30

Well, it's all over now.

I mean my self-imposed writing challenge is over.  Not my life or anything.  I'm not trying to be overly dramatic about turning 30. 

It is an ending of sorts, but also a beginning.  Doesn't it always work that way?

My sister tells me that in your thirties, you start to feel more comfortable in your own skin, that you have more awareness and acceptance about who you are.  One of the reasons I wrote about my life was in preparation for that, and to figure out who I am and where I've been.

Thank you for reading.  Sincerely.  I have loved your comments and feedback.

Here's to the next 30.

29

When I was 29, we decided to have another baby.

I have never had a stronger spiritual confirmation.  We had let it go for about six months, thinking that it just wasn't a good idea because of all my health issues.  And Matt and I felt good about that decision at the time.  We learned to be happy with what we had and to enjoy the present more.  However, as soon as the time was right, we were prompted to have another baby and I have never had fear and anxiety erased from my heart so quickly.  Those negative feelings were completely gone and have not returned.

This time, when the second line turned pink, I danced around the bathroom.  I think I also might have been yelling, "yay! yay! yay!".  It was so different from last time when I had felt so overwhelmed.

I bought a walking cane yesterday.  I don't need it all the time, just sometimes, to take the pressure off of my right hip.  Luckily, my left hip is holding strong at the moment.  I picked out the collapsible one so that I can stow it in my purse when it's not in use.  As I picked it up off the shelf, I thought, "I'm buying this cane because of you, kid."  But I honestly feel so happy to do it. And it helps, so what is the harm of buying yourself a walking cane for your 30th birthday?

I am so very thrilled for this baby to come.  I leave every doctor's appointment feeling so hopeful and happy.  I cannot wait to meet this little baby who we know is meant to come to our family.  I am honestly giddy about it.

28

When I was 28, I broke my foot.

I was coming out the back door of our next door neighbor's house and my left ankle rolled right out from under me. So, I landed with all my body weight on my right foot and snapped my third and fourth metatarsal bones.

My health took center stage that year. Both mental and physical. I saw so many doctors that year. An allergist, a rheumatologist, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, an otolaryngologist, a geneticist, and an orthopedic surgeon.

I hit a few dead ends. For instance, I went to see an otolaryngologist to help figure out why the glands on the left side of my neck are constantly enlarged. After extensive testing, he said to me, "It could be something weird".

But mostly, I learned a lot about myself.

I spent weeks in therapy after being diagnosed with major depression, anxiety disorder with signs of panic attacks and social anxiety. I have a family history of all of those things, but it was as if my eyes were opening wider than ever and I could finally see myself.

I was diagnosed with extremely hyper-mobile joints and active scoliosis. I went to see a geneticist, who suspects that my joint pain, severe myopia and tinnitus all stem from a genetic connective tissue disorder called Stickler's Syndrome. Unfortunately, the testing for that costs around $20,000 per gene and there are 4 genes that have to be tested in order to confirm a diagnosis. So, I don't have anything official in that department.

But, this whole process also completely changed my perspective. My back was in constant pain from the moment I was in that car crash as a teenager. For years, the pain was mostly in my back and so my doctors and I assumed there was some sort of specific back injury. Then, when I was pregnant with Henry, my hips gave out on me and there were days that I could not walk because of the pain. It literally felt like my hips were splitting apart, starting when I was 20 weeks pregnant. And when my ribs hadn't gone completely numb, the felt like they were being ripped out of my spinal cord. In learning more about hyper-mobility and the possibility of a genetic connective tissue disorder, I began to see the car crash and pregnancy as events that just accelerated something that my body is predisposed to do... Break down any tissue having to do with collagen (i.e. cartilage) much faster than in most people's bodies.

That's my understanding of things right now. But it has helped to have some answers, even if they're not complete ones, after having nothing for over a decade that would help me understand why I was in so much pain.

27

I'm not quite sure what happened when I was 27.

At least, I wasn't quite sure when I sat down to write this post.  But it turns out, a lot happened when I was 27.

