Sometime, You Get a Pet by Accident

More often than not, you go to the pet store, or to the pound, and you choose an animal to take home with you. You plan ahead, you save your money, and you prepare by purchasing pet food and supplies. Usually, you plan to get a pet. Usually, you get a pet on purpose.

But sometimes, a pet that you didn’t even know you wanted just appears in front of you and chooses you to be its person. Sometimes, you are needed by a homeless or abandoned animal, and you find yourself with an animal that picked you. Sometimes, you get a pet on accident.

That is what happened to me; I got a kitten on accident.

In the fall of 2011, when the leaves were falling and the nights were getting cold, I got home from work to find a small black kitten sitting on my front porch. She appeared to be waiting for me, but she wasn’t mine. She was at the front door, white paws on the threshold, black tail wagging left to right, like a dog waiting to come in from the yard. I didn’t want a cat; I’m allergic to cats. I shooed her off the porch, and as she went traipsing across my yard with leaves crunching under her feet, I went inside and forgot about her.

The next morning, in a rush to get out the door on time for work, I almost stepped on a small black kitten sitting on my front porch. She was still waiting for me, even though she wasn’t mine. She was, once again, at the front door, head tilted, tail wagging. I laughed, but I didn’t feed or pet her. I didn’t want a cat, and I know that stray cats stick around if you dote on them.

When I got home from work that evening, this stubborn kitten was still on my porch. She was waiting patiently, tail gently wagging left to right, whiskers twitching. It was cold. I knew she must be cold, and the nights were only getting colder. Rather than shoo her off into the leaves again, I scooped her up. Nuzzling into my chest, she began to purr, and before I was even able to put down my bags, this little black kitten had crossed her paws over her eyes and dozed off.

Sometimes, you get a pet on accident.

I needed to find her home. She was too clean and groomed to have been away long, and too small to have survived many cold nights on her own. Her people must be missing her. So off I went, sleeping kitten in my arms, knocking on doors up and down the block. Neighbors sympathetically shook their heads, not knowing where she came from. One neighbor said he’d been feeding her and had even put a bed out for her on his porch. “But she eats and runs,” he said with a grin, “she hasn’t slept here once.”

When it started getting dark, I headed home, still holding a sleeping kitten who surely believed by now that she wasn’t sleeping outside tonight. I begrudgingly knocked on one last door, hoping for a miracle; I didn’t want a cat. “Oh, yes, I know where she belongs,” my elderly neighbor told me, “that couple up the way, about 5 blocks that way, they got her for their son about 2 weeks back.” She went on to explain that the parents had gotten their son a kitten, and then the kitten got out fairly quickly; instead of looking for her, they replaced her. “When this kitten came home, they turned her away,” my neighbor told me, shaking her head. Poor baby; they’d just dumped her.

Still, I didn’t want a cat.

I felt better about leaving her outside, knowing that a neighbor was feeding her, but it was pretty chilly. I walked back to his house and set her in the bed he’d left out, hoping she’d realize her good fortune and make a home there with him and his family. She sat on the bed, tail wiggling left to right, eyes wide, as I headed towards my own home. But for the first time since I first saw her, I wasn’t quite so certain about not wanting a cat.

Sometimes, you get a pet on accident.

I decided that if she was back on my porch the next morning, I’d let her inside and look for a home for her. Surely if I posted her photo online, I could find a friend who wanted her; she was adorable and tiny. Headed to bed that night, I hoped she’d stayed on the neighbor’s porch, where she would be cared for, or at least given a meal every day and a fluffy bed on which to rest.

Not only was she there in the morning, tail wagging, paws on the threshold like my house was her house, but she was still there after work, as though she hadn’t moved a muscle for ten hours. “Alright,” I shrugged, “come on in.” I opened the front door and in she pranced, like she’d lived there for years. She did a few laps of the living and dining rooms, sniffed around the kitchen floor, then sauntered to the wall cadet heater in the living room, stretched, yawned, and laid down. Within moments, she was asleep, warm air blowing at her backside. And there she slept. She was there when I drove frantically to the store for pet food and a bowl, nail clippers, and a litter box set up. She was there while I cooked and ate my dinner, and she was there when I headed to bed.

But when I woke up in the morning, she was curled up in a tight ball, sleeping soundly on the floor next to my bed. I had gotten a pet on accident. I’d never wanted a cat, but now I wanted this cat. There she was, asleep on the floor beneath my side of the bed, content and warm. She had picked me.

