubt that’s going to happen. Besides working; I want to be married because I want to have kids when I’m younger. Around 24 or 25 because I feel like growing up with young parents really had it’s advantages. So by 28 I want two kids. I don’t want my kids to grow up too far apart in age. As far as where I’m living, I’m not sure. I would have a really tough time leaving family but living in Michigan just doesn’t do it for me. 

May 2021: 

Wow! Hello little me of ten years ago. 17/18 year old Danielle had such angst, you were just barely figuring out this world, yet, felt like you needed to act as though everything made sense. 

So here I am, newly 28. Right smack in the middle of these two posts, and it’s ten years later. The world seemed so big and open and scary when you tried to understand what your young twenties would look like. Will I do enough? Will I be enough?

In 2021, I am in fact 28. And done with college; sort of. I work for a non-profit doing communication and I enjoy it (and have been working from home for over a year, thanks pandemic!). But this fall I’ll be going BACK to college to become a Speech-Pathologist, which sort of goes along with a L&D Nurse, so I wasn’t totally, totally off the mark there.

I don’t live in Paris, but I also don’t live in the tri-counties. I live in the capitol-area with my husband (!!) of 2 years. He is steady and kind and loves me wonderfully and I am more thankful for him every day. We have a church community who treats us like family and make the most of our little island-city life by drinking local coffee and going for walks on campus and partaking in cheesy city promoted events. 

The past 10 years have been full of adventure and calm. Plenty of people and what felt like no one. Moments of great accomplishment and of great failure. Gaining new family members and losing some. When I picture the past 10 years there are certain snapshots that sift to the front. Pictures like a polaroid that lay on the desk in front of me:

A season of feeling lost and afraid, but also discovering parts of me that would be important in the future. Underage nights making messes of relationships and reputations. Driving a million miles an hour, not sleeping until sunrise. Lies and revenge and all around brokenness. But then a season of putting it all back together. Quiet nights, tucked in with tea and One Direction. Cozy fall days, U of M trapesing, hot apple cider and football games. Sitting still, healing, preparing. 

Falling in “love” in Disney World. Late night escapades with perfumed roommates to Buffalo Wild Wings or House of Blues or (ugh) Falafel. Independence and princess parades and international friends. Sunshine and feeling accomplished. Late night oreo runs and holding hands with little ones and finally feeling a sense of belonging. 

A year of gray-dayed predictability. Attempting to recreate magic but driving myself into forced monotony instead. Waiting, counting down, anticipating, another summer of sun. Pretending to be more than I was. 20 hour work weeks, an abusive relationship with food and my body, turning 21 with a lack of fanfare but masquerading like I knew how to order a drink at a bar. A summer of some sun, mostly rain. Jealous girls and the kind of romance I said I’d never have. Pick-up trucks and pastures, southern drawl and Sunflower Sisters. Paint splattered faces, calling to people from the front porch, life long friendships. Hazy gray days that felt sweet at the time, but the kind of sweet that goes stale quickly. 

Full steam ahead. Things are changing. An old, buried away me is begging to be set free. A new job snuggling babies and learning how to be friends with other women. Growing closer in a relationship with God which meant growing out of a relationship with someone who didn’t believe. Ford field football games, seasons of Survivor. A spring that was ushered in by healing rainy days and my Dad getting sick. Hours spent at his bedside, caring for his needs or listening to his advice. Securing a love of black coffee and stepping dangerously close to another bout of disordered eating. A full summer of heat and gentleness and excitement, closing with that morning on the hillside, realizing that the world was awake but my Dad was no longer in it. 

Next steps? College? A new job title. Big decisions made, excitement clouded over by the aching absence from becoming a fatherless daughter. Trying to run as fast as I could with a 10lb weight tied to my ankles. Fuller House and pizza parties, Michigan State football. Another summer of whirlwind romance and new responsibility. Green Team and gulf-side sunsets. That deep belly pain of being ignored and the invigoration of forcing to be seen. Messy-headed mistakes and the desire to be written into a fiction novel. 

Starting college feeling old (but really not that old). An Elle Woods style first day. Bagels and pumpkin spice lattes, sitting and staring out of the 5th floor library window onto changing leaves and cold river waters. Long walks alone, not wanting to be alone. A refreshed spring, baby carrots and interesting people. Dizzy-headed coffee dates (in my bed by myself or sitting by the river talking about life). A final summer of playing in the sun and wearing blue. Seeking to be accepted by someone who had no business vying for my heart. 4th of July picnics on the ocean-side with tofu hotdogs and new friends. Salty tears and crunchy M&M’s and hair tied back in a braid. 

Finally facing the reality of needing help; medication and therapy. Seeking to be seen. Seeking some type of shake-up to the the staleness of my life. Nothing is easy when you’re depressed. Several days, same clothes, too exhausted to do anything about it. But finally a break. Finally some relief. Joey and Chandler apartment days. Bachelor and wine and PBR and spicy Doritos. Nashville spring breaks and debilitating anxiety and awkward first dates with boys (that I knew within the first 10 minutes wouldn’t turn into 2nd dates). But then, a man. A sturdy, 30-year old with curly brown hair and a WWJD bracelet and nice shoes. Long walks and public dates and the obsession of knowing this was THE one, but having to wait for life to catch up. 

And then it finally did. Settling into an adult job, and space, and car. Solo-trips to England and the beach to be alone and think. An under-the-radar marriage because hey, that’s our style. And life as it’s been for the past 2 years. Saturday morning Bible studies, neighborhood walks, settling into one-ness over glasses of red wine and homemade pasta. A slow-dancing in the kitchen, hogging the blankets, mid-highway rap sessions, cup of water in the night kind of love. 

So, 18 year old me, this is your life in ten years. Seasons of recklessness were followed by seasons of steady. Big changes that actually meant less than all of the little changes added up together. Morning cups of coffee and loving the Lord and good friends and a kind mom. Church on Sundays in a musty old building full of colorful stories and warm-hearted people. Vegan ice-cream in the freezer. Birds on the window-sill, cats across the alley, plants soaking up sun. Curling up in bed at 10 pm with childhood books and a husband who keeps my feet warm. Plans to travel, plans to stay-put. Plans to make no plans and let God be in control. Here’s the answer to your questions, the details of the story-map of your teenage mind. 

Day Two: Where do you see yourself in ten years?

Let’s go with reality and fantasy. 

Fantasy-

Living in an apartment in Paris.

Working as a writer or in an office that works with something interesting.

Long term relationship? Engaged? Maybe married?

Being able to come home for a month during the holidays to spend with my family.

Reality-

Living in an apartment in the tri-county area.

Working as a youth counselor

Maybe still in a long term relationship.

#me #personal

[elle-christine]