When I was 27, I passed my LC exam.  It was a 4 hour test and I  nearly had a heart attack before I went in to take it.  I had to be working in the industry for a minimum of 3 years with a Bachelor's degree and obtain industry references before I was allowed to take it.  The test was administered on a rainy day in November in a cold room at Renton Community College.  There were maybe 15 other people there.  We were allowed a calculator and a bottle of water.  I walked out of there without a clue as to whether or not I had passed.  When the letter came 6 weeks later, I was literally jumping up and down for joy.  Pretty much it means, when it comes to lights, I know what I'm doing.

When I was 27, we took a trip to Arizona.  I had never been there before, and let me tell you, going in November made me want to move there.  Sunshine!  Short sleeves!  Swimming!  It was positively uplifting.

When I was 27, I lost 17 pounds.  Still carrying around 20 pounds of weight gained during pregnancy, I decided to do something about it.  I had slim-fast shakes for breakfast and lunch, snacked on tons of vegetables throughout the day and then ate dinner like normal after I got home from work.  I really only stuck to that on the weekdays, and even then I wasn't 100%.  But, I lost the weight in 3 months.  It felt great.  It was the first time I had ever done any sort of weight loss plan, and I felt so confident.

When I has 27, I had this project manager who scared the crap out of me.  He was a temperamental redhead whose family hailed from Ireland by way of the wild west.  He flustered easily and wasn't afraid to call people's ideas stupid.  He never actually yelled at me.  However my desk was right outside his office and I heard him berating one of our junior engineers on several occasions.  I grew up so scared of confrontations.  But I was beginning to realize that if you never confronted anyone about anything, then you're often left to deal with the anxiety on your own.  Most of the time, if you just have the conversation, the problem goes away.  I found myself actually sticking up for my decisions and my work, which was a first for me.

I thought for a bit that 27 was a lost year.  One that was blurred out by a dearth of major events and just living as life plodded along at a normal pace. Turns out normal life is quite eventful.

26

When I was 26, we bought a house.

Thanks to the economy, an $8,000 tax bonus, and FHA loans, it turned out to be a perfect time for us.  Matt's best friend was moving back to our side of the state with his family after graduating college.  They were looking into buying a house and so we went to tour one of the model homes with them.  Matt and his buddy were talking about the details of how much this was costing them and we began to think, hey, we could do this.

There were cons.  Money would be tight.  My commute would be quite long (an hour each way).  And, that's all I can think of...

There were lots of pros.  We would be making an investment, instead of continuing to pay rent.  We would be moving back into the ward that Matt grew up in and that my family had lived in for four years.  Our house was bigger than we ever dreamed we could afford.  We'd be 10 minutes from Matt's parents.  Again, the economy and financial situation were aligning.

To me, the biggest reason to do it and make the sacrifice was that we were putting down roots.  Giving Henry a home and a neighborhood and a community to grow up in was priceless to me.  He was only three months old when we signed the papers.  We moved in when he was 8 months old.  I love the people around us and I love this home.

Because I was raised traveling the world, I can't help myself.  Sometimes I feel wanderlust.  I wonder what it would be like to go live in a new place and have a fresh start.  But that feeling doesn't usually last very long.

We have been here for three and a half years. The longest I have ever lived in one house was four years.  I think about that and I think how short it is and how difficult that would have been for my parents to have to pick up and move so quickly and so many times.  No, thank you.  We are happy to be here and happy to stay here.

25

When I was 25, I found out I was pregnant.

We were on vacation with Matt's family in Palm Springs, California. We were literally sneaking into drug stores and buying pregnancy tests on the sly, trying to keep our little secret. I had a few negative results and I was 10 days late.

On January 1st, I tried a test one more time. Matt and I were in the bathroom, waiting together. I couldn't help myself, I was watching, too. The second pink line slowly began to appear. I picked it up and showed Matt. We both stared as the line got darker and darker.

We were so happy and we just held on to each other for a few minutes.

I was delighted and thrilled and very very overwhelmed. I was in shock and a little bit of denial. At the same time, I felt the eternal shift that was happening. I had always wanted to be a mother; I just didn't know what that would be like. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. It seemed as if the universe had just been blown wide open and I was somewhere between flying and falling through it. This was it. This was real. Our baby was coming.

24

When I was 24, I made this cake.

