Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

When a Haircut Is a Kick in the Sack

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I stood in the kitchen with my husband putting groceries away. My oldest child and I had just arrived home from a trip to town for some food essentials, plus a trip to the Barber Shop.

“I wasn’t prepared for that,” he whispered, while pointing into the other room. “It was like a kick in the sack.”

He looked down, at a loss for words, but none were needed for me. I knew exactly how he felt. I had felt the same emotions watching the first haircut nine months ago, and again today, as the barber took the hair down to the scalp, the shortest it had ever been. It was grief, plain and simple, yet not simple enough for others to understand what I mean.

I see the news stories, read the articles, gape at the vitriol on social media. I can’t say I understand the current political environment, but I do see it. And it frightens me. The commentary often centers on the parents of a transgender teen. Like, how dare they abuse their child in that way?! I can say this wasn’t my idea, nor my husband’s. It wasn’t society, the leftist’s agenda, or even TikTok to blame. It just happened. My beautiful, confident daughter started puberty and hated what her body was becoming. She didn’t know why. But she did know that death seemed better than existing in a body that she didn’t feel was her own. Fast-forward through months of therapy following suicidal ideation and self-harm, and you come to this place where you shop for clothes in the boy’s section for the first time. Something so simple, a request granted that brings that first smile in six months or more. Strange.

I guess people only see the end result, not the agony that brought you there. They see the proud, yet hesitant announcement, but don’t see the tears shed behind closed doors.

I love being a girl mom. My husband is amazing at being outnumbered, so gentle, loving, and strong. I love the pink, frilly dresses, and learning how to french braid all that long, blond hair. I can remember three Christmases ago begging my oldest to please wear the matching dresses I had picked out for photos, “for your mom, please.” Now, no dresses remain in the closet for him. Him. The child I now call son.

Fathers dream of walking their daughter down the aisle. Mothers dream of their daughter having children, so they might share that bond of parenthood that childbirth brings. My husband and I are grieving those things. We’re close to the year mark of when Chloe asked to be called Noah, but for us, it’s still like it’s yesterday that we laughed at little feet clopping around in pink, plastic heels. We no longer say the non-preferred name or pronoun, but we do still have ton of brick, kick to the sack moments. Those moments where, to no decision of our own, we have packed away the dreams for our daughter, replacing them with hopes for our son. It’s a surreal feeling, a loss of sorts. We chose to lose our daughter in gender, rather than to lose her all together physically. We cried for our daughter who wanted to die, and now we laugh with our son who made the brave decision to live.

To live in a world that hates him! I think that’s what worries us the most. I shared with him last night the recent stories and posts I had seen about Dylan Mulvaney and Bud Light backlash.

I said, “I hesitated telling you because I want to protect you from a cruel world that hates you, but I also knew that for your awareness and safety, we have to talk about these things. You have to be careful. There are people out there who will hurt you.”

And I didn’t just mean emotionally.

What parent allows their child to make a decision that could get them killed?

What child makes a monumental choice to become the most hated, most judged, most incorrectly labeled (eg, pedophile) people group of all times?!

We got hens recently. My husband was going to pick one up, and in her scurrying, frantic fear, that ole hen put her head through the fence hole and tried to break her own neck! That’s what I think of when I consider the past year (more than) of our life. Our child was frantic, confused, and fearful. Our baby would have rather died than live an identity that didn’t feel authentic to him. My husband had to gently calm that chicken, and we had to gently love our firstborn, whether he went by his birth name or not, whether he ever wore a dress again, whether he got haircuts at the barber that were severely masculine. That didn’t mean they weren’t still a kick in the sack.

I reckon folks forget that part. They’re so focused on blaming the parents for bad parenting, that they neglect the emotional toll that led to this place. They’re so busy making something a battle to fight, where one doesn’t exist, that they miss the war raging in the minds of suicidal, transgender kids. They forget that whether a boy wears a dress, or a girl gets a shaved head, that inside them that beautiful soul is the same. That is one thing that keeps us steady in the sea of the uncertainty and worry that is being a parent of a transgender child.

There are questions you ask yourself. Like, will they one day decide to be the assigned gender at birth again? But for now, the answer doesn’t matter. What matters is how we love them now. We love them through those inner thoughts of “my daughter is gone,” and we love them through all the kicks in the sack. I love him as I look at old photos, seeing a daughter that used to be. I love him because even though my daughter is gone, my son is here. He is happy, healthy, and smiling. For now, that is enough.

