A glimpse into what’s left when we stop patching the cracks.
Let’s sit down and catch up, shall we? For most reading this, I’m just someone you came across online or know from a friend of a friend. And I actually kinda like it that way. I don’t have an Instagram to fill the buckets of hundreds of people. I don’t have a platform big enough to fill an arena. I don’t cater to the masses with hundreds of links, dozens of commission posts, and the weight of their expectations pressing down until a person suffocates. I don’t make a dime off this platform—quite frankly, my Instagram feels like another room in my house. A small group of folks resonate with the simple pleasures of the way I am doing life. So they come into my internet home, sit down for a cup, and move along with their day. And that, to me, is special. So, for whatever reason you are here and reading, your time spent with me is valued, appreciated, and I hope to see you again. But if not, and you don’t like my decorating or enjoy my grandma-knit blankets, well, I hope you find more of what you’re looking for. Let’s move along.
February in the Midwest brings many things. And I’ll bet I can anticipate exactly what you’re thinking right now. “She’s going to say how dreary everything is—the grass is dormant and dull, we haven’t seen the sun consistently since November, and seasonal depression is in full force. Oh, and it’s freaking cold.” And now that I’ve aired that out, you’re probably guessing that I’ll do the opposite and say, “February is a magical time to be cozy inside by a fire, sipping warm bevies, and enjoying the slowness of life—a break from the hustle and bustle of the other three seasons.” Yep, got you there too.
Can both co-exist? Or must we once again choose a side of the coin to wallow in? It is cold. It is dreary some days. And it is hard not seeing our sunshine daily. But it is also beautiful—to see our world draped in a snow blanket, to not feel rushed to do anything, and to let hot drinks warm us from head to toe.
A question I asked myself—and I’ll ask you too—do you feel winter is hard because it might FORCE you to slow down? Does it force you to sit with things you otherwise throw in the backseat during the bustle of warmer days? “I’m too busy, I’ll deal with that later.” Except, when that “later” rolls around, it actually makes us incredibly uncomfortable. So we dig our heels in and call it “seasonal depression.”
Before you get hot and bothered, yes, I do understand the legitimacy of seasonal depression. I used to have horrible seasonal depression and lived in that space for many winters. But I can also say that I, and many others, often throw that label on things that aren’t depression at all.
Let me tell you a story. Actually, let me tell you what I’m experiencing right now.
With two eyes barely cracked open, I slap my phone, turning off my piano music alarm—supposedly meant to wake me up in a gentle, loving way. I grunt and hit snooze. Another 15 minutes later, the piano chimes again. This time, I actually need to get up. Not a single brain cell is awake yet, but I throw on my hot pink robe and shuffle into the kitchen. I greet my cute little kitchen lamp with a foggy, dazed look and start packing Peter’s lunch. Lunches are packed. Breakfast is made. The once-cold kitchen is now warm, and the house smells of freshly brewed coffee. A kiss on the cheek, and out the door he goes.
Do I go back to bed? Or do I make myself breakfast and start my day? The million-dollar question I wrestle with daily. It’s this very moment that prompted me to write to you now. That morning on January 3rd (or 5th, I can’t remember), I chose to change my routine. I cracked open both of the devotionals I was given over Christmas and sat in the quiet, dawn-lit room of my house and read. Four minutes later, I was done. “Wow, that was fast,” I thought, feeling quite accomplished and satisfied. In fact, it took more time for me to think about the idea of reading than actually reading. And for the most part, I’ve kept this sleepy morning tradition going (and still do), with the acceptance that there is no shame in going back to bed.
If you’re still reading, you’re probably bored out of your mind and about to click off. Let’s take a turn.
That invitation of change (even as small as it was) lit a spark of curiosity in my mind. “What else can I change that would make me feel better?” Chasing feelings is fleeting—hi, college Bible studies 101, yes, I remember you. But this was different. It was a curiosity to explore. An open invitation to ask, “What’s something I’ve been wanting to do but haven’t had the time or the desire to change my routine to do?”
For some bizarre reason, I chose sourdough.
For the love of God, I couldn’t have picked literally anything else?!!!! Why couldn’t I have been “led by the Spirit” to pick marathon running or becoming a novelist, damn it? But no. Sourdough.
My personality is an “all in” type. A new hobby? All in. A new idea? All in. A new obsession? You guessed it—ALL IN. And while that’s great, it’s also whiplash. You get worn out quickly. And for my type-A, perfectionist friends, being “all in” can be a death sentence. Starting something new is good for your brain. Lots of learning. The inevitable trial and error. Better known as successes and failures. But as a perfectionist, failure feels like a fall from grace—a horrible, triple-rollover accident with a cortisol spike and a bullet hole in your confidence.
