Oct 6 2014

Resistance, meet my friend Possibility

Redding Air Show

 

Ever quit a diet, a course of yoga, a meditation practice? Have you ever bailed out on a call to embark on a spiritual practice, to dedicate yourself to a humanitarian calling, commit your life to the service of others?…Late at night have you experienced a vision of the person you might become, the work you could accomplish, the realized being you were meant to be? Are you a writer who doesn’t write, a painter who doesn’t paint, an entrepreneur who never starts a venture? Then you know what Resistance is.”  -The War of Art by Steven Pressfield

Two weekends ago, we accepted a gracious invitation to attend the Redding Air Show. A chance to have a weekend away with my husband and children. No sports. No sleepovers. And our first air show.

As my heart rattled in my chest and my ear drums nearly split open, I couldn’t help but think about the remarkable advancements and the even more remarkable people responsible for those advancements. Generations have been fighting Resistance, pushing the envelope, flying faster and farther.

Personally, I’m no stranger to Resistance-the gale force wind encountered when turning in a new direction. But, an afternoon spent craning my neck to the heavens reacquainted me with an old friend. Possibility announced it’s presence with the blast of a jet engine thundering across the tarmac.

Resistance, meet my friend Possibility.

The demonstration of sheer power through jet propulsion has been reverberating in my heart. The strongest weapon I have found against Resistance is the gravity defying hope of Possibility. Since covering my ears to the chest pounding cacophony of jet engines, I have dusted off my treadmill, laced up my running shoes and pressed the start button. I have sat down to write and overcome the nagging silence as I stare at a blank computer screen. And I have opened my eyes to the truth that I am not the only one fighting Resistance. A good friend of mine has launched a crowd-funding campaign to crush Resistance and pursue Possibility.

Resistance stands in the middle of the room and tells us all the ways we might fail, or all the times we have failed. But there’s another voice. A low rumbling, like a distant jet engine, that stands in the corner, holds out a jetpack and says, “Wanna try again?”

Resistance, meet my friend Possibility.

 “Our greatest weakness lies in giving up.

The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.”

-Thomas Edison


Sep 15 2014

A Colorful Epiphany

 

Hot air balloon races

Hot Air Balloon Races, Reno, NV

Garnered with large doses of coffee and hot chocolate, and an unnatural enthusiasm for being awake at such an hour, we left our sleepy little town at 3:30 a.m. for what I was told, is the largest hot air balloon launch in the country.

We joined the masses at pre-dawn on a large grassy field dotted with tarps and giant picnic baskets. Several high-powered gas burners ignited a few feet behind us, and although the heat was welcome in the cool air of a high desert morning, the sound momentarily stopped our hearts. Extreme heat and noise brought life to a field of colors and the magnitude of it all caused me to stand in awe.

Hot Air Balloon Races

Early morning ascension.

The heat and noise needed to launch these massive balloons and provide amazing views, looked and sounded a great deal like conflict. I realized, the greatest vantage points in my own life have come on the heels of the greatest heat and the loudest chaos.

Conflict is hot and loud, but like the balloons, it is full of potential. It provides the prospect of reaching heights we never thought possible. We learn more about ourselves and more about the amazing people we get to share life with. Without the fire, the balloons would lie lifeless on the damp grass never realizing their full potential. Without conflict, I propose our relationships too, would lie lifeless, never allowing the realizations of who we truly are, or the beauty of the deepest, most tender places in the hearts of those around us, to come to light.

I don’t suggest the creation of conflict. It is organic. It will inevitably show up and it will leave, but maybe it’s possible to recognize it for the auspicious potential it contains and not just the momentary pain it causes.

 


Jul 2 2014

A few steps to the left…

 

"Genial"

“Genial”

 

“The enemy is a very good teacher.”  -the Dalai Lama

The above short video has sat in my head for a couple of days now. It does what only art  seems to be able to do–a visual representation of the deep dark places. An angle of light. A splash of red. A key that somehow unlocks places unknown.

The first time I watched this pile of junk transform, I was struck by the technique. How often did the artist have to step back and gain perspective? How often had the artist walked around the pile, moving the guitar or the wheelbarrow a few centimeters at a time?

Sure, one could watch this and think it an odd stroke of luck, but as I mentioned above, this struck a chord. A familiar but seldom heard note resonated in my being as I followed the camera from used and discarded items into the face of what looks to be a Civil War soldier. A vastly different perspective.

