Why I Saw Strange Men in my Room (and am telling you about it 9 months later)

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I have been wanting to tell my story for awhile now. But every time I went to write my eyes strained, my neck tensed up, my head throbbed and I felt nauseous. After 10 minutes, I’d lose concentration and shut my laptop.  On bad days, it was because of frustration. On good days, it was acceptance; today’s just not my day. I would convince myself that my time is coming. That I will know when the time is right.

At the early stages of my concussion, I closeted my experience. The pain I felt was deep, and I didn’t want to burden people with my afflictions. Who wanted to hear about the fact that every time I crawled out of bed, blood rushed to my head and I nearly passed out? Or that at night it felt as though someone was perpetually hammering a nail into my skull. And when the headache did subside, and I was finally able to shut my eyes, I would unexpectedly jolt awake and spring onto all fours, hyperventilating because of the strange man I swore I saw staring at me from across the room.

I honestly despise excuses and complaining.

I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. There are people-cancer patients, soldiers, rape victims-with far greater battles.

Plus, I like to make the most of my situations, and knew I would overcome this one eventually.

So I downplayed my symptoms to my parents. I hid tears behind closed doors. I practiced mindfulness, self-reflection, and focused on getting better.

With my physical limitations, my thoughts and feelings consumed me.

Questions swirled around: Why is this happening to me? When am I going to get better? What did I do to deserve this?

The more questions I asked, the faster the tornado spun.

I am hardwired to find answers. To get from point A to B as efficiently as possible.

But with this concussion,  I was living in a real-word version of that game at Chuck-E-Cheeses. The one where the gophers pop up and you have to smack them back into the ground. Each time you hit one, another one or two or three resurface (I swear, that game is rigged).

Every time I weathered one storm, another swarmed in. And I would re-activate problem-solving mode.

What was I trying to solve?

A while back, once I was able to tolerate minimal screen time,  I navigated my way to my blog: arrowliving.com.

The home page popped up and I scanned the quote at the center of the page:

“AN ARROW CAN ONLY BE SHOT BY PULLING IT BACKWARD. WHEN LIFE IS DRAGGING YOU BACK WITH DIFFICULTIES IT MEANS IT’S GOING TO LAUNCH YOU INTO SOMETHING GREAT. SO JUST FOCUS AND KEEP AIMING.”

Below, was the intention of my blog;

“Arrow Living is intended to inspire and encourage individuals to overcome all circumstances, even the seemingly impossible. The stories, interviews, quotes, and excerpts, are meant to motivate individuals to live the most wildly rewarding and satisfying life humanly possible.”

In that moment, it hit me.

A year ago, I had unknowingly written out my destiny. I had gotten what I asked for.  To get thrown directly into the embers of a “seemingly impossible” situation, and somehow find a way to make the most of it. A chance to perform my own case study on what it means to be an Arrow Liver.

Once I had this revelation, my motivation to get better rose even further. I couldn’t wait to overcome this concussion so I could share my story and inspire as many people as possible.

My concussion occurred while playing in Australian Women’s League. I rested, waiting for my symptoms to subside. Weeks passed, and I had little to show. I would have to postpone my story on perseverance.

After 8 weeks of stagnation, I saw a migraine specialist who told me to take a certain medication and I would be back in a matter of weeks. I started progressing quickly, and after just three training sessions, my coach played me in a game.  I made it! I thought.

I thought wrong. I played a full match, 60 more minutes than planned. By half time I was physically and emotionally depleted. The following day, my symptoms flooded over me and I was back to feeling terribly disconnected with myself.

A couple weeks later, I flew back to Oregon. With great medical and emotional support at home,  surely I’d get better and back on the field in no time.

For nearly 9 months, I have been living in a physical and mental cloud of ambiguity. My symptoms, at their worst, have prevented me from doing many things that bring me joy: play soccer, write, read, explore the outdoors, and spend time with my loved ones.

A few months ago, I hit up one of Portland’s finest treasures, Powell’s Bookstore. I ventured to the health section and stock piled every novel I could find on concussions, and sprawled out on the floor, determined to fix my brain’s ailments.  Again, I was problem-solving.  Within 20 minutes, I had to stop reading about treating concussion symptoms. Because of concussion symptoms.