The Scars That Don’t Fade

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Three years ago. Wow. Looking at the black and white photo of my face, I feel… empty. Sometimes emotions are like that. It’s not a void of emotions, but rather an onslaught. Too many to comb through and pick just one.

This week the hospital I’m at put out a policy stating we didn’t have to wear masks anymore. After three years of wearing them constantly! After a shift without one, I felt so strange. Every time I rose from my computer I felt naked. I felt as if I was doing something wrong. I felt afraid, even. Like, shouldn’t I wear it anyway?! I saw other nurses with their masks still on the full, twelve hours. My comrades who remembered.

I cannot explain the emotions to you if you weren’t there, but I’ll try. It’s trauma in its purest form. I told my therapist that it reminded me of the pain I had seeing armless, legless, faceless Marines come into my care as a Navy Corpsman. It wasn’t war three years ago, like it had been in Iraq, but in a way it was. It felt that way. So many of my friends, family, and acquaintances couldn’t wait for masks to be a memory, but for the beside, ICU nurses, they were more than paper. They were more than a mandate. They were life. And that sounds silly saying it out loud, yet we clung to what we hoped would protect us.

In the beginning of the pandemic, we saw far too many people die. At the beginning, it seemed like they all died. My ICU at the time kept track of the deaths, and in nine months I saw 263 slip away. It did not matter what we did to try and make them stay.

263 doesn’t seem like a lot of people if you’re looking at national averages or through a political lens, but to those who wore respirators, goggles, gowns, and gloves, it’s too many. Each patient had a name, they were loved, and they were missed. They weren’t allowed to stay on an earth where people would become angry at a medical community trying to help. If they were, would they have stood up for men and women like me who only wanted the lucky folks outside of the trenches to believe us when we said it was bad?! I think so.

I think the immigrant, with frightened eyes, rapid breathing, and no understanding of the English language would have managed, to translate, “they saved me!” But he can’t, because we didn’t. He was my first, personal death to Covid-19.

So many would follow. The guy who through struggling gasps would tell his wife via phone, “I’ll talk to you soon,” had been the end of me. I had made eye contact with a fellow nurse, through perspiration and plastic shielding, eye contact that agreed sadly on a mental level, “no, sir, you won’t.” And he didn’t. I couldn’t take it as personal anymore after that. I just went on auto. We all did. Doing all the things, that meant nothing to combat that virus, and meant even less to communities who said we were stretching and fabricating the numbers.

It hurts too much to say much more. By the time other strains were rapidly killing middle-aged people like myself, I had completed insulated myself from a world that rolled its eyes at me. Yet, I still tried to help. I can remember trying to convince the man, three years my junior, why he needed to prone to get his oxygen levels up, while he groaned in broken, struggling exhalations that Covid wasn’t real.

I’m glad things are better now (in terms of virology), and we can finally have the option to drop the masks that protected us. But in someways, some things are worse. The pandemic didn’t just kill fathers, sons, mothers, daughters, and friends; it killed the community of togetherness that had helped so much in my previous, frontline battles after 9/11. Where did those people go? The ones who said, together we are better, and we can stand against this. It was replaced by factions. Factions made up of those who three years later are hesitant to drop a mask because of the things they saw, and those who never would wear them anyway, because they didn’t see the things I can’t forget.

The scars on my nose and cheeks faded, but the other wounds, they’re incredibly harder to dull away.

How to Survive Raising Tweens

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I was driving home from work when suddenly my message notifications chimed, and stamped across the screen I saw the words, “I wish I had Wifi so you could come get me.”

At the stoplight I read the messages that followed:

“Mom I feel uncomfortable here I want to go home”

“I’m scared of all these people.”

My heart did that Momma dip, where it falls from your chest, into your stomach, with the weight of concern for your child. I quickly realized she could have typed these words hours ago, anytime really, over the last 8 hours. My eleven year old didn’t have a phone of her own, but I sometimes let her borrow my old one. With it, she could message me at work through a child’s messaging app, if Wifi was available. That day, I knew she had taken my phone to an acting class she attended, so she could video a musical number they were performing.

My only thought (after the jumble of cryptically delayed pleas) was, oh, dear… What happened?!