That morning, I didn’t have to work. Despite my intention to post her picture online and find her a forever home through my social network, I instead found myself in the car, abandoned kitten in my lap, driving to the vet. I had her examined, groomed, and microchipped, and – after a pregnancy scare during her exam – I scheduled to have her spayed a few days later.

I named her Juno, after Ellen Page’s character in the movie, because she was young and adorable like the Juno in the movie, and also because the vet had mistakenly told me she was pregnant. The name made more sense initially, when I thought my new kitten was going to be a teen mother, but it stuck even after the pregnancy news turned out to be a false alarm.

This little black kitten, with her white paws and long whiskers, had picked me; I was her person and she was my pet, and it would seem I had no choice in the matter. I got a pet on accident, after I rescued the tiny black kitten that stood her ground on my front porch until I caved.

What I have learned about rescuing an animal that is otherwise homeless or abandoned, is that animals provide unconditional love in any way they know how. Juno is now three years old; she is chubby and has asthma, and a bad hip that keeps her from jumping onto the kitchen counters. She loves to sit in front of the patio door in the sun, but she loves nothing more than to curl up behind my knees, under a blanket. I didn’t set out to bring a cat home, but instead I accepted that this cat was just going to make my home, her forever home. And I may have never wanted a cat, but I certainly love and cherish my cat.

It's Happening

My blog is growing, and I have a supportive group of readers that now extends outside of my family and best friends. And it's exciting!

This blog was intended to be a place for me to rave about the awesomeness that I witness, as well as to rant about the things that truly make me crazy. I have a following of readers who know me, and know me even better after reading my madness, so I ask you: what should I blog about?

Leave me a comment with your ideas, I'm excited to see what people think I should be ranting and raving about! I'm always fired up about something...let's see where this takes me.

I'll Pass on the Participation Trophy, Thanks Though

When I was in high school, I was a cheerleader, and I was also on dance team. I paid an athletic fee. I participated in countless fundraising efforts to pay for costumes, camps, competitions, and what I didn't earn in fundraisers, my parents had to foot the bill for - so we worked hard on fundraising. I went to grueling camps in the dead of summer. I had daily doubles in August, where our coach made us run laps, do duck walks across the football field, and weight train right alongside the football teams. I took tumbling classes, technique classes, and had practice every day. I suffered injuries that I worked through and didn't get to rest from. I performed in parades, on stages, on tracks, in the rain, in the mud, in the cold, outside, inside, early in the morning, and all day long. I literally bled, sweated, and cried.

I was, by definition, an athlete.

And yet, if you were to look in my student handbook, at both La Salle high school where I was a cheerleader, and later at Milwaukie high school where I was on dance team, I was not playing a sport; I was participating in an activity.

Say what??

Did I, or did I not, just warm up side by side with your football players twice my size? Did I, or did I not, pay an athletic fee of 300 and some odd bucks? Did I, or did I not, just win a competition after hours and hours of tireless practice? Yes, I did all of those things. With my team. Of other athletes.

By referring to cheer and dance as activities instead of sports, school administrators are diminishing these athletes. It is insulting to be an athlete referred to as a participant. It is insulting as a female athlete, specifically. Because the truth is, we are not respected on the same level as male athletes. We are seen as, and treated like, less (never mind that the state titles at both schools were won by the dance teams, the cheerleaders, and the girls' volleyball teams...just saying).

Female athletics are the underdog in both public and private high schools. We fight for gym time. We practice on the dirty cement floor of the cafeteria while the gyms are reserved for our male counterparts. In order to get an hour of time in the gym, all 30 of us arrived at school at 5:00 in the morning, because that was the only time we ever got to dance in the gym. Because none of the boys were there at that ungodly hour. There was a day at cheer practice my freshman year that I was tossed too high in an all-out stunt practice, and my face hit the beam in the cafeteria...that never would have happened in a gym. But we didn't get to practice in the gym; the gym was for the boys. We didn't get the luxury of practicing in the gym; hell, I learned to do a back handspring in the courtyard, in the rain, in November, in a swampy mud puddle. Female athletes are not prioritized, and by referring to these female-dominated sports as activities, that level of disrespect continues.