A month later, having made progress,  I again decided to visit Powell’s. By the time I walked into the store’s cafe, I felt like I was engulfed by an energy-sucking vacuum. I sat down to journal, but picking up my pen felt like I was ascending Mt. Everest. The chattering couple next to me sent my brain over the ledge. I got up with the intention of walking home, but my entire body ached, and I found myself gravitating to the corner of the sci-fi section. I laid down, and pulled my sweatshirt hood over my eyes. A few minutes later, someone tapped my shoulder. I lifted my hood and a store employee was an inch away from my face.

“Excuse me you aren’t allowed to sleep here.”

I outwardly laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but inside I felt defeated.

For months, my journey has been a one step forward two gallops back process. Any time I set my eyes on a target date, I have been let down. And once again, I postponed telling my story.

Although physical symptoms have prevented me from writing, I recently uncovered the real reason I was withholding my story. It wasn’t to spare others.

At the eye of the tornado of my struggle was MY OWN fear.

I was safekeeping my problems until I surpassed them.

Or at least until I was on the right track.

So I could be in control and have an answer.

I believe it’s a natural human tendency to share our vulnerabilities only once we are able to wrap them up with a bow.

It’s a mechanism we use to protect ourselves.

Because society admires those who overcome tough times.

How Oprah Winfrey endured poverty and hardship to become the world’s most motivational talkshow host.  How Steve Jobs went from college drop out to founder of tech powerhouse, Apple. How Major league baseball player Mike Lowell overcame cancer and went on to win the World Series.

Through the media, we often hear of these stories post-struggle. Once they’ve made it.  It’s truly inspiring.

But there may be something more brave and powerful about divulging unsolved issues. About confessing that you are trying everything possible, but still have nothing to show for it. That you are scared out of your mind not knowing how things are going to turn out.

The more I exchange my story with others, the more people share with me their own battles, and I realize we are all ultimately chasing the same underlying feeling of worthiness.

Whether it’s losing weight, earning a promotion or finding a soulmate,  we often theorize, that once we figure out our most pressing issue, everything will fall into place and we will finally achieve these feelings.

I believe this thinking is fruitless and flawed.

Once we tackle one challenge, another one will undoubtedly present itself. Life is a never ending string of obstacles. We will never have everything figured out.

Sometimes, the strongest thing we can do, is allow ourselves to be present and accept where we are right now. To understand that everything we are feeling—from the hopelessness of lying on the Powell’s bookstore floor, to the radical acceptance in reading Arrow Living’s home page—is real. To trust that everything is going to work out.

That it’s okay to simultaneously not have all the answers, yet still have an unwavering belief in my ultimate vision.

That if I am intentional in my actions to be the best I can be, to discover my truest self and fulfill my purpose, then by the law of momentum, good things are bound to happen.

This is my endless story of Arrow Living.

p.s. If you need to contact me I’ll be curled up at Powell’s in the self-help section

p.s.s I no longer see strange men in my room, but in future posts I’m going to backtrack to the beginning of my concussion when I did, and reveal the revelations that have gotten me to where I am today-still Arrow Living

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The Magic of Magic and Magical Moments

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My heart hopscotched like a 5th grader answering the final question on Who Wants to be a Millionaire.

Except no encyclopedia or trivial pursuit could prepare me for the task before me.

As my train rolled into Circular Quay, I closed my eyes one last time and envisioned the path that guided me here today. I inhaled one last deep breath, thanked my family and friends, then let fate play its course.

A few months back, my international mates Carm, Keelin, Paige and I purchased tickets to The Illusionists, a magic show,  at the Sydney Opera House.  I’m all for the “wow factor”, and this show was touted as one of the best magic performances in the world. We’re talking humans disappearing left and right, scantly clad woman being sawed in half, and mind readers pinpointing what audience members ate for breakfast three Tuesdays ago.

On the day of the event, Paige caught a stomach bug. Keelin, elected to stay behind and help nurture Paige back to health. Due to the short notice, Keelin and Paige were unable to refund the tickets. They asked Carm and I to find replacements, but since the show was during the work day, we were only able to find one interested and available teammate.

That left us with one spare ticket.

On that afternoon, Carm and our replacement, Eliza, drove into the city, and I trained in to meet them.

As I arrived, my pocket buzzed. A text from Carm informing me they would be late.

An electrifying shock rippled into my soul alerting me of the gravity of the situation.

