Unraveling

I apologize in advance if this post seems overly personal and the thoughts extremely scattered.  They are and it is.  This is merely MY experience coming home.  From deployment.  From a combat zone.  From a trauma hospital.  Back to my life that has completely changed in the time since I've returned.  I'm not the same person who left over a year ago.  That girl is gone...

Dear Mom,

I've been home almost four months now.  Four months since I set foot on US soil again.  Yet some days it feels like I left yesterday.  I've struggled to put this all into words... but I'm going to try because I feel like it may be a form of therapy, and trust me, I could probably use that about now. 

People constantly ask me questions..." How was it?" "How are you?".  Such well intentioned, innocent questions.  And yet the answers still allude me.  It's not that I don't try to answer, but in all honesty I don't think I can.  So usually I just give the same answer, "life changing."  It was...

They prepared us so well to go there.  Every element of trauma, combat, and life covered in excruciating detail.  Of course they glossed over the things we could expect upon return... and then again as we processed out in Germany.  But we barely listened.  We were tired.  Really tired.  Bone deep kinda tired.  Seven months in Afghan land will do that to a person I guess. 

We were given lists of symptoms we might experience as we returned to our "normal" lives.  And I truly think if life occurred in list form I may have understood the signs.  But that's not the way it works.  Life isn't organized like that.  Life is messy.  Sticky fingers, kids yelling, people shouting, world changing kinda messy.  It was easy to miss the signs.  I missed the signs.

Put me in a small space with crowds and you'll find me pressed against a wall on the verge of tears.  Normal. Perfectly normal.

Sleep... or the lack of it.  Waking up every few hours from the nightmares not always of things I'd seen... but of being trapped, unable to get home.  Of course sometimes there were bombs and broken bodies, but that isn't always the case.  Normal.

Racking sobs at a commercial or a movie trailer that vaguely reminds me of life there.  Tears running down my face dragging my mascara with it.  Normal.

But it's not normal, is it?  I'm not "normal" anymore.  WE aren't normal.  Those of us who have lived in that place aren't normal.  We have to adjust to our new normal, but we aren't the same.

But why?  I wasn't beyond the wire constantly on guard and fearing for my life with every step.  I wasn't wearing my body armor knowing it was the only line of defense between me and an IED.  I wasn't the one rolling into the trauma bay on a gurney and full of blood.  That wasn't me. 

I've been a nurse for a while now.  I've worked in a trauma center since day one.  I've seen death on every level.  The expected, the senseless, the hopeless.  I've seen it all.  I've held hands as life has slipped away.  I've been the only witness to last breaths and final prayers.  Why was life and death in this place so different?

I've figured out a small piece of that difference.  A small string in the unraveling of this post-Afghan life.  It was about walls.  Those high, almost insurmountable walls I had built around my heart.  In the states we all know that every patient has a story.  But I don't know it.  I don't live it.  I can keep them at arms length and not let it get to me.  Those walls came down there.  The patients there were not merely patients.  Many were friends, comrades, brothers and sisters in arms. 

The boy in trauma bay one had sat at the next table at the DFAC that morning.  The girl in bay four had passed me on the street on her way to the motor pool to head out on her mission.  The Major standing at the foot of the bed had been in front of me at church last Sunday.  The boys milling about the trauma bay had been here before, many times.  Some so often they'd earned nicknames.

I'd stood beside them at countless Purple Heart ceremonies.  Seen their faces in too many crowds.  Knew their names.  They were fighting for me, with me, next to me, in front of me.  They were so familiar to me that every time my pager went off it came with the fear that I would know the face in front of me on the gurney.  These patients were personal.  They were not nameless.  I knew their stories.  Even if I didn't know them directly, I lived the same life they did.  I wore the same uniform. There were no walls.  Only us against them.

While I still don't entirely understand the why of it all, this is a start to figuring out why a piece of me will always be at the base of those mountains in Southern Afghanistan.  A piece of all of us will be... and in that we have an everlasting camaraderie and kinship that will last a lifetime.

I know this is only the beginning of putting these pieces back together.  It's a long road and I'll always be a bit different now.  But I'm not broken, just bruised.  Fixable.

Life.  Changed.