I read today that Oregon City high school is eliminating their cheerleading program and allowing their girls to participate solely in "pom-pom squad." What this means to the program is, no competitions, no exhibitions, no stunts, no challenging skills, no tumbling...just cheers. Well guess what else that means - no shot in hell at mastering any important skill to take these young women to the college level. No cheerleader who can't tumble or do stunts is making a cheer squad at OSU or UO; they're just not. No college cares about the way you can hold a pom-pom; they care about the way you tumble, the strength in your stunts, and your dance routine abilities. So now, not only are high school administrators eliminating half the fun, and not only are they pushing their archaic boys-are-better-than-girls mentality, but they are now also eliminating the chance of college scholarships for these female athletes.

Let me put it in perspective: taking the stunting & tumbling out of cheerleading, is the equivalent of taking the tackles out of football. Would you give a college scholarship to a defensive back who hadn't ever tackled an offensive player on the field? Nope.

This is 2014, for crying out loud. When are we going to be offered an equal playing field? How much harder do we have to fight to be respected, by administrators in our schools, by employers, by our peers? I have gotten involved in the "is dance team a real sport" debate tens of times, and to no avail. Because nobody shows any respect to the girls who get up at 5:00 in the morning, who split their practice time in half before and after school, who practice on the track in the winter because there is nowhere else. Because who would offer up an hour of gym time three nights a week to the activity participants, when there are athletes in line ahead of them?

This argument isn't about whether or not cheer and dance are real sports. Because they are real sports. The argument really delves so much further into the sexism that exists so blatantly in the structure of education. But for now, I'll leave you with this: The next time you think that cheerleaders and dancers don't work as hard as football players, go watch a competition. Watch what these girls do. Watch the power and strength in their performance. Watch them smile while they pick up someone else who weighs as much as they do.

And then shut up.

When Your Stomach is in Knots

There is something about sun and warm weather that gives me more confidence to stretch out of my comfort zone. It's like I hibernate all winter long, resting up to go balls to the wall for 3 months of every year. It's easier to hide on the couch in my jammies when it's pouring rain or super cold...but something about driving with the windows down, wearing sunglasses, and putting on flip flips, just gives me the push to try something different.

Prompt: Taking risks. 

It's easy to look back at something and decide, that's it...it is what it is. I haaaaate that phrase, it is what it is. It seems like such a finite, definitive phrase, with no possibility for change.

It's harder to look back at something and decide, I am still thinking about this a lot, I need to do something about it.

It's even harder, to fucking do it. To look back at something that ended or that was lost, and decide that maybe you need to invest some more of your heart into it, is hard...to follow through with that, to take that leap, is really hard. It's scary. But it can be really awesome.

And yet, a wise man once said, without the risk, there is no reward. And that's just so true, of so many aspects in life. Think about it - the things that are the scariest, the ones that require the most risk...aren't they always the most gratifying in the end?

If you don't take some risks, you could miss out on the best things life has to offer. And so, with that, I am taking a risk. It might hurt. It might knock me on my ass. It might leave me with a hurt heart and a lot of tears. But it might not. It might lead me to the best thing ever. It might feel amazing. It might be just right.

Take a leap of faith. Take some risks. Do what scares you. Let yourself be afraid. Let yourself feel that fear. And then use that feeling to power forward, and trust that things always happen for a reason.

"You've Got to Put Your Behind in Your Past" and Other Wise Words from Disney

I have always tried to maintain that things happen the way that they do, and when they do, and how they do, for a reason. I try not to dwell on things in the past, wishing that they'd been different or that I had made different decisions; overall, I believe that had I chosen a different path in the past, I wouldn't be the person I am now.

But sometimes, something great happens to you, and it happens at the wrong time. And because it happens at the wrong time, you fuck it up, or you lose it, or you mistreat or devalue it. And then later on, you kick yourself in the ass about it. 

Prompt: What was your relationship like 2 years ago?

Two years ago, it was May of 2012. I had been single for 6 months, after a 3 year relationship with someone who severely mistreated me. Despite my relief to be out of that situation, abuse stays with a person for a long time; when you are brainwashed and mind fucked, you don't just heal overnight by leaving someone. It takes time. And help. And support. And love. And usually, a professional. But at the time, I didn't get it. I thought, I had left and I was all good to move forward.

That was, until I met someone new. Someone great. Someone fun. This guy enjoyed my family, was supportive and kind, and made me laugh. And yet, I found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was afraid to have an opinion over anything, right down to, where do you want to go for dinner? The only thing we ever argued about was how indecisive I was and how unable to express my feelings I was (which is so unlike me, usually). I was just waiting for the bad, even though it wasn't coming. So I sought the professional help that I desperately needed (and had needed for almost an entire year). But the thing about it is, even when you're working through something, you're not always quite there, and you're not always quite ready.