Y’all, they had been mean to her! Some kids in this class had ganged together and made fun of her. The song they had chosen for their mock music video had cursing, and Chloe had decided she wasn’t going to lip sync the curse words like they wanted. She sat the video out! Then, I discovered, as some of her classmates (many older, since the class wasn’t divided by age groups) had been using cuss words in their regular conversations, she asked them to stop. Even going so far as to ask the teacher to tell the group to stop cussing.

Ouch.

My teen years flew through my mind.

Now, let me just say, we’ve explained to our children that this world contains all different types of people, and they are all precious in the eyes of God. We’ve explained that different families have different values, and just because our family chooses not to do, for our own reasons, certain things, that doesn’t mean it’s bad for other families. They understand that they may not see alcohol in their parent’s hands or hear curses from our mouths (except for the occasional slip, wink, wink), but that doesn’t mean people who choose to do differently are bad, or more importantly, that we are morally better.

We have explained these things, but still, I suppose since she doesn’t hear them from home, it makes her uncomfortable. And she let that be known. And some kids bullied her for it. And… it hurt my momma heart for her. Sigh.

I remember being the different kid in school. The weirdo, the outcast, the subject of much bullying. I never wanted that for my babies. I didn’t want them to experience being the outcast, at a young and emotional age, when self worth was still emerging, but more than that I didn’t want them to feel pressured to try and fit in with the “cool kids.” I had experienced that rollercoaster growing up too. So, it’s like, I was proud of her for being different, and for sticking to her principles, but it also hurt me that she had to experience the ridicule of it.

“It makes me not want to talk to anybody outside of my family,” she had confessed during our conversation.

I could understand that. There were mean people in this world. As a homeschooled kid, only ever being around cousins, church friends, or in Christian Co-op classes, she had not really had to face this yet. We talked a long time about the mean people out there, why they’re mean, and how we love them anyway. We talked about how despite the mean people, you still sought the kind ones, because they were out there too, and friendships of that caliber were worth digging for. I think she got it.

In a way, it was really good for her to experience life outside our safe bubble, something I knew she needed. Yet still, my mommy heart worried. As we laid in bed later that night, saying our prayers together, it struck me…

God was listening!

I mean, of course He was listening. I knew that! But the events of the day reminded me on a deeper level of His hand in the life of my children. Every single day I prayed for my babies. I prayed for God to protect them and keep them healthy, of course, but I also prayed for their relationship with Him. Every night we prayed together that they would hear God’s voice and feel His presence. That they would know they’re never alone. As Chloe grew older I prayed the Lord would guide her, give her wisdom and discernment for His will. I prayed for God to give me and my husband those things as we attempt to parent well.

God was listening. He was answering our prayers, and His Holy Spirit led her each day.

Y’all, this gave me great comfort. I guess my heart will still worry for her feelings, and my mind will still become anxious over how she will transverse this world with all its many different people, but I will also have peace knowing we are not alone in parenting our daughters. Even throughout the emotional tween years, and later the crazy teen years (I’ll probably need to re-read this post at that point). And with His Shalom Peace I can survive this parenting journey.

It’s hard not to worry for your children as a Christian parent. You know that their still-developing, immature mind cannot grasp the truth of the spiritual matters that give you peace. They’re not there yet. But then I’m reminded that God is still present, walking them through their budding relationship with Him. I think of John the Baptist, leaping with the joy of the Holy Spirit, while still in His mother’s womb, and I understand that same Spirit is with my babies too. Today, I’ll take it. And I’ll take it tomorrow. I’ll take all the help I can get as I learn more how to parent each and every day.

I Finally Found Where I Fit In!

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I can recall receiving a specific message tailored just for me from a visiting prophet when I was twenty-one years old. His words were like a soothing balm, the proclamation I had always wanted in life, whether I realized it or not. He didn’t know me personally, yet the accuracy of his comments struck a chord with my misfit heart, and I have remembered them always.

He had spoken, “you feel like an outcast, like you’ve never fit in. But God wants you to know He has a place for you. You’ve always felt like a square peg, and God is saying He has a square hole in mind just for you.”

These encouraging words were just what I needed. I had always felt like an outsider in life. I was the girl in school who tried to hang out at the “cool kids’” lunch table, but had somehow never been able to take a seat there. I didn’t feel welcome.

As a child I was the new kid, from out West, with the weird accent. Totally tubular.

Or I was the sick kid. Epilepsy. Not a well-known condition in small-town U.S.A.

I was the adopted kid, never really fitting in with all the cousins. Treated differently by the grandparents even if they didn’t mean it to be that way.