You see, this was back during a time in my life when I thought baking was a really important skill that a wife should possess. As in, mandatory. I do like to bake, and I try to improve in that department. But back then, I assumed that my freshly adorned wifeliness would infuse any and all kitchen endeavors with perfection.

So, I gathered my supplies on a Saturday morning. My parents were coming to dinner that night, my husband would luckily not be the only one to witness my culinary skills. Bonus.

Obviously, this cake was a disaster. It was dry. And the frosting was really runny. And then I tried to decorate the top with a floral pattern, but I didn't have any real decorating supplies, so I just cut the corner out of a ziplock bag and well, you can imagine. And my mom was having trouble choking it down.

Although disappointed, I tried not to wallow too long.

And I guess it would be nice to be able to pull of that sort of thing. But I also guess it's not that important.

23

When I was 23, I started my first real full time job.

Matt and I lived for one semester in Provo, Utah while I finished my degree. After that, we came back to Seattle. It soon became clear to me that the things I wanted to know would have to be different from the things I would end up doing.

I had taken one class on the early history of architecture in America. I was always fascinated with how the built environment affects our attitudes and souls.

So, I applied to be a receptionist at a small engineering consulting firm. I started at $12 an hour.

I had a hard time adjusting to a real full time job. I was exhausted. And a little lonely.

One day after I had been there for six months, I ran into the owner in the elevator. He said one of the senior engineers needed help with lighting. I said I'd do it.

The thing about working at a small firm is that you can do anything. You can work your way up and the sky is the limit. I was actually really lucky that I landed where I did.

22

When I was 22, I got married.

Matthew and I had known each other since I was 19. I had a crush on him before he left on his mission, so when he asked, I promised to write him while he was gone.   We fell in love through the letters we wrote and tapes we recorded for each other. He kissed me and told me that he loved me the second time we saw each other after he got home.  We had never even been on a date yet.

We had signed ourselves up for a 9:00 sealing appointment. So, my poor mother got up at 5:30 in the morning and did my hair. Oh, I was awfully grouchy. And then I forgot the marriage license at home. What an ominous beginning to our day of marital bliss.

Luckily my surly attitude and forgetfulness were the only major mishaps of the day. It was sunny, clear and beautiful, in late August.   We were lucky to have so many friends and family there to share it with us. I felt beautiful in my dress. Matt looked so handsome in his new suit.  The food was delicious at our reception.  We danced to Nat King Cole.

One thing I will never forget is how Matthew cried during our wedding ceremony. I honestly feel like such a lucky girl. I think he is the best thing about me.

21

When I was 21, I lived just outside Paris.

It was the most wonderful thing.

My roommate and I had our own wing of a house in Croissy-Sur-Seine. We would ride the RER red line into the city every morning for class, which was held around the corner from the Centre Pompidou. Except for Art History class. That class was held in museums, usually the Louvre, but also the Orsay, Marmotan, Picasso museum and the Rodin sculpture garden. We bought nutella crepes from street vendors for €2.50 and ham and butter sandwiches from the boulangeries for €1.50. We would check our email at the American Library and sometimes do research there for a class. We would ride the train back home at night, past the illuminated monuments of La Tour Eiffel and the Arch de la Defense.

Our study abroad group went on trips by bus and train all around Europe. Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, Italy. We went to Provence, Normandy, Giverny and the valley of castles.

Our ward met for church in Versailles, and I helped out in the nursery. I gave a talk once in church near the end of my time there. It was the best French I have ever spoken and I thought that must have been what it would have felt like to be a missionary.

It was in Paris that I decided to change my Humanities emphasis from French teaching to Art History. I wanted to hold onto the feeling of being surrounded by beauty and significance. I wanted to have every excuse possible to lurk in museums and analyze film and talk about architecture.

I met some of my dearest friends in Paris. It's amazing how you can spend almost 4 months in such close quarters with people and still find that you wish you had more time together. And still feel that way almost 10 years later.

In all seriousness and without an ounce of exaggeration, to me, everything about Paris was wonderful. I could have stayed there forever. I would move back there in a heartbeat and take my family with me. My heart loves Paris.

20

When I was 20, my grandma Kimber died.

She fought cancer for ten years, but things had gotten much worse. Her death was not unexpected. A few years earlier, my grandpa called one night just after dinner to tell us that the cancer had metastasized to grandma's lungs. My mother hung up the phone, put her face in her hands and sobbed, "I don't want my mommy to die."