A friend recently sent a book home with me, “The War of Art.” It has nothing to do with Nicholas Cage, for the record. Instead, it is an artist’s brilliant description of that thing that keeps us from taking those few steps to the left. In his book, Steven Pressfield gives the force a name, “Resistance.”

“Resistance is not a peripheral opponent. Resistance arises from within. It is self-generated and self-perpetuated. Resistance is the enemy within.”

Resistance keeps you from changing your perspective. Resistance says a few steps to the left won’t change anything. Resistance says it’s just junk. Resistance is the enemy. But unwillingly, the enemy teaches us something.

In everyone’s life, there are moments when the heap of junk is all that is visible. In those places, there is tremendous pressure to surrender to the chaos. After all, it’s just worthless clutter. Resistance keeps you from changing your perspective. Resistance says a few steps to the left won’t change anything. Resistance says it’s just junk. Resistance is the enemy. But unwillingly, the enemy teaches us something.

It only takes a few steps to the left. Eyes don’t move away from the colossal load of litter. It demands attention. But in only three steps, the picture changes. The senseless moments, the random incidents no longer sit idle. They move and morph into profound meaning. The pile of junk takes shape.

The arbitrary uncovers the articulate, and all those seemingly erratic occurrences have done nothing less than define and give dimension to a work of art.

A few steps turns drivel into definition and Resistance loses.

I followed the camera and realized I am like that soldier. The haphazard has shaped me. What might start as a pile of rubbish becomes a portrait. And all it takes is a few steps to the left.

 


May 27 2014

The Violinist of Versailles, part 2. Words of a stranger.

The Violinist of Versailles and family

The Violinist of Versailles and family

I never met her. I didn’t even know her name; so, I dubbed her The Violinist of Versailles. Her small violin and her even smaller hands brilliantly played the notes that touched the deep places of my heart. She closed her eyes, and her little angelic face demonstrated how to play simply for the love of the music. Pure emotion. Pure intuition.

She taught me something that day. As a writer, it’s quite easy to get caught up in varied definitions of success–books sold, or contracts secured. This career path threatens daily to become a tally sheet of rejections. Since I saw her, the Violinist of Versailles, I have been reminded to close my eyes, shut out the audience and the critics, and let my fingers translate the images that play like a movie real inside my head. To write simply for the love of the craft as she played for the love of the music. 

I wrote about her, how she touched me that day and I thought it ended there. But, for reasons beyond my comprehension, the story has grown. After posting a blog about the Violinist of Versailles, and telling my story of that day, I received a remarkable email. It seems only fitting that the one who penned the email should be allowed to share his story in his own words. 

Here is the email I received.

My time never seems to be my own. With two daughters, Jordi now 6 and Ali now 8, I spend much of my free time focusing them on practicing their music. When we’re not practicing, I patiently bide my time at The Conservatory awaiting the conclusion to their lessons, practices and rehearsals.

Most of the time it is like corralling feral cats. Making things worse is that this is the pre-summer concert, examination and competition season. The busiest and most stressful musical season of the year.

Bored, I sat by myself in a giant concert hall this past Saturday. A thumbnail orchestra of miniature musicians was on stage, and I was working very hard to ignore them as they repeatedly practiced snippets of the great masters. Accompanied by the frenzied grunts and noises of the concert leader, Bach and Beethoven washed over me, and I was intentionally oblivious. 

As Ali was called to the piano to accompany Jordi on the violin to rehearse Paganini for their upcoming concert I was intentionally oblivious. 

My self-imposed ignorant bliss was disturbed when they yelled at each other, snipping about tempos, cues, and rhythm. While the Instructors got them back in line, for some reason glancing at me disapprovingly, I consciously tried to melt into my seat and disappear while I began an in-depth inspection of the contents of my cell phone. The sounds of their music retired to the background of my consciousness, and although the reason why I leave work early to bring them to music was plain as day and resounding in my ears, it somehow escaped my attention.

I was searching my phone for a particular picture, but in my distraction I searched the internet instead. Rather than viewing the photograph I was looking for on my phone, I found myself reading your blog on the Violinist of Versailles.

As I read your words, the beauty of my daughters’ music began to surface from where I had pushed it into the background. Somehow with all the rushing, coaching, teaching and practicing I had lost focus of the reason why. 