I often think that what ended my last relationship, was timing. Timing is a bitch. We had great chemistry, but neither of us was ready. Neither of us was fully healed from the previous years of mind fuck to the point where we could fully move forward.

 And so it ended. And I was super sad. I actually still am sometimes sad; I was in love, and I believe that he was probably my "one who got away."

The thing is though, with the one who got away, is that sometimes, they come back. You never know. Things that happened in the past, are in the past for a reason. But that doesn't have to mean that something from the past may not come back into the present. Timing can be a real bitch. But as I am learning, timing can also be great. Things happen for a reason, and all I can do is be positive, be open, be accepting, and take everything in stride as it comes.

And this time, when something or someone becomes my right now, I'll be ready for it.

You Can Always Choose to be Better

This photo is so fitting for what has taken place in my family recently; specifically the fact that 3 members of my former family continue to stalk my blog as a means to fuel their hate fire.  

Perhaps if you were nicer people, I'd have nicer things to say. 

My emotions are valid; like them or not, agree with them or not, they are what they are. I experience things my way, I am affected in my own way, and I express how I feel in my own way. And since it's not by yelling and screaming, and because I use the word feeling, it scares "them."

After spending the past few months talking these relationships out with a therapist, I am incredibly liberated to be the one who can now sit back and say, I don't care. I am no longer sad, no longer hurt or grieving. But the best part? I am also no longer angry. These people are not my family. They haven't been for a long time, but I can only recently say that without being upset. These people are irrelevant, and it is their problem that they have chosen to stay mad about something petty. That is their deal, not mine. I have chosen to take a much healthier route and let that shit go, but I don't control what other people do. I can only control myself.

I know you're reading this. And I know you'll continue to. And you're welcome to do so. But remember one thing: I will never, ever, censor my feelings for you. I don't care what you say about me, what you think or feel about me. I don't care that you use my posts to try and turn my own grandma against me - even though that does, in fact, validate everything I said about your being evil. (Clearly I wasn't wrong to feel what I felt.)

So to those of you who read my blogs on the regular, because you appreciate my words and support my goals, thank you. I appreciate the regular following, the support, the comments, and the growth my blog continues to see...especially when I am writing about things that I am emotional about, like victim shaming or body image, or even when I cannot find the right words for something. I appreciate the support, so much. 

And for those of you who just read this to keep finding things to be mad at me about...I'll do me, and you do you...happy stalking.

Let it Go, Let it Go, Turn Away and Slam the Door

I was asked this week to draw my family tree for a homework assignment. A daunting task when you need to fit so many people onto one sheet of paper. But I did it, and it ended up being a great assignment.

Prompt: Letting Go.

The assignment was designed to make me address the relationships and patterns on both sides of my family. Who am I especially close to? Who are the "favorites," and who do I have more limited contact with? Is there anyone in my family who is actually hated or who feels actual hate towards me? Where are patterns of disease, mental illness, cancer? Where are drugs and/or alcohol prevalent? Is there anyone in my family who is especially controlling or manipulative, or is anyone abusive? Which of my parents' siblings get along best with each other? Why?

I learned a lot from doing this assignment, and it has opened a lot of doors for further discussion and understanding about why my family functions the way it does (both sides) and why I function the way I do within each side of my family.

For example, in my mom's family, I have a very take charge manner; I like to make plans, I like to be the one to plan holidays or help organize things. I tend to reach out and invite my cousins to do things. I am also very vocal and have no problem expressing my feelings to my family on my mom's side. If someone does something that bothers or upsets me, I can express that without fear of consequence - I know that I am respected, loved, and cared about, and that I am free to disagree with the pack.

On the other side of the fence, in my dad's family, I am more quiet and don't generally stand up to take control over something. I know that the way I would do things is different, and I've learned - through my whole life - that going against the tradition is bad. So I don't do it. In my adult life I have also learned that expressing my opinion, or admitting when I am upset, bothered, or hurt, is generally not welcomed. So I have learned to just be more quiet, and to be more selective with whom I share my real feelings.

It is interesting to see it all on paper, and has made me think a lot more about my need to let go of the rotten apples in my family tree. My blood family is huge. But the circle of people who accepts me for who I am, who lets me be real and speak my truth, who supports and lifts me up, is nowhere near as huge. And that's fine. In grieving the loss of the family that I once had, I have been able to appreciate so much more the ones who have encouraged me and validated me all along.