My dad called on a Sunday morning in early October to tell me she had passed in her sleep. It was a General Conference weekend, so we were actually headed up to my Grandma Gunnell's house. I think I was crying most of that day.

My Grandma Kimber had been our home away from the home we never had growing up in the military. Her house never changed. It was always full. Of relatives (my mother has 7 siblings), of food (chocolate chip cookies, banana slush, ice cream sandwiches), of attention (she used to sit in the floor and let my cousins and me put her curlers in). She was kind and loving and happy and she always made you feel like you were her favorite. She sewed pajamas for all 38 of her grandchildren each Christmas. The sound of her soft, tender voice as she prayed each night will always be the epitome of reverence to me.

At her funeral, my aunt read a page out of my grandma's journal. I was shocked to learn that, with 8 children at home, she found the time to cook for others, mend shirts for the missionaries and prepare a Relief Society lesson. In one day.

At the graveside service in the tiny town of Grantsville, Utah, the clouds gathered and we buried her under a tree. Her headstone displays an engraving of the Salt Lake Temple on the front and the names of all her children on the back.

I miss her.

19

When I was 19, I dumped my boyfriend.

I broke up with him over the phone, which was not my plan.  My brother and I were home for a week break in February while the Olympics were taking place in Salt Lake City.  I was going to see my boyfriend the next day. But I felt so strongly about it that I couldn't wait.  I told him that I thought we should start seeing other people.  His response told me he was confused.  I told him I didn't think we should date anymore.

He had been it for me since I was 16.  My first date, first hand holding, and first kiss. I had never been on a date with any other boy.  I had been to countless soccer games to watch him play.  We went to almost every dance together.  We talked about everything. I felt like we understood each other and we were there for each other.  He made me feel adored.  He bought me yellow roses and even gave me his mother's heirloom necklace.

But there were more problems than positives.  So much teenage drama was flung back and forth between us.  I shouldn't have caught so much of it and let it sit in my hands for so long.  I had swung to the other extreme of my earlier self.  I was so permissive of actions and words that I knew I should have been taking a stand on. My heart was in that relationship so deeply that it ended up buried and bruised and frankly, very lost.

When I left for my freshman year of college, he and I were still together. After six months there, I attended the baptism of a friend. During the service, I received a very strong impression. "Your boyfriend is not the one for you. Marriage to him is not part of the plan for your life."

So I broke up with him over the phone.

I don't think he had been the favorite of anyone in my family, my mother especially. But she was so kind and sympathetic when I told her I had dumped him. She praised me for my ability to be so loyal to another person for so long and told me that would make me a great wife.

I try not to regret the time I spent with him. I find it so hard not to wish I had broken up with him sooner. Maybe someday I'll forgive myself.

18

When I was 18, I left home for college.

The night before I left, I was bouncing off the walls.  Literally.  Jumping up and down.  All of my things were in a huge pile, waiting to be loaded into the car.  My whole family was going to drive together.  My older brother had just returned from his mission, and we were both headed down to Provo, Utah and Brigham Young University.

I was falling into an unbroken line of Cougs.  Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, my older sister, my older brother; they all wore the white and blue.  I had grown up with stories of how my grandma typed for hours, helping my grandpa write his master's thesis.  I knew which dorm my mom had lived in when she was a freshman and sophomore.  She had been a Cougarette in the days of the go-go boots.  I had heard all the stories of how my parents met in HEPE class and how my dad had asked my mom on a date, even though she was wearing another man's ring.  My sister had told me about working on cadavers in the lab and working as a TA.  There were so many stories of the fun times my brother had during his freshman year.

I was excited for all of it.    There would be new friends and I would get to reunite with friends I hadn't seen in years.  I was taking French and Spanish and I would never have to take math again (thank you, ACT score!).  My roommate was a total stranger to me, but I just knew we'd be friends.  There would be dances and church and snow and extended family.

And there would be me, out on my own.  That was the best part.  It was finally time to grow up.

17

When I was 17, I was hit by a drunk driver.

It was a Wednesday night. Just after 10:00, I got in the car to drive home from school. I had stayed late to help with play rehearsals.