What you describe was familiar to me, and as I approached the end of your blog their music roared in my head like a storm, undeniable and insistent. Your words reminded me of their brilliance – a brilliance of which even they are unaware. Little girls who are made of music, to the point that they even sing in their sleep.

When I finished reading your blog I viewed the picture of the Violinist of Versailles. Then I looked at the stage, and there she stood in real life before me. Eyes closed, miniature violin under her chin creating the music of the angels. The Violinist of Versailles. 

I don’t mean this figuratively – I am being quite literal. Jordi is your Violinist of Versailles. And your words, words from a stranger whispered into the wind, found their way home and reminded me of the value of the hours, days, weeks expended by these two little girls in perfecting the art that is their music.

I will never forget our experience standing in line at Versailles. Jordi won’t travel anywhere without her violin, and that day was no different than any other in that respect. She was only five last summer, and although she was used to playing to large audiences at concerts, the huge crowd of people in line on the cobblestones was very intimidating. Standing in the sun with no shade, having pre-purchased tickets just to stand in that lineup, everyone seemed so upset and dejected, and Jordi just wanted to cheer them up. Although it sometimes recedes to the background of my recollection, I will always remember my pride at her concert at Versailles.

But, like writing, music sometimes feels solitary. With electronic media it is even less personal – broadly distributed, its worth sometimes feels diluted. It is easy to lose sight of the fact that your art touches an audience. It is difficult at times to comprehend the size of the audience, or foresee the effect it will have on that audience.

Thank you for sharing your feelings about how Jordi’s music touched you. You have returned the favour – I am your audience, and your words have now touched me.

As I read this email, tears fell down my cheeks. “Words from a stranger.” I’m afraid I cannot portray such a profound moment in the magnitude it deserves. Maybe if I could it would no longer be profound. I don’t know. But I do know this–we are all strangers and our words have the capability to soar and move above the ancient ground upon which we tread. Just like the notes Jordi played that day in Versailles. 

I still have never met her, but she has a place in my heart. Notes and words strung together like bits of yarn and twigs to build a sort of nest in my heart for memories to live.

I’m grateful for words from a stranger. Thank you, James, for your words likewise whispered into the wind. And thank you Jordi, for sharing the unforgettable that day. 


May 8 2014

Life is a Teacher

Life is a teacher.

Life is a teacher.

Life is a teacher.

I remember saying that just the other day. Chances are I was being sarcastic, but the profundity reverberated back and hit me square between the eyes. Indeed, life is a teacher. Not teacher as in fourth grade, double check you did your spelling homework, kind of teacher. More like, ancient college professor who doesn’t care or even seem to notice if you show up for the oft monotone lectures on the bonding of atoms, kind of teacher.

Life is always teaching, with or without our consent. The question is, “Are we paying attention?”

I think our tendency is to want to be the teacher. We dominate our to do lists. Strive for accomplishment. Paint a reality that leads us to believe we have any control over anything. We steal the pointer from the decrepit instructor and we point it around and tell the circumstances in the room who’s the boss.

Our children have been raising lambs for 4H. And long story short, we had to put one of them down last night. All of us have grown to love the gentlest lamb in the bunch.

This culture of winning and striving and controlling has provided a great deal, but it has left us barren in the face of death.

Death is also a teacher. Only this teacher doesn’t surrender her pointer stick or her podium. When she speaks, we are silent, and as her voice whispers a final breath, all our accomplishments and striving and control are rendered mute. The words we use in the classroom of life have no bearing in the silence. 

But if we can be silent for a few moments in death’s classroom, we witness a great paradox. In a few words, death teaches us about life. She points to our aimless strivings and our lust for control. She draws us back to reality. The reality that declares the only control we may have is over ourselves–our words, our actions. She teaches us how to live better. To live in honesty and vulnerability. To live in reality.

Death raises her pointer stick, points back to the classroom of life, and whispers, “Pay attention.”


Apr 10 2014

The Violinist of Versailles

The Palace of Versailles

The Palace of Versailles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a glorious day outside of Paris.

Serpentine lines of people zigzagged their way around a cobblestone courtyard under the watchful gaze of gilded fences. A sea of people and an hour more of waiting under the hot sun. Between heavy sighs and questions of how much longer, tentative notes from a violin floated through the air like a dream.