I was the little girl who was so ordinary that her biological father had left town, never looking back at the daughter he rejected.

I was the quiet girl in school. Pretty, but odd. Puberty didn’t hit until I was seventeen, and I was the last cheerleader who still admitted to playing with Barbies or frogs.

In all the Howard Hughes’ films of the eighties, the outcasts and misfits at least had their own clique. Even The Nerds got their revenge.

But I didn’t fit in anywhere. I couldn’t find my group, and went through most of my young life trying way too hard to find my niche. A loner. Maybe even a loser.

I was born again at the age of 19. I can remember feeling such acceptance into God’s family, but it seemed short-lived. I’ll never say this was anyone’s fault but my own. I know my own perceptions are often to blame. It was probably the devil at work in my feelings, and perhaps in the actions of others as well. Regardless, I never felt like I fit into the Church. Most of my Christian peers had been raised in a deep faith, and I was still learning to read the Bible. I didn’t understand all the rules, of what was good, or what was definitely bad. I was on a learning curve when it came to taboos of the Christian walk, and those who corrected me were not usually gentle. Sadly, I have way too many instances of harsh correction by my “sisters” in faith, and I know I have healing still left from those encounters.

I had a past, but one thing I learned about people was, ones outside the church didn’t care about that stuff. They didn’t give a hoot about what I wore, if I watched an R rated movie, or if I had saved myself for marriage. It was much easier to get along with the people who skipped Sundays all together, and so began a season of being apart from God.

It makes me wonder, is backsliding the result of sinful influence outside the church, or is it perhaps the realization one haves that they’ll never be good enough to have a place at the table of religion?

Oh, but Grace. Great, great grace.

I have finally found my place. I have finally found where I fit. For awhile I thought the place that prophet spoke of over twenty years ago was a certain space. For years I wondered where God would move me, or what group of friends He would put in my path. Still corrupted by the ways of this world, and still scarred by past rejection, I still tried to make myself fit. I attempted to insert myself in this women’s group or that ministry opportunity. I allowed my belief system to be that of the majority to which I wanted to conform, knowing that to sit at the table, there are certain standards you must uphold, and certain opinions you must keep inside. The thing is, no matter how much I tried to mold myself into the Godly women I admired, the more unqualified I felt. I wasn’t the trendy mom, the crafty homeschooler, or the first hand up to volunteer for watching the nursery on Sunday. I didn’t like being busy, spinning plates, or overwhelming my schedule. Then I had this habit of seeing the best in others, trying to walk in the shoes of the “sinners,” and remembering far too easily the past I had previously mentioned. I wanted to give money to a guy on the street without worrying if he was going to spend it wisely! I wanted to believe that each time a drug addict ended up in my hospital bed, that they would stop using, and change their life. When others whispered about a short skirt on Sunday, I remembered a “church lady” making me leave a meeting because my t-shirt said the word “suck” on it.

My weird ideas have often left people confused. My fair treatment of those different than myself has made me unpopular in certain circles. In fact, the last year has found me ousted from the table of many of my Christian friends, simply for speaking topics not allowed for discussion. I guess we could call them “square peg” topics in the circular world of religion.

I felt so hurt. I felt the rejection all over again. Kindness was met with anger, and I trudged away licking my wounds. I guess sometimes you think you’ve found the place where God has you to fit in, only to discover you’ll never fit! We aren’t meant to fit in the pretty, round spaces this world provides. It turns out the edges have hidden rough spots, and you can get a face full of splinters, even as others have planks in their eyes.

When I read the Bible, though, I felt like I fit. When I read, re-read, meditated, and prayed over the words of Jesus, I felt totally at home. In His warm embrace I found my place, and in His love I found me.

I’m not in any way trying to lessen the importance of gathering with fellow believers. I truly belief that finding a church home, surrounded with brothers and sisters in Christ is much needed. Relationships are beneficial! The support, counsel, and correction of other believers is required in this confusing walk of life. So, don’t get me wrong, here. I’m not saying to throw out the baby with the bath water. But I am saying that some dirt and grime can get in the way sometimes.

Some people in this world find their place like the perfect glove. For others, they always feel like an outcast. I think it’s good to understand that if you don’t feel like you fit, you’re in good company. Jesus never fit in with the religious leaders of His day, either. People will misunderstand you, they will hurt you, or they’ll unknowingly (perhaps, knowingly) push you out. But at the table of the Father, there’s always a seat saved for you. Right next to Christ. It’s in His love we find our perfect place. It’s in His love that we finally fit in.