The crash happened so quickly that I didn't have time to brake. I didn't have time to move my foot off of the gas pedal. The curves were so sharp that I didn't realize it was happening until that pair of headlights was over the yellow lines less than a foot away. I only lost conciousness for a split second, long enough for my car to spin around 270 degress and back over a chain link fence. My windshield was a spiderweb and my rear view mirror was cocked just so I could see my forehead rapidly swelling.

I screamed. I have never screamed like that. Completely alone, I couldn't even see where the other car might have been.

A woman came up to my car. My window was gone, so she reached her hand in and held mine. She had called 911, and she asked me if there was anyone I wanted to call. I told her my home number. My mother answered and I told her I was fine, but that I'd been in an accident. When she got to the scene about ten minutes later, she crawled into the car through the passenger door and kissed me on the cheek.

By then, the paramedics were there. They pulled me out through the passenger side and taped me to a board. They cut my clothes off in the middle of the street. That's when the shaking began. My body went into shock and I didn't stop shaking for three hours.

In the ambulance, which I shared with the man who had hit me, the paramedics started my IV. They were using the biggest needle, just in case I needed a blood transfusion. The ambulance hit a bump in the road, and the blood spilled down my arm.

At the trauma center at Fort Lewis, Washington, I was poked and prodded and declared a miracle. No broken bones, no internal bleeding and no visible brain damage, despite the golf ball sized lump on my forehead. They gave me morphine through the IV, which was amazing, and the thing that finally stopped the shaking. I was bruised all over, stiff and aching.

We left the hospital around 3:00 in the morning. As we got on the freeway, we passed a sign that said, "Don't Drink and Drive".

As I fell asleep that morning, I had nightmare after nightmare about burglars, crashes, violence, and pain.

16

When I was 16, my mother made me a purple formal gown.

I wore it to prom. My friend Erin came over to my house to help me get ready. We picked a hairstyle out of a magazine. If Jennifer Love Hewitt could pull it off, then so could I. The date itself was pretty unremarkable, but I felt so elegant in my gown. Plus, that was the only time I went to Prom.

I wore it at the open house for my sister's wedding. Before we left for Utah and the wedding, my parents held an open house for my sister and brother in law. She wore her wedding gown, so I wore my pretty purple dress. Long white gloves and all. We had so much fun getting ready together with our curlers and our lipstick.

I wore it at my sister's wedding reception. We stayed at my Grandma Kimber's house while we were in Utah. My sister sat on the floor in front of a mirror in the back room as she styled her hair and put on her make up. She was gorgeous in her wedding dress with her veil. After her marriage ceremony in the Salt Lake Temple, I changed into my dress and got ready for the reception. That day was full of sunshine and the light was so warm. When my sister left for her honeymoon, she told me I looked beautiful.

15

When I was 15, the walls of my bedroom were covered.

I had a compulsion to hold on to every note, photograph, magazine clipping and card that meant anything to me. And everything went up on my walls.

My room was my sanctuary in that house full of brothers. By that time, my sister had abandoned me to serve a mission in Argentina for our church. I had my radio, a tiny TV with a VCR, my clothes, my makeup, and my walls.

I needed every inch of those walls. I had so much that I wanted to look at. Each scrap of paper reminded me of something that made me happy. I had curated a 'best of your life' art show right there on my walls. Nothing in a frame; everything blending together to cover any white, boring wall that might be peeking through.

14

When I was 14, my family moved from the east coast to the west coast.

We drove from Virginia to Utah and then to Washington.  For the first two whole days of the trip, I laid on the back seat of our white Plymouth van and sobbed.

Virginia had become my home.  For an Army brat to live in one state for seven years is something of a miracle.  I had memorized the deep blue color of a sunny summer sky because all you could do in that humidity was lie on your back in a hammock in the yard.  I looked forward to the explosion of color that would come on the trees every fall and the sound of the crispy, crunchy leaves under my feet on my walks to school.  I was not surprised when two feet of snow shut down the Nation's Capital for a week.  My heart was enthralled every spring when the dogwoods would bloom.

I didn't know what to expect out of Washington except rain.