Having been in France for nearly a month, we had strolled villages and chateaus by the dozens. It was not uncommon for me to imagine music nearly everywhere we went. France has a kind of magic about it. But this was different. A quick glance at my family and their searching eyes told me what I had hoped. This music transcended my imagination. It was real.

And then it stopped. A mystery had been birthed. Murmurs in half a dozen different languages began. Hushed voices. Seeking eyes. The shrug of shoulders. We had all heard it. But where had it come from?

And then, a small person took a step out of line.

With one hand clutching a compact but perfect violin and bow, and the other grasping the hand of a man, a little girl took another step and froze. Not distracted by the grandeur around her, she stared at the cobblestones beneath her feet. She looked at no one and everyone looked at her.

The man with her, most likely her father, tried to pull them both further into the middle of the sea of people but she would not budge. A drama was unfolding, slight and unassuming against the magnificence of a French palace.

Again, the father nudged his daughter, bidding her to step forward and play. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. With eyes focused on the ground, she shook her head. He tried once more. A small pull on her hand met only refusal. In perhaps a final ditch effort, the man squatted down until he was able to coax her eyes up to his own. He pulled her small hand to his chest and the words he chose kept her attention and ours. We couldn’t hear his voice, but we pleaded along with him, in silent anticipation.

She stared again at the stones under her bright blue sneakers and slowly nodded her head.

The man stood, still holding tight to the little hand. She raised her face to look at him. That was his cue. For several feet, she matched him step for step, watching his face until he planted his feet and nodded decisively. She took a deep breath, dropped her hand from his, and brought the small wooden instrument under her chin.

When she looked ready, he gave her one last nod. She closed her eyes and began to move the miniature bow over the strings.

It only took one note and the sea of people stopped breathing. It was as if she needed the extra oxygen somehow and we gladly gave it to her. Our breath was the fare required. We paid it and she transported us to another place.

She couldn’t have been more than five. Maybe six. But as she played, a mystery unfolded before us. Cameras and video devices came out. This miniature maestro had captured our attention and our hearts.

Her father took a step back, but this time, she didn’t notice. She kept her eyes closed and played the undersized violin with all of her little body and soul.

The violinist of Versailles.

She drug her bow slowly across the strings for the final note. It is curious, that with only twelve notes, and having heard them all a thousand times in different ways and in different combinations, there are still notes that draw tears from my eyes.

Oceans and borders had been crossed by thousands of people in order to stand in the courtyard of Versailles. A place where masters of art and music have walked for centuries. Two small feet stood and spoke to us in the universal language of music. Transfixed, grateful, dumbfounded we responded and gave her what we had. Our sincere approval. Before she could bring her bow back to her side or even open her eyes, the sea of people erupted in applause.

Her eyes opened in surprise. She had not been playing for us. She had played in spite of us.

Frantically, she searched for her father. He quickly crouched next to her once more, pulled her to his chest, and wrapped his arms around her. She was a little girl again hiding in her father’s embrace. It was obvious that she does not yet see or understand her artistry or brilliance. But maybe that was also part of the gift.

Under the glimmer of the Palace of Versailles, the little violinist gave us a performance that we could never forget. In stark contrast to the grandeur and opulence, she performed not for the homage of man, but for the love of an instrument.

The violinist of Versailles

The Violinist of Versailles


Feb 14 2014

A Valentine Message

 

conversation hearts

Conversation hearts

Be mine.

I “heart” you.

XOXO

We literally ingest these messages. Like some weird ritual where we hope through osmosis, the feelings of security and safety that emanate from these short notes will pass the lining of our stomachs and make their way to our hearts.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a Valentine geek. My table has been decorated for six weeks. See?

valentine centerpiece

Happy Valentine’s Day

I “heart” the idea of a day set aside to gush over those I love. I made heart shaped pancakes with raspberry syrup for my family. I spent $20 on cheesy cards that will line our waste basket within days. There are heart napkins set out waiting for their debut at dinner tonight.

What I’m saying is I love the premise of Valentine’s Day. (Pun intended.)

Such Valentine enthusiasm has not always been the case. I remember days of longing to have a Valentine. Someone who would give me cheesy cards and buy me flowers and candy and take me to dinner. And I know many people who can relate. We long for someone to say they love us, to say they believe in us, to say we are special. To send us a message that we are loved, that we are lovable.