I Don’t Identify as a Woman

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I’ve heard this in the media a lot lately, and last night as I sat slightly uncomfortable in a huge gathering of women, I felt it.

I don’t identify as a woman.

As hard as I have tried over the years, especially in high school, and as much as I may want it to be different, I just don’t feel it. I don’t. I don’t guess I’ve ever identified as a woman.

A couple of weeks ago I sat in church and they announced an upcoming Women’s Conference. The video made it look very appealing, but there was that large part of me that was like, “nah. I’m good.”

See, I’m not really a joiner, especially where women are concerned. I don’t fit in, I never have, and many years ago I stopped trying. I just wasn’t like them. I couldn’t get into the whole “girls’ night out,” and I didn’t trust ladies any further than I could throw them. Which isn’t far. Because even if they’re little, I’m really weak. But I digress. The point is, well, I’m going to be very honest here. I don’t like females.

Ok, I love being a woman. I love having daughters. But somewhere between being the new kid in third grade and being the butt of a bully’s angst in high school, I decided I could take it or leave it where female friendships were concerned. Actually, leave it. Definitely leave it.

The thing is, God has really been dealing with me. He’s been teaching me new things over the past couple of years, stretching me, and taking me to new levels of trust with Him. Selling all my possessions and moving my family of five 800 miles away from all our extended family and friends? No problem. Taking on a job with zero insurance or paid time off? Easy peasy. That same travel position having no security of employment and income or knowledge of where the next job would come from? Bring it on! But stepping out of my turtle shell of introversion? I’m sure that wasn’t the voice of God.

So when I heard about the Women’s Conference I was of two minds. One said, go, but the other said hide.

“Oh, man. I work a shift at the hospital that day. Too bad,” I thought, with little upset.

But dang it. Still that feeling nagged me to go.

“Okay, God,” I prayed. “I’ll try and see if I can get off work. If you really want me to go, make it work.”

I challenged Him, and of course, He challenged me right back. I got the day off easily, no matter how much I told my boss, “I know this is last minute, so it’s ok if you can’t…”

Despite my dislike of most women, because let’s be honest, we’ve all lived through our own version of the Mean Girls movie, I do have a handful of trusted women in my life. It just so happened that most of them were my immediate family, and the rest were a thousand miles away. Undeterred, I went ahead to the conference alone, the Holy Spirit my plus one, and I asked God to use it for my growth.

Immediately upon arriving I realized there were women everywhere. I didn’t know any of them and I really didn’t like crowds, but I checked in with a smile and went to find a seat. I found a back row with a few open spots, settled into one, then was kindly asked to move over so a group of friends could sit next to their friends. I moved into the one empty seat, directly behind a large column blocking my view of the stage. I got up quickly and repeated this same sidestep seat swap another time before finally finding a vacant spot where a group of women were kind enough to let me linger.

At that moment I felt so alone in that big crowd. I watched women laughing and socializing with one another. I smiled brightly, watching, waiting, hoping for someone I could try and engage, but still I felt like an outsider. I had always felt that way. I had never fit in. I had always been the weirdo, the one other women talked about when I walked away. It had taken me years, decades even, to stop trying to fit in. I had finally, at forty, come to a place in my life where I was happy with how God made me, I wasn’t going to try and change for anyone, and I didn’t care what anyone thought! Ha. I felt peace with me. So why was God upsetting the balance?! Why push me to (I shudder) hang out with others.

The preacher was no better! He had said something six months or so ago that started this thorn in my side. It’s like he had been staring straight at me when he said God wanted us loving others, building relationships, and stepping out of our comfort zone. He deflated my balloon of intimate introversion, going so far as to say it wasn’t of God. Well, crap.

Next thing I knew God kept building on that, putting desires in me to join Outreach teams and small groups. All things that were outside of my wheelhouse. My safety net, my equally shy and shut-in spouse, he was no help. In an out of character for him fashion, he readily agreed to my suggestions of “getting involved.”

As I sat in that church last night, my wounded flesh wanted to scream, “I don’t belong here!” That bullied, flat-chested, anorexic teenager in me wanted to dwell on having no one to sit by or being ignored and pushed aside.

Instead I spoke in a whisper, “not today, satan.”