But here’s the reality: If we walk outside, plant our feet in the grass, and take a deep breath— it’s not that deep.
So my lessons with sourdough have been… well, sour. Frustrating. Disappointing. Mega eye-rolling. At one point, I even threw my starer way and restarted. But the real lesson has nothing to do with the coveted, golden, sour-tasting carbs. It’s about experiencing failure, walking outside, touching some grass, and teaching yourself, over and over again, “You are okay. YOU aren’t a failure. You HAD a failure. How can you learn from it? Now, what are you going to do about it?”
There’s a question that has been relentlessly circling my mind: “What are you going to do about it now?”
God has poked me with that question in many areas of my life this past month. Maybe He always does, but I’m just “too busy” to notice. He’s pressed it upon my heart in my marriage—bringing challenges and struggles from the dark, comfortable depths to the surface. When light hits those painful lesions, it hurts quite badly. But how in the world are you expecting to grow your marriage if you won’t turn the lights on in the rooms you don’t WANT to see? So, what are you going to do about it now?
It’s true what they say, “there is beauty in pain.” I have never felt more seen and loved by my husband than I have in these past few weeks. Pain teaches lessons, but it also reminds us of the sanctity of joy, nudging us to savor it fully.
Another major area of my life where I was challenged with that question is my health. I have struggled with acne for years. The millisecond I went to college—boom—an explosion of confidence-degrading reminders dotted my face and body. I tried all the tips, tricks, and pimple patches. I stopped eating dairy (so dumb) and switched to plant-based products (seriously, stop drinking store-bought oat milk). I tried steam rooms and saunas to sweat out the junk. I swapped my pillowcase covers every other night. I tried topicals and even two different acne medications from my dermatologist (more on that in a minute). The ONLY thing that worked for me was a low-dose antibiotic called ampicillin. Ah-ha, a deep sigh of relief—I had clear skin and felt free from the deep, cystic acne that had lined my face and body.
But it was a bandaid.
Bandaid (adjective): offering, making use of, or serving as a temporary or expedient remedy or solution.
And bandaids can’t stay on forever. They fall off because they were never designed to HEAL the wound, just cover it up. After we got married in September, I stopped my acne medication cold turkey. My dermatologist was reluctant (obviously—I had been ordering prescriptions through their office every month for three years), but I was hopeful. The first few months were fine. I was relieved, even thrilled, thinking maybe I had “grown out of it.” But by December, like a speeding car crashing into a brick wall, my skin broke out worse than ever. Cystic acne returned, littering my face and body once again. Truth be told, I feel horribly ugly right now (the dead of winter does not help), and no, I’m not digging for compliments. Acne and a "well-rested" looking body just does that to a person.
But those annoying red blemishes did something else too: they poked me with that question.
“What are you going to do about it now?”
That small spark of curiosity I mentioned earlier? It’s now a bonfire. And the kindling fueling it is learning—and unlearning—all the garbage I thought was true. I’ve done more research in the last month about gut microbiomes, estrogen dominance, true fertility, proper supplementation, and lifestyle changes than I ever have before in my life. God is radically rocking my boat. And THANK GOD, right?
Unfortunately, I won’t be writing out directions to the health “holy grail” here—because I don’t have them yet. And that’s okay. I’ll never have it all figured out. But what I’ve been learning these last few weeks has flipped everything I thought I knew about women’s health upside down. I’m uncovering deep internal health issues that no classic “Iowa nice” dermatologist with another squeezy tube of Tretinoin and a “you betcha” ever addressed. Acne is a visible marker of something going wrong internally. But more than that, what we’ve been told about women’s health? It’s not what it appears.
If I can encourage you to do anything, my ladies—start asking questions and start looking for real answers. What we’ve been told is “common” and “normal” (hi, heartbreaking infertility and PMS, I’m talking to you) is, in fact, NOT. If you want me to expand on my learnings, shoot me a message. I don’t know if that’s interesting to people or if everyone is tapped out. So actually, tell me.
Overall, January and February have been hard months for me. It would be easy to just call it seasonal depression. In fact, I used to do that. But it’s not seasonal depression. It’s sitting in the uncomfortable reality of problems that are actually affecting your life and well-being. You’re face to face with issues you’ve been bandaiding for far too long. Going back to bed is easy—but won’t this bandaid just keep resurfacing again and again and again?
Sit with it.
Put on your robe, grab your mug of tea, and raise your eyebrows like a mom catching her teenager sneaking in past curfew. Look your trouble dead in the eye for everything it is.
I’ll wrap this tea time with two questions:
1. What are the bandaids you’ve been placing on your life?
2. What are you going to do about it?
My heart is with you,
Hannah