We ingest messages everyday. Some from those around us and some from inside of us.  Words are inscribed in our memory and like osmosis, so often they find their way to our heart, to the center of our being, to the place we hold a picture of who we are.

A Valentine Message.

I have a message for you, regardless of your relational status. May it pierce your heart, the very center of your being, the place you hold a picture of yourself.

Here’s my conversation heart to you in the form of a song.

Who says? Selena Gomez

Who says?

Who says?


Jan 28 2014

Parking Garages and Golden Tickets

validation optional

validation optional

The parking garage.

You pull up, push the button and take a ticket. Once a parking space has been secured, you leave your vehicle, ticket in hand, to do what you left home to do. Doctor’s appointment. Shopping. Lunch with friends.

Your business concludes and upon leaving the parking garage, you show the attendant the ticket and if you’re lucky, it’s been punched. Validated.

The attendant, literally a gate keeper,  looks at the stamp, doesn’t look at you, and nods you through.

You are exempt from having to pay for your parking space. Your activity met the requirement. You’ve been validated. It was time well spent.

Validation.

If only it were that easy to find on a personal level. And yet, we search for exactly that. At the end of the day, we review the activities and accomplishments. We present them to the gate-keeper in our mind for the verdict. Can I validate my existence today based on the list of to-do’s I checked off?

We have been watching American Idol as a family. Nothing says bonding like watching the mechanized wheels of celebrity propel or run over America’s young people. But I was struck the other day with the connection between American Idol and our quest for validation. Those who brandish the numbers on their clothing like marathon runners are gutsy. They step onto the small stage, sing their guts out (metaphorically, we haven’t started The Hunger Games yet) and wait for a nod. A golden ticket. Validation.

Please tell me I’m doing a good job.

As a country and even a world, with similar shows sprouting up everywhere (Korea’s Got Talent, Australia’s Got Talent…), it’s obvious that we all seek validation in some way or another. Human beings desire to hear words of encouragement and affirmation. We long for our efforts to be substantiated, to have meaning and purpose. To be validated.

Recently, I pulled out a paper I wrote in college. The professor  made kind and validating remarks. The words were nice to read, but the impact of validation given so many years ago has faded, just as the ink on the page has begun to fade.

The laurels of accomplishment brown and grow brittle over the passage of time.

We seek that which doesn’t last. Several contestants from American Idol made it through last season only to be eliminated. The golden ticket of accomplishment faded. And so they are back. Seeking it again.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting they should just let it go. Validation is often the fuel that propels our dreams and pushes us to work harder. It isn’t evil. But, I wonder…do we seek validation for our accomplishments because we believe those are the things that define us? Does the validation become the vehicle instead of the fuel?

One of the contestants made a statement before stepping out in front of the judges.

“I’ll either be a successful musician, or a struggling one.”

Her thirty-second performance could alter the direction and course of her career, but it would not define her. She has learned to tap into a different kind of validation. She already has a golden ticket and it says she matters because of who she is, not what she can accomplish.

Are you waiting for a golden ticket? 

Maybe you already have one.


Dec 19 2013

Remnants of an ongoing battle with the past – Dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

PTSD

Bookcase in the secret room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flashbacks.

Last weekend David and I were sitting on the couch watching the 49‘s game. One minute our team is winning, the next minute an innocent commercial rips through the comfort of our home.

The commercial depicts a boy with tire tread running the length of his body, meant to invoke laugher and jollity. Instead the images unleash distress and horror.

Next to me, I feel David’s body tense. The steady rhythm of his breathing is replaced with a shortness of breath and in his eyes, tears pool around the edges, vying for freedom.

David sees something different.

The Secret Room.

Heat and light in the secret room.

Heat and light in the secret room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To deal with and control these memories David goes to a secret place. A room designed specifically by him to provide safety and comfort. At one end sits a well used, worn brown leather chair. A coffee table stands in front of the chair and beyond the table, on the opposite wall, a fire in the hearth burns bright and warm. A focal point where light and heat bring  tranquility and a feeling of security.

Both adjacent walls are lined with bookshelves containing volumes, magic anthologies, a documentation of events. Not just words but images, emotions, sounds and smells.

A Flashback.