Y’all, I’ve never identified as a woman in that, I’m not like most. I have been hurt, and I’ve been pushed into my warm cocoon. I’ve made my circle so small that it no longer has room for God to work in my life the things He needs to work. So, He’s been calling me out of my circle of safety. He’s been calling me to step out and (gulp) make friends. Female ones! I’ve never identified as a woman in that I haven’t been able to enjoy or relate to the value of female friendships that other women seem to revel in. I feel God calling me to different ministries, but it seems you have to actually be around other people for that to work. Sigh.

It’s comical sometimes the things God can do to bring you where He wants you to be. Especially when you ask Him for it. He can make a borderline hoarder (I’m talking about myself, by the way) sell all their stuff, and take a scared girl (in a forty-two year old body) out of her shell. So, I’m open to that.

I haven’t ever been able to identify as a woman (not like other women, anyway), and even now it’s hard for me. But I see God moving. I see Him changing my heart. I see Him chiseling away the walls I’ve built. So last night I may have sat on the sidewalk alone, eating my nachos, praying someone would come talk to me, but I also made my way over to a group of ladies I knew, carrying a dessert, and starting a conversation like a bonafide normal person. I even hugged a few women and signed up for a ladies group.

I haven’t always been able to identify as a woman, but I do know that I’m God’s girl. And I’m starting to see all the sisters before me that He’s placing in my path.

If You Don’t Think Bullying is a Problem…

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I have been pleasantly pleased over the years to see the issue of Bullying acknowledged as a problem in society. In fact, as I type my phone autocorrects Bullying to make it capitalized. That’s great, right? That must mean that it’s well on its way to becoming a non-issue! But then I see the comments. You know the ones I’m talking about. Those thoughtless, or perhaps misguided comments that try and downplay an issue that actually causes people to take their own life. I just don’t think you can put a pretty bow on something like suicide. I don’t think you can be optimistic about an issue like that. You can’t ignore it or pretend it’s not there. 

Let’s debunk some common conclusions people come to about Bullying. Just maybe it can open some stubbornly squinted eyes around here. For example, I see this one a lot. 

Kids will be kids. 

It just makes my blood boil to even write that down. Kids will be kids, huh? I’m thinking the people who nonchalantly make this kind of comment have never truly been bullied or had their child be a victim. They haven’t taken their daughter to the police department like my parents did when I was a teen. After finding a bloodied stuffed animal with its throat cut in my driveway they realized it wasn’t just kids being kids anymore.

Kids are kids, and in being kids they will say thoughtless words without thinking. They’ll even be mean. I get that. My kid told me a year after the last baby that my belly “was still fat.” I didn’t think she was bullying me; I knew she was just being a kid. But you see, Bullying is beyond a thoughtless comment or someone not wanting to play with you. Bullying is cruelty. It’s inhuman behavior directed at another human being. It’s making someone hurt because you hurt. It’s inflicting pain to try and lessen your own. It’s sad, really. 

Bullying isn’t a kid being a kid. Bullying is making someone’s life unbearable. For me as a teen it was things like 30 prank calls an hour, spray painting whore on the road signs pointing to my driveway, or turning an entire school against me. That’s a lot to deal with when you’re a teen. When you’d rather sleep than eat, hide in a teacher’s room than face the high school hell that’s the lunch room, or crawl inside yourself to avoid the laughter and whispers then you might just begin to scratch the surface of what Bullying is like. It’s absolutely nothing like kids being kids. That actually would have been nice. 

What about this gem?

It will make them stronger. 

I get it. I understand trying to make a positive out of something negative. I’m a huge optimist, so I can almost get along with that kind of thinking. Except I can’t. No, just no. That’s like saying if someone is mugged in a dark alley, “well, they’ll know next time not to venture out in an area like that after dark.” Nobody would say that. So here’s the similarities of the victim of robbery and a victim of Bullying: they’re both victims, neither one asked to be a victim, and the incident will haunt them both for the rest of their lives. Think I’m being over dramatic? Then consider yourself lucky. You’ve never been the victim of Bullying. 

You know what, I’ll try and meet you half way. I’ll agree that perhaps Bullying makes someone stronger in the future, if by stronger you mean less likely to trust people, build friendships, or be comfortable in social situations. I suppose it makes them stronger in that they build a hard shell around themselves to prevent harm, and that they are more on the guard for their own children to be mistreated. Guilty as charged. I’m stronger, alright, but if I could go back in time and take away that period of my life I’d do it in a second. I’d love to embrace the weakness of a woman who could trust and love more readily. Think about that next time you want to toughen up your kids. Which brings me to this one. 