 The good news is, I have finally learned to let go of the people who have let go of me. Why do I need to bother with feeling sad about my family who doesn't feel sad that I'm not there? I certainly don't. So I don't anymore. I've worked really hard to let it go. To focus on the people who are still here, the ones who take care of me and respect our differences.

And I tell ya what, once you learn to just let it go...life is much more pleasant. 

Happy Birthday, Mama!

Today is my mom's birthday. My mom is the very best mom. 

You should all be jealous. 

Happy birthday, mom. I love you!

Visible and Validated

Have you ever stood in the middle of a crowd, and yelled at the top of your lungs, only to realize that no one can hear you?

Have you ever looked at a toddler in a store, throwing a kicking, screaming, wailing tantrum, and felt like that was exactly what you have looked like for ten straight years, to no avail?

For ten years, I have felt invisible. Not invisible to everyone, not invisible in every circumstance or in my daily routine with the people I love, but invisible, unheard, and completely invalidated in several very vital scenarios.

At one point about ten years ago, and I don't know exactly when, but at some point when I was in my late 'teens or early twenties, my Uncle Mike was diagnosed with cancer. It was the first time someone in my close family had been given this diagnosis, and I was scared. But I was also wounded from a fight taking place in my family, and this put the fight in me to do my part to mend it. I reached out, expressing my feelings, my mom's feelings, the way that cancer can scare the fucking shit out of you and make you rethink all of the bull shit fights you're involved in. All I wanted was for the fighting to end and everyone to move on together, because together, we are big enough to kick cancer out and get past it.

I screamed, but nobody really heard me. Or they heard me and chose not to listen.

Not too long after, when I was a senior in college, my own daddy got a cancer diagnosis. I was broken. Scared. No, terrified. I have never been such a wreck, nor have I ever been so in need of being loved and embraced by everyone in my world. The only thing I wanted was everyone to take care of us, to make it better, to help get to the end of each day.

I continued to scream, but they didn't hear me. They were busy fighting and yelling; they were busy being hateful.

In 2009, Grandma and Grandpa Stacey both died, just a few months apart. I was devastated. I thought the way to mend my broken heart would be to make a better effort to bond with my Grandma W, who was now my last living grandparent. And I did. I picked her up and together we went to visit her old house - the house that holds all of my childhood memories - when it was for sale. I asked her for her old recipes and she gave them to me on handwritten cards, in her shaky cursive script. I went to her house to bake holiday cookies with her, and tried really hard to not feel broken when I left in tears after a few hours.

I was screaming for the tight knit loving chaos that I had been missing. But I was screaming to myself, and no one really heard it but me.

There have been moments in my adult life where all I wanted was the chaos - those days where all of us under 18 had to sit on the floor because there weren't enough chairs, the days where we had to cook all week long to make enough food to serve everyone, the meals where we were physically unable to sit together at one table. Big, loud, and crazy is what I crave on holidays and birthdays. Having to sit on the floor is normal and it's what I miss, what I continue to grieve the loss of, what we will never get back. Being able to sit around one table feels like silent screaming. Feels like I am the only one who still misses the normalcy of the chaos.

It has only been recently that I have begun to let it go. No matter how angry or sad or hurt or invalidated I have found myself in the past ten years, I have continued to hope for normalcy, for repair and rebuild, for forgiveness and peace. I have wanted my childhood and all it's traditions and innocent ignorant bliss back, where everything was happy and fun, where no one was this full of anger. I am only very recently moving on, saying goodbye to the old normal and embracing the new normal. Finding a way to enjoy what's here instead of focusing on what's not. The people who have heard me yelling, are the only ones I need anyway.

But, no matter how able I am to move forward, to forget and let go, it is really hard to not be heard. Think back to that toddler throwing a temper tantrum in the store. Picture the kicking, the screaming, the punching...picture all of it in silence. That is how it feels to go about your life thinking that nobody is validating, or even listening to, what you're saying. My feelings are big. They're powerful. They're raw. And until today, I have felt like they were silent.

Last night I got a message that surely my cousin didn't think was much of a big deal. Letting me know she'd had a conversation in which my ten years of feelings were validated: someone heard me. My hurt feelings were understood and accepted, my sadness was not ignored. We did this; we hurt her, and we should be sorry for that. I felt like I won the lottery tonight. Not because I was finally right, not because I intend any forgiveness to take place now, not because I think anything will be any different than it has been for ten years. But because someone finally fucking heard me. And listened. And empathized. And felt remorse.