After we got there, so many people welcomed me.  I had friends instantly who were so nice, many of whom I am lucky enough to still be friends with today.  Ironically, people were friendlier when I moved there than they had been when I first moved to DC.  Even so, I still felt very lonely.

We had been living in Washington for a few months when my mother came in to my room after dinner one night.  I had been crying and I'm sure she had heard me.  I told her I still missed my friends from Virginia, like there was a hole in my heart.  But I felt bad about being so sad for so long.  I was having such a hard time being cheerful and having faith, which were two things that I was raised to do.  I just could not let go like I had every other time we had moved.

So she told me something I never expected to hear.  She told me not to be so hard on myself.  She told me that we are not expected to instantly recover from life's disappointments.  She said sometimes things are hard and we should just let them be hard.

I have to tell you that I still miss Virginia.  I think that I left my childhood there.  And haven't been back since.

13

When I was 13, my best friend kissed a boy.

She was elated.  I thought she shouldn't have. I was so dumbfounded as to why she would do such a thing.  We knew we weren't supposed to date until we were 16. And we were definitely not supposed to do anything like that until at least 16.  We both sat through those lessons together at church. So did he, for that matter. But they held hands.  They told other people that they were boyfriend-girlfriend.  And they kissed on the corner of her street one day after he walked her home.  I thought she was weak.  To me she was flighty and cared too much about what boys thought.  I was so smug that I had never had done anything like that.

But I was so jealous. My own insecurities about attention from the opposite sex made me so judgmental.  I had a crush on a boy and convinced myself that there was no way he could like me back and so I knew there would be no such innocent displays of affection for me.  But I was also relieved to have the safety net of having to say no to boys who did ask me out or asked me to dances because I was terrified of rejection.  What if no one wanted to date me after I did turn 16?  What if no one ever kissed me?

Evil insecurities made me feel the need to be very self-righteous during my preteen years.  I was the annoying girl who tried to use peer pressure or shame to get others to come on temple trips.  I was the girl who asked my friends parents' if they thought I was being a good influence on their children.  I was the one who tried to get all her friends to read the Book of Mormon in three months.  The commandments were simple and obvious to me and I could see no reason that someone would deviate.

It really makes me cringe to think about how black and white I thought things were.  And how good I thought I was.

12

When I was 12, I came out of my shell.

We had just moved from Southern Virginia to a DC suburb in Northern Virginia three hours away.

I started middle school completely on my own. For the first few days I sat by myself at lunch. Oh, it was painful for me.

I was so shy growing up. Which was made worse by the fact that we moved around so much. I was repeatedly put into situations that caused me such anxiety, never having the chance to gain confidence in myself. I was nice and I could make friends but I was a pushover.

But after we moved to DC, theother girls at church took me in. We had sleepovers (watching Newsies and talking about boys for hours), meandered around the mall (buying candy and then lounging on the couches at Ikea), passed notes during church (which always included cartoons), and laughed. A lot. I think I laughed more with my new friends than I did in my entire life before that. Combined. These girls still hold a special place in my heart because they opened up the the whole world.

My family was so perplexed. Who was this girl? She talks. She jokes. She laughs. A lot. She is happy.

11

When I was 11, my school teacher asked me to teach the class about Mormons.

There was a three paragraph blip about my religious and familial ancestors in our history book.  I'm  not even sure how my teacher knew that I was a member of the LDS church, but she asked me if I'd like to teach the class.

We lived in the Bible Belt.  My brother and I were the only Mormons in the school.  Most of my peers had no idea what a Mormon was.  There was a boy in my class named Hezekiah.  This is what I was up against and I was pretty nervous.

Since the actual piece in the textbook was pretty short, my 'lesson' was also pretty short.  I summarized how the early members of the church were driven across the west and ended up in Utah.  I talked about how difficult and rough their journey had been and how lots of people had died.  I emphasized the injustice of the religious persecution that they had faced.

That's pretty much it.  Then I asked if there were any questions.

Complete blank stares.

Which, I thought, was much better than the alternative.  You know, having tomatoes thrown at me.

I sat down and the teacher thanked me for the lesson.  And that was it.  I never heard anything more about it.  But, I did feel proud of myself for conquering my fears.  For at least standing up and letting everyone know that I was a Mormon.