It prepares them for the real world. 

Sigh. This actually makes me want to cry. I want to weep that we live in a world where we feel we must toughen up our children to fight back at the harshness around them. We do live in a cruel world, sadly, but being an adult is different than being a child, or even a teenager. I am able to deal with mean women a lot better at forty than I was able to deal with mean girls at fifteen. And it’s not because I was bullied. It’s because I’m an adult who has matured mentally, emotionally, and spiritually to handle such situations. We shouldn’t expect our teenagers to be able to handle the turmoil of that yet. We’re not doing them any favors by letting them transverse these situations alone. I can totally see why young girls kill themselves. I’m surprised I didn’t at that age. If social media would have been around, I might have been a statistic myself. As adults we must help be the change. I love this quote. 

It’s not our job to toughen our children up to face a cruel and heartless world. It’s our job to raise children who will make the world a little less cruel and heartless.

– L.R. Knost 

Thought provoking, right? What if we as adults stopped raising bullies? What if we could mold kind, compassionate, and loving behavior for our children? What if we could instill in them a high self-worth so they don’t have the need to make themselves feel better by making someone else feel worse?

Smiling for a photo, 1993


When I was a teenager it wasn’t just one girl I considered being my bully. Sure there’s always a ring leader, but it’s also each follower that compounds the issue ten-fold. Every other kid who went along with the taunting, every teacher who turned a blind eye, and every parent who didn’t teach their children to stand up for the weak, stand against the cruel, or to offer a compassionate hand to those who need it; they were all a contributor to my experience with Bullying. 

So what can we do? What if we could start by acknowledging the fact that Bullying is real? It’s not just kids being kids, and it’s not something they have to go through so they’ll be a better functioning adult. Those are just excuses we feed ourselves so we can continue to be adult bullies who raise little bullies. Just saying. 

Perhaps consider this. If you don’t think Bullying is a problem then you’re part of the problem.

Addendum: I needed to add this. I did a lot of praying before I published this. You see, I didn’t want one of my former bullies to be hurt by my words above. That’s right! She’s no longer my foe, but my friend. Only God, right?! I forgave her (along with anyone else), and anything I share about bullying isn’t with anger in anyone’s general direction. God knows the people I hurt in this life before He showed me His face and changed my life! We are all works in progress. I felt the content needed to be shared so here it is. 

You’re the Reason My Husband Hates Facebook

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My spouse only begrudgingly holds a Facebook account. I think he keeps it around to help share my blog occasionally, or to have some way to watch blooper type videos when he’s bored in a doctor’s office or too frustrated with his Injustice game on his phone to play it for like five minutes or so. Regardless, he’ll be the first to tell me he hates Facebook, and I stopped trying to tag him in cool stuff long ago. His sporadic use of the social media outlet makes it pointless. 

But sometimes I get it. I understand his frustration. Recently I was scrolling through my newsfeed when I came across one of those train wreck status updates. You know what I mean; it’s like you try to look away, but you can’t. Your drawn into the comments section, and before you know it you’re just shaking your head. How can people be so mean?!

Have you ever noticed that social media is the new ladies’ room, the latest and greatest place for females to congregate and hate on someone?

It’s almost like watching wild hyenas on the Discovery Channel as they descend in a pack upon a wounded animal and begin to tear it savagely to pieces. Seriously. 

Something happens when women get together, but on social media they can be a bit more brave and faceless. One woman makes a catty remark, the next chimes in with “oh, I know who you’re talking about,” and before you know it ladies are lining up in the comments section to say something horrible and heartless.

Not to be undone, though, I see just as many fellas coming to the feast of ugliness. Next thing you know there’s an entire trail of bashing and thoughtless comments thrown across the Internet. It might be shameful if so many people weren’t distracted by their own cruel laughter. 

I think sometimes we all fall into this trap. It’s like pointing out the faults of another make us feel better about ourselves, but in the end it only makes us look worse. 

I’m not trying to stand on a pedestal claiming I’m any kind of perfect, but when I see bullying I call it just that. When I see ugly, well I call it by its name. There’s no need in people fueling the flame of each other’s indignation, and to callously and brutally gang up on someone is downright mean. Am I the only person who doesn’t wish to relive the high school hierarchy of cruel cliques and heartless jabs at someone?!

