On gardening, bubble boy disease, and boys who walk you home

Today I caught up with our CEO on work, life, and things. The conversation began as it always begins between two people: with a purpose. But, here's one of the wonderful perks of working with the people I call my peers: we always end with a rewarding chat that leaves me either humbled, encouraged, or both. One thing led to another and the next thing you know, she explains parenthood to me in the simplest, most universal statement: "I'm not raising a daughter; I'm raising an orchid."

I've never taken care of an orchid, though I grew up in a house where my mom always tried her hand at cultivating plant life with her non-existent green thumb. Her many botched attempts always left me wondering how I was still alive. And now, living outside of the radius of my parents' home with my own (now dead) herb garden, the mere thought of ever potentially growing a human baby scares me. Suffice it to say, my boss' metaphor was short but effective.

I mentioned to her this man I met about a month ago — someone about my age, actually — who works at a lab in Palo Alto working towards a cure for what's known as "bubble boy disease," or severe combined immunodeficiency (SCID). The lack of functional lymphocytes leaves its genetically-dispositioned victims vulnerable to infectious diseases in everyday situations, and the unfortunate result is restriction to sterile environments. As Wikipedia puts it so well, "SCID is the result of an immune system so highly compromised that it is considered almost absent."

Without giving too much away, I shared with my boss the high-level progress this man told me that his lab had made so far. And, with such medical advancements where genetic disorders could potentially be cured, perhaps parents will eventually be able to stop comparing their kids to delicate flowers.

I left that meeting thinking about the fragility of human life and the very concrete reality that no two moments are ever the same in our lives. We truly never step in the same river twice. Do we all suffer from some form of "bubble boy disease," in one way or another? Have we each developed a shell since we were young, to protect us from the harsh environments in which we're raised? From our first encounters with disappointment, discrimination, bullying, and heartbreak, I can't imagine any one of us ever making it to our tenth birthdays without having first locked ourselves in the first version of an emotionally sterile bubble. Even worse? We thicken and harden the barriers as time goes on.

I know I feel it. I remember being a high schooler and getting coached by my parents almost weekly on how not to be a doormat to the other kids. I remember wondering why the values of kindness and generosity that my parents taught me when I was young conflicted with the consequences that came with, in fact, being kind and generous to others. It wasn't until my freshman year of college when a stranger saw a vulnerable, bubble-less girl and struck, leaving me damaged for a long time.

Forget the teasing and pubescent heartache from my high school years; this was the last straw that broke me. I remember a switch going off in the back of my mind, and I remember a full year and a half going by in a blur where I felt absolutely nothing. I remember trying to feel. A lot. I remember the uninitiated tears that would tell me that something human still lived within me, even if I couldn't willingly raise it from the dead. I remember going to church with my college roommate and best friend, hoping that perhaps divine powers could unshackle me.

But for years I stayed, locked in the tower I had built for myself.

Don't get me wrong. I was able to experience love and gratitude and awe. But it was like witnessing a sunset on a postcard, or feeling the butterflies of a first kiss through a movie. It just wasn't the real thing. I might as well not have been there.

As time goes on and human resiliency butts its head through my stubborn, self-made bubble I've constructed over time, I've found that my need for self-preservation ebbs and flows as others (and myself) prove to me that I can, indeed, open up. I dated a guy for a few years who helped heal my heart; then, like before, when we broke up I felt the bubble closing over my head once again.

Then tonight, I went on a date with this super sweet guy. It wasn't my first time jumping back on the proverbial bicycle since the last break up, and it wasn't our first date. Hell, it technically wasn't even a date (we just met up on my way home after a track workout). But, he offered to walk me home, and I let him.

For the first time in forever (cue the "Frozen" soundtrack), I felt the bubble's walls come down again. It wasn't on our first date, or our second date, or our third date. But it was on our walk home.

And I remembered thinking tonight, as he offered me his elbow (and his jacket), maybe we daughters aren't orchids anymore. Maybe we are more resilient than we previously believed. Maybe we grow up thinking and being told that we are orchids, so we hiss and hide from heartache and disappointment and hurt. I hope that my kids, boy or girl, will grow up believing that they are day lilies — brilliantly colored lilies that blossom and die within a day, with yet another lily blooming just as beautifully the next day. If that's the case, then let me die each time my heart breaks — I look forward to the beauty of blossoming the next time my heart is stolen (like it was tonight).

Photo Credit: Carol Von Canon, Flickr

Where the hell has Rosie been?

Well, I'm back. Nine months later, I've returned to my blog.

No, I didn't have a baby. I find it fitting that the last blog posts I had written were about finding purpose in life and achieving the goals I set out for the almost-23-year-old me. And, guess what? I achieved all of them. (You can't tell, but I'm grinning ear-to-ear in this crowded coffee shop of mine.)