XOXO,

Me

The Low Down Skinny (or Healthy)

There's a reason this blog was named Identity Undecided.  Basically this girl goes down so many different life tangents it would have been impossible for me to stick to one topic, so I gave myself the ability to be ADD with this blog (didn't need hindsight for that revelation!).  That being said, I'm sure many of you are wondering what the heck I'm doing lately with this "fitness coaching" stuff... let alone with a multi level marketing company like Beachbody.  Well, let me tell you a story...

In reality, this was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.  My journey to coaching started years ago.  When I was a new nurse on night shift I was tired.  Like Tired (with that on purpose capital T).  There isn't quite a tired like the after night shift tired.  But a girl needs to look good in those scrubs and stave off the dreaded nightshift weight.  I wasn't really training for any crazy run or triathlon at the time (and I hadn't gotten the CrossFit bug yet) so I needed to do something.  I had heard about this program called Insanity.  It seemed totally something I'd be in to.  So I conned my friend (fellow nightshift nurse) Alli into joining me in this program.  We'd meet daily to complete the crazy, heartpounding, sweat-inducing suffer fests (I say all this tongue in cheek because I LOVE Insanity).  Turns out, that sh*t works.  Like really works.  I felt comfortable rocking a bikini after that program.  And then I moved on to Insanity Asylum... and then P90X.  I did them all... with Alli, alone... whatever it took.  I loved it... every awful second. 

And then I found the next race to train for and got lost in my world of endurance sports... joined the Navy Reserves, and eventually deployed to Afghanistan... where I fell in love with CrossFit.

But before I left I saw that my coworker and friend Jaclyn had begun her Beachbody journey.  She has always been someone I've looked up to.  She is a beautiful soul who has poured her heart into her business, her coaches, and her customers.  Her love of people and their fitness journey was inspiring.  She reached out to me but I wasn't quite ready to join her... leaving for deployment kind of threw a wrench into life.  I told her then, over a year ago, to keep me in mind... something in her journey resonated with me...I felt like that could be my niche.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago.  I was post surgery, looking at months of rehab and not going back to full time nursing in the very near future.  Jaclyn reached out to me again.  She wanted me to join her team.  In the year I'd been gone she had built a thriving following.  She was real, genuine, and truly had a heart for helping people reach their goals.  I wanted a piece of that.  A chance to help people reach their best version of themselves.  An opportunity to enhance wellness instead of combating illness.  So I said yes.  I jumped in, became a customer and a coach with Beachbody...and haven't looked back since.

You know, it becomes exhausting as a nurse to constantly deal with illness.  Don't get me wrong, I love what I do with a fierceness.  But there is something so satisfying about helping someone along the road to wellness.  Not popping a pill, but truly getting into the nitty gritty of life.  The dirty laundry of bad habits, poor nutritional choices, little to no exercise, and an overall lack of accountability (or anywhere on that spectrum really).  To be a ray of hope.  A voice of reason.  Someone to hold a person accountable and tell them that you know what... you can do this.  Honestly.

But let's be fair.  Beachbody sells products, right?  Yep, they do.  Great ones at that.  I have never been one to sell things I don't believe in.  I have to be fully invested and in love with something to even think about promoting it.  And I love Shakeology.  I love Insanity.  I love P90X.  And I'm loving my 21 Day Fix kit.  I also love running, biking, swimming, and CrossFit.  That will never change.  I've incorporated the products into my life.  Sipping my Shake O after a tough workout.  Popping in a DVD when I really don't have time or energy to get to the gym.  I'll never be the girl who exclusively works out at home.  And honestly, right now I'm so limited on what I can do that I'm relying heavily on my 21 Day Fix and it's portion controls to keep me in check.  And you know what... again?  That sh*t works.  Like really works (I'll prove it soon).  Fancy that.

So really I say all of this to say that I'm not here to be a gimmicky salesperson.  I'm here to help you.  Honestly.  Genuinely.  I want to join people on their journey to health.  And I want to be joined on mine.  I want people on my team that have the same vision as I do.  I want people who push me to be the best coach I can be, and I need accountability too.  I believe in the products Beachbody offers.  I spend my money on it...I work hard for that money and I believe in investing in my health and the health of my family. 

I hope this gives you all a clearer understanding of this new "thing" I'm doing with my life.   I'm happy, working towards healthy, and ready for this new adventure.

Got questions?  Please ask.  I'm an open book.