Mean people, cruel crassness, brutal bullying, and the way the masses leap on it like flies to a dead carcass is despicable. It’s the reason my husband hates Facebook, and honestly, it makes me want to hate it too. It’s embarrassing as a woman to see so many ladies who attack one another on a regular basis, and it’s shameful as human beings that so many of us jump on the bandwagon to say something awful when our turn comes up. Didn’t anyone’s momma teach them if you can’t say something nice to say nothing at all. 

I don’t hate Facebook. I’m not going to throw out the baby with the bath water. I enjoy connecting with others, offering encouragement, and looking at cute baby pictures. And yes, I like the blooper type videos too. In life, not just social media, although it’s certainly the place to start, we should try harder to build people up, think before we speak (or type), and consider how powerful words are to destroy someone. I mean, do you really want to destroy someone?

How-To Guide for Raising a Bully

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Are you worried that your kid will be the butt of everyone’s jokes, the outcast, or the laughing stock of school? Are you concerned for them to be unique, weak, or sensitive? Well worry no longer!

The solution is simple, really. Instead of raising them to be compassionate, caring individuals, your answer is to raise a bully. Train your child up to be mean, abrasive, and demeaning to others. How you may ask? By following the steps below. 

1. Don’t instill morals. That’s a pretty easy one, really. Basically just practice lazy parenting. 

Let them watch whatever they want to on television, and same goes for music. In fact, the more lewd the lyrics, and inappropriate the role model, the better. Let them think that fame is the answer to happiness, dressing provocatively is where it’s at, and that Miley and Beyoncé should be the kind of women they look up to. Not you. 

So while we’re at it…

2. Don’t set limits. Let them act like the little brats on popular TV shows. Don’t teach “please” and “thank you,” but instead laugh when they curse and encourage sassy back-talk. 

Respect for their elders? Overrated. 

As they get older make sure to allow free reign of Facebook and Snapchat. Buy them a mobile device as soon as possible, allowing them to search the web without restriction. 

Don’t teach them appropriate behavior on social media. They’ll figure it out the hard way. 

Never search their phone. 

If children are given rules and boundaries they might think you care too much, and this will always lead to a child with a big heart. 

A big heart=kindness. Kindness=weakness. 

3. Model for them what’s important in life. 

First, feel free to allow them to express themselves via whatever attire they deem necessary. Teach them that a pride in their own modest clothing choices is lame, and that adhering to name brands and what’s very popular at the time is THE ABSOLUTE most important thing. 

Remember. Outward appearance is what counts, not your heart. So they should shun anyone who can’t dress in the fad of the moment. 

And while you’re at it place focus on things like where you live, how much money you make, and who your parents are. Status is everything!

Also encourage names for those who fall below you in the food chain of life. Anyone below your socioeconomic level can be titled “trailer trash” or something similar. In my day it was “skank,” but you just encourage whatever the kids are using nowadays. 

Laughing along with them will make you a popular parent. You won’t be respected, but they might tell you stuff. And since you’re not going to set a curfew you’ll find this useful to make sure you don’t have to spring bail. You’re welcome. 

But most important…

4. Don’t give your child your most precious asset. Now, I’m not talking about the keys to your vehicle. I’m not even talking about money. I’m talking about your time.  I’m talking about your affection. 

If you want to raise an angry child who takes out their hurt feelings on others then please, please don’t pay them any attention! Make sure that work is more important. Make sure that time out with your friends ranks higher than reading bedtime stories when they’re young, and that playing on Facebook trumps listening to them talk about their day at school. 

To really accomplish this, never show up. Like never. Don’t show up to their events, games, whatever. 

Most importantly, though, even when you are around at home, just be there in body, but not in mind. Just be there, but don’t be present. Know what I mean? Check out mentally. That will really harden your child to the reality of life. They gotta learn sometime, right?!

And the sooner they learn how hard life is the better. You don’t want to raise a kid who makes the world a better place! You just want to raise a kid who can face this harsh world. Compassion is overrated. Love and kindness is for the birds. A heart of true courage by caring for those around you is a sign of weakness. 

So feel free to follow all the steps above, and your child will be a bully for sure. In their neglect and feelings of rejection they will act out and hurt others before they’re hurt again.

Sure, you’re not helping to make the world a better place, but at least your kid won’t get picked on. They’ll be the cool kid, and cool kids always win. Look at Bill Gates.