Without warning, a book appears on the coffee table. And into the quiet room, the memory of a young boy with tire tread across his chest invades the safety and tranquility. Sights, a pool of blood puddles under his small head like a pillow. Sounds, the mournful shriek of a heartbroken mother who lost a piece of her heart in an instant. Smells, fresh blood creeping across black hot asphalt.

Unannounced and unavoidable, the unwanted remembrances float out of the open book and invade the secure, hidden space. Like rogue enemies, they launch poisonous arrows into the warm air and pierce the serenity.

David’s body tenses. His breath suspended in constricted lungs begging for escape, guarding a prayerful hope that the book will disappear.

But these are memories that will never go away. To contain and control them David has placed each one into a book. The memory of the little boy killed by a drunk driver is just one of many. David leans forward and closes the book.  With a deep breath, he rises from his chair, picks up the book and places it back on the shelf in its rightful place. Tucked away, surrounded by a myriad of other memories, both fond and equally horrifying.

While flashbacks cannot be anticipated or avoided, they can be controlled. David’s use of a room full of his memories has worked for him. Memories are impervious to destruction but they can be coerced. Forced back into storage. Driven back into the past, leaving room for the light and warmth to occupy the present and bring peace again to the secret room.

Healing and tomorrow.

Our connection to the events of our past is a two way street. We may mosey down the avenue and revisit joyful occasions. And, just as easily, the past can barrel down the road and crash into our present, bringing remembrances we would care to forget.

But we are not left powerless. David learned this technique at a retreat for first responders. The West Coast Post-Trauma Retreat Center. (www.wcpr2001.org) The past cannot be changed. But for those suffering under the weight of bygone memories there is hope. And hope is the fire burning in the secret room, giving warmth and security and a chance to live fully in the present.

************

Check out Rebecca’s debut novel, DISTRESSED, on Amazon.


Dec 13 2013

The here and why

*** It’s here!!! ***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A month ago, I wrote a blog post that detailed my reason for writing. Why do I write?

But why did I write this story?

First, I have to say, it is a novel. It is a work of fiction. And yet, it was birthed out of a period of time in our lives. Painful experiences worth sharing.

When I married my husband, I had no idea what it meant to become a part of the “law enforcement family.” I was aware that there would be holiday craziness on those days he had to work, but beyond that? I didn’t get it.

We got married. I changed my name. But so much more changed. And of course, marriage is an adjustment. And without trying to sound over the top, marriage in the world of first responders is an even bigger adjustment.

There is a reason they call themselves a family. They get each other. They understand the stress and the expectations. They rely upon each other day in and day out, for camaraderie and for safety. They will always have each other’s backs. Like family.

It’s difficult to describe or explain a dynamic like that. They are knit together by a thin, often blue, line. A line invisible to those who don’t walk it everyday. A line that becomes increasingly recognizable in the course of every day life with a first responder.

Case in point, there have been nights, dinner is minutes away from ready, the kids have worn mommy’s patience down to a mere nub and the phone would ring. Don’t wait to have dinner because of…an accident, a fatal, a shooting, a car chase, or at the hospital with another officer.

You answer the phone and hold your breath until you hear their voice. And then you hold your breath again until you can determine that they are okay. It isn’t the phone calls that are difficult. It’s the stress they create. And stress like that is next to impossible to translate. But it is nothing compared to the stress of death and destruction bombarding every one of your five senses. It’s one thing to see death on TV or in movies. It’s an entirely different thing to see it, smell it, hear it, feel it and even taste it.

After phone calls like that, I would serve dinner and get the kids into the bath. I would pray for David’s safety and my sanity. But all the while, something had been set in motion that I didn’t recognize. An invisible force that had far more power in my home than I could ever have imagined. The past.

Memories are tremendous. They connect us to happier moments and remind us of people and events. They link us to those we love. But their power doesn’t end there. They also hold the potential to forever tie you to tragedy and trauma. To haunt and torment and link you to a past event that is nothing short of horrific.

As a country, we have come a long way in understanding and treating PTSD as it relates to our military. But it would appear to me that we are decades behind in our treatment and recognition of PTSD in our first responders.

So why did I write Distressed?

Two reasons. 1. To authentically show the world of the first responder and those closest to him and 2. To bring awareness to the realities of PTSD as it pertains to first responders.

It is our story in part. But it had to be more than just our story. It has to be bigger than that. Because I know, there are a number of other first responders and their families who are currently suffering in silence.

It has to be about them too.