The real reason behind my disappearance from the blogiverse is that my boyfriend and I, after almost three years, broke up last March. And, if there's anything I learned from my past breakups and the three years he and I were together, it's that, when my heart's broken, I turn inward. People have a hard time believing me when I tell them I'm an introvert, but it's true. And the last thing I want to do when I'm figuring out my feelings and my future is broadcast it to the world.

The secondary reason to my leaving this blog on a virtual shelf in a virtual garage for the past nine months is that I found it difficult not to censor myself. I mean, c'mon — I work in public relations/marketing. And the first rule of PR club is this: Never, ever post anything on the Internet that you're not comfortable with the world seeing (forever).

So, away I went, dealing with my grief and uncertainty on my own, out in the real world.

I spent a lot of time avoiding sleep and dove into many, tiny side-projects. I moved into a new apartment with two wonderful strangers (thank you, Craigslist gods). I got promoted at work and made some really cool stuff with my really cool coworkers. I dipped my toe back into the dating scene (then ran away in fear). I dipped my toe (and subsequently ran away again) a couple times. I'm still figuring it all out.

In my blog's stead, I kept a hard-copy journal. I know — something that, in my first blog post, I said was impossible for me to do. Well, I've done it. And it's now filled from cover-to-cover with uncensored thoughts, emotions, stories and profiles of the most amazing people I have yet to meet in this short life. For the past nine months, this little blue book has been my therapist, my friend, and now, my time capsule.

I've had to do a lot of learning and growing in 2014, and now, here I am, rereading both my hard-copy journal and my neglected blog (filled with bright-eyed, optimistic posts for the year), and I carry no regrets for the year. I'm so glad I can look back at the year with letters from Past Me. I asked Future Me questions, and now I can answer them. I shared with Future Me all my doubts and hesitations as I trail-blazed the new, single-woman journey for myself. The coolest thing? I'm freed from self-censorship.

Look at this blog post. It's completely raw and unedited. Long live the first draft! One of my favorite literary quotes is advice from the great Hemingway (for whom I've cultivated a major obsession this year): "Write drunk; edit sober." I may not be drunk — hell, I'm nursing a hot chocolate right now — but the reason we're all so addicted to alcohol is it takes away the inhibitions that prevent us from saying what we really think. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of living in fear. I'm through with not saying what weighs on my heart. It's gutsy; it's risky, telling the truth. But, this year I don't want a single moment to go by without telling the people in my life how much I admire them, how much I think about them, or how much I worry for them. Life is too short not to say what we mean. Shed your own practices of self-censorship and join me. Let's make 2015 the most raw, unedited, #nofilter, genuine year of our lives.

As for me? I'm buying a new hard-copy journal today. Not sure yet which color to get to replace my tiny, blue book. This blog will be for more anecdotal and share-worthy posts, while my journal is for everyday use to continue logging the mundane and epic events of the year.

Looking forward to a great, new year with you all — xoxo.

What Life Looks Like When You Give Up Disappointment (On Day 4)

Not many people know this about me, but every year I practice Lent. Not because I have to, and not because I think it's 'cool' or 'fun'; I ceremoniously sacrifice a selfish habit of mine to make myself a better person (and to remind myself of all the sacrifices that others have made for me).

My first Lenten sacrifice was when I was 15 and in high school — I gave up coffee. While my diet and my allowance much appreciated it, I don't think I as a person gained much from the sacrifice.

Now, here I am and bordering on 23 years old, and this year I have decided to give up Disappointment.

My closest friends know that Disappointment (with a capital 'D') plagues my life. It's the side-effect of being idealistic, hopeful, and (at times) naïve. Sorry, not sorry.

And, while my friends console me after I am yet again disappointed by believing the best of people or hoping for the best in situations, saying things, like, "What did you expect?" and "You need to seriously stop kidding yourself," I'm still headstrong. I don't see why disappointment must accompany hope and trust. 

So, this Lenten sacrifice is two-fold: I sacrifice Disappointment so that I may gain more optimism, more trust, more positivity in life.

Even when things don't turn out the way I had hoped, the goal is to see the silver lining that resulted instead.

Rather than being let down by people or circumstances, I'm choosing to keep my eyes wide open for the gifts that come my way, in forms that I'm not expecting.

Good goals? Good goals.

I think it's somewhere in the Bible that says, if you try to save your life, you will lose it; and if you are willing to give up your life, you will save it.

The key themes of Lent are selflessness, sacrifice, and happy endings. For instance, the first Easter doesn't end with a crucifixion — it ends with a resurrection and newfound hope for humanity's salvation.

I think a lot of people focus on the sacrifice during Lent, when this whole time period is supposed to be a ceremony with that beautifully joyous, happy ending in sight. 

So, it's only been 4 days and already I have caught myself at that analogous Fork in the Road between choosing Disappointment and choosing Joy. The moment is much like a scene out of Matrix, staring a bullet straight in the eye and making it drop to your feet. It's an amazing experience (but not without its difficulties).