Because, to be quite blunt, I had no part in what happened. I was a bystander. I have been drug through the mud, the whole time yelling for someone to fix it. This will never be fixed, and I know that. But someone heard me. And listened to me. And validated me.

People need validation of their feelings. Whether we agree or disagree, a person's feelings are always valid. That toddler, throwing a fit in the store, is experiencing valid emotion, albeit inappropriately. But that doesn't mean the kid is wrong or bad; it simply means he needs someone to pick him up and listen, and validate his needs. You don't have to agree. Hell you may wildly disagree. But the way someone feels is valid. The way someone expresses their feelings is valid. The way someone interprets their version of reality, is valid. We are deserving of validity. We deserve to be heard and accepted, and nobody deserves to be ignored.

Don't let the people in your life become invisible. Validate their feelings. When they are kicking and screaming, don't let them feel like their screams are silent. Hear them.

We all deserve to be visible and validated.

Be Someone's Inspiration

Who inspires you?

Sitting in the first hour of an eight hour training meeting last week, the room full of my coworkers was asked by the trainer, who inspires you? No limitations were set; she didn't say, who inspires your personal life, nor did she target our professional mentors. She simply wanted to know who we were inspired by or who we looked up to.

As we went around the room, more and more people saying, "my mom inspires me because she's amazing," I got to thinking; who am I truly inspired by?

When it got to be my turn, I announced that I am inspired by Beverly Cleary, my favorite author, because she wrote what I dream of writing: a successful series of children's books about a famous character,  Ramona Quimby, Age 8. I devoured the Ramona books as a kid, and I love them, even now. Ramona was a character I loved and related to, and she is now a character I dream of finding in my own head. I told the group that Beverly Cleary was my inspiration because she does exactly what I want to do with my life: she writes, and people know who she is. And I love that.

But Beverly Cleary, while she is a professional motivator for me, doesn't really apply as far as personal inspiration in my daily life. And I left the training thinking more and more about who does, actually inspire me daily...

I am inspired by my parents, to wait for the right man, the one who will be my partner in life and who will treat me well. My mom and dad have taught me to fight for what I believe in and stand up for myself no matter what. They have taught me to be strong as well as to compromise, and to put the person I love first. From my mom and dad I have learned to blaze my own trail, not wait for someone to blaze it for me; they taught me to be me, and to love me.

I am inspired by my girlfriends, to create the life that I know will make me happy. My best friend wrote this today, and I find myself so truly proud of where she has come in the year I've known her. When we met, she was, as she says, a basketcase, unable to calm the fuck down. In the last 12 months, she has realized exactly who she is and what she wants, and has learned to put herself in the driver's seat to make it happen. I am inspired by her to do the same - to calm the fuck down, to decide what I want, and to go after it, full force, until I get it. I have a group of strong, independent, happy, driven girlfriends, who make me proud to be a part of their group, proud to be someone who drives and motivates them as well.

I am inspired by the number of babies and toddlers, as well as little kids, in my life who look up to me and who need me. I look at all those little faces, all of their impressionable eyes, and I want to be a better person, to be the best example possible for all of them. I am inspired to be proud of who I am and to not complain about my body, because I want Camille and June to grow up in a world where they know they can be happy no matter what they look like; and I want to give Blake, Finn, Archer, and Oskar an example of a strong girl, and teach them the best way to be a supportive and uplifting man, one who accepts and loves women no matter what. Being an auntie to all of these babies is a motivator for me to really be careful of the way I talk about myself or about other people. If I want them to grow up to change the world, I need to help give them the tools to do that.

I am inspired by my family - specifically by my cousins - who are unique and empowered women. None of us are the same, but in our individuality, we are each others' biggest support and encouragement. We make vastly different life choices but I know I can always count on them to believe in and support me, regardless of the decisions I make. And it goes both ways; they can always count on me to love them and to support the life choices they make, no matter what.

Sitting in this training meeting, with about 30 of my peers, none of whom could come up with anyone inspirational other than their parents, left me feeling truly grateful for the amazing sources of inspiration in my life; I am a lucky girl to have so many people to help me stay on track, to encourage me to blaze a new trail, and to support me when I fall out of line.

So the question is, who are you inspiring?