I welcome anyone and everyone to join me. Is there something else you're sacrificing (or gaining) during Lent this year? Share with me! I look forward to seeing the transformations we make over the next 36 days. :)

Life (As We Know It)

One of my favorite scenes in film comes from a total rom-com/tearjerker: P.S. I Love You, feat. Gerard Butler and Hillary Swank. The best quote of the whole movie (besides all the endearing Irish-but-pretty-much-leprechaun quotables from Butler) was during the flashback where the two characters meet for the first time. A younger Holly, studying abroad in college, crosses paths with a charming young Irishman named Jerry, and after their first kiss, she refuses to know where he lives or where he'll be later that night. She leaves it all up to fate.

Jerry: I bet we meet again.
Holly: You better win that bet, because if you do, that'll be the end of it, you know.
J: The end of what?
H: Life. As we know it.

And, spoiler, the present reveals (in the film) that life had changed once again, with Jerry long gone after losing his battle with cancer.

But the fantastic life lesson remains: life as we know it is always changing, and the most precious moments that mark this transition can happen without us realizing it.

So, I must admit that I am an addict...to basking in these moments, that is. I love when I recognize that life as I know it is changing, and I am a witness to my own history.

I wish I could go back in time and relive those most amazing moments of my life:

• like when Victor and I laid eyes on each other for the first time back in 2011
• or when my freshman roommate (who would end up being my best friend in college) and I first met
• or the day I decided to ride my motorcycle two states away, despite my parents' disapproval
• all those times I had a personal best on a run
• every time I had a life-changing break up (knowing what I know now, these memories would probably be a lot less painful)

The list could go on forever. It's easy to look back in life and say, If only I knew then what I know now. But that's not the point. The point isn't to change our course; my wish for time travel comes from my desire to catch the missed opportunities to appreciate that moment. The past can't be changed, and the future has yet to come. Yet the present is, by definition, a fleeting moment. 

Like, do you ever meet someone (i.e. at the post office, your waiter at a restaurant, or someone on the street) and wonder, "Wow, we have no reason to cross paths, but we're affecting each other's lives. We will live on in a stranger's memories"? No? Just me? Awk-ward.

I thought that today, when I was interviewing for a potential housing situation. I went on Craigslist — boom, found a dream house situation, and arranged a meeting the same day. I was talking to one of the tenants/the head of the household, and I thought to myself: Holy crap. Even if I never live with them, he is perhaps one of the most interesting people I have ever been so lucky to talk to. I don't want to say goodbye. And you know what? I told him so. I told him that, even if I don't get the room, I would love to stay in touch and hopefully become friends.

All because of a Craigslist ad and an interview with one of many housing advertisers. 

And these small, seemingly inconsequential day-to-day interactions we have with people, THEY are the end of life as we know it.

How can we measure the amount of changes and detours our life paths go through? It's so mind-boggling. I am an OCD person. I want to organize life with charts, lists, and graphs. I want to quantify the unquantifiable. I want to manage the chaos that is essential to our existence. But the beauty of living is that the most predictable variable is life's constantly mid-transformation. Even on days I decide not to work out (when I should), or on days I decide to go out for lunch among strangers at a sushi bar instead of staying in, I am ending the life I knew that morning I woke up.

Brilliant and beautiful.

So the challenge here is: can you remember all the little (and possibly big) moments from today that changed your life as you knew it?

If you can, then kudos. And then try to remember yesterday's. Then attempt to remain a witness to your life forever transitioning as it happens. It's more beautiful than the best memory, because it happens in the elusive present tense, a moment so fleeting that its value is driven by natural scarcity. 

Hey, guess what? Reading this post, I bet your life just changed (as you knew it).

So....What Happened to MLK Day?

MLK Day just came and went without a peep. Valentine's Day gets more publicity at schools, businesses and grocery stores than Martin Luther King Jr. Pardon my French, but....WTF?

A 49ers Fan Recapping the Most Important Football Game (to Her) of the Post-Season

Ok, so we are set up for a really good Superbowl in a couple weeks. The NFL's #1 Defense (Seattle Seahawks) won last night against my 49ers, and they will be playing the #1 Offense team, the Denver Broncos (for non-football viewers, this is Peyton Manning's team, aka the best QB in the league), on Feb. 2.

For anyone who follows me on Twitter or Facebook, you probably already know how I feel about last night's game, where my Niners suffered a definitive loss when, in what should have been a great TD pass to Crabtree, Kaepernick's last-chance play was picked by the Seahawks in the end zone when Seattle's Richard Sherman tipped the ball to his teammate.

Devastating.

Photographer problems: Other photographers who make it about the $$$

Much love to my fellow photographers. This post isn't about the majority of the industry. It's for those few who have lost sight on the whole point of art.

If photography is about the sales, not the art, then this is about you.