In my pocket rested the extra ticket.

I was on my own, a lone wolf, with the hefty responsibility of allotting someone with two hours of complimentary magic.

A job that sounds trivial to most, but of which past experiences have left me riddled with guilt for neglecting an opportunity to provide someone with significant joy.

My train arrived into a pouring down rainy Sydney, setting the scene for the dramatic duty bestowed upon me.

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Challenge accepted. I threw on my rain jacket, exited the train, and began rehearsing how I’d initiate a conversation with my chosen pedestrian.

“Excuse me sir, how do you feel about experiencing two hours of magic with me this afternoon?…free of charge?”

I definitely needed to practice to avoid giving off the wrong impression.

As I contemplated proper verbiage, I realized I was getting ahead of myself.

How does one even begin to identify an innocent bystander whom fancies magic, let alone someone who would be willing to spontaneously accompany a stranger?

Do they wear bright neon colors? Do they walk with an extra pep in their step? Do they speak in a highly animated tone?

Even if those were the parameters, I struggled to find any suitors.

I decided to first follow logic and narrow my candidates down to independent travelers.

I then quickly devised a general “friendliness scale” in my head:

Resting Grouchy Face         —1——2——3——4——5—   All 32 teeth-revealing smile

Boring Outfit                       —1——2——3——4——5—  Wildly fun accessories

Eeyore-esque slouchiness   —1——2——3——4——5—  Tarzan-esque uprightness

Staring at ground               —1——2——3——4——5—  Soaking in the scenery

 

Any score less than 16 resulted in a nullified test.

I approached the event grounds with 10 minutes to find a suitor.

The scale proved to be effective, eliminating over 90% of passerby.

I scanned the crowd like an undercover cop scoping out her perpetrator.

Up the stairs walked a tall grey-haired 65ish man, BMI 34, in need of some nose hair clippers. But it was those stray hairs that gave him an endearing grandfatherly vibe, and earned him high points on the scale.

He was my man. I forged a smile, pulled back my shoulders (like the self-help books suggest for instant confidence), and approached my nominee.

“Excuse me sir, are you going to the magic show?”

He responded, “no why?”

“I have an extra ticket and was wondering if you wanted to come with me?”

As I finished my question, a similar-aged women shuffled beside him and grabbed his arm.

“Do you have two? I’m with her. ”

A swing and a miss.

This rejection instantly provoked a flashback to a middle school function. A boy named Max asked me to slow dance to Chris Brown’s “Say Goodbye.” I declined his offer. So this is what Max felt? How terribly inconsiderate of me. I took a second to spiritually apologize to Max and commend his bravery, but time didn’t allow for any further analysis of the situation. I’d reflect more on rejection later.

7 minutes until show time.

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I scurried outside and surveyed the contenders again. An army of kids traveling as part of a school program. They failed to even pass the initial “solo traveler” screening.   A bloke wearing all black sitting on the stairs, shoulders slumped. Warranted a “1” on multiple accounts. A man approximately 45, bright yellow rain jacket, blue jeans and 1970’s style running shoes. Eureka!  Anyone who wears jeans with old-school running shoes screams good-natured to me. He also carried a camera strapped around his neck. Excellent, someone who enjoys capturing the moment. I crept closer to observe my finalist for a minute-he resembled a “Gregory”-and  I completed as extensive of a security check as possible in such limited time. He bent down on one knee to snap a more artistic shot of the Opera House. Sold.

I jogged up the stairs and waved “Gregory” down.

“Excuse me, are you attending the magic show?”

“No, I’m not” he responded in an uplifting voice.

“Would you like to come? My friend was going to come with me, but she can’t come anymore so I have an extra ticket?”

“Aww I’m with my wife and kids.”

“Oh, ok I really don’t want this ticket to go to waste, I’m not sure who to ask, I’m just looking for people who are solo.”

“Um well I’m with my wife and kids” He repeated. At this point I realized that it sounded like I was seeking a romantic date. “Maybe try that man over there” he added.

“Oh no, sorry I didn’t mean solo, like single…..sorry, no offense, not like that…. I am just looking for someone who is alone because I only have one extra ticket.”

“Gregory” let out a forced chuckle, strong enough to stab discomfort through the both of us.

I left apologizing one last time, slightly embarrassed, but more-so agitated with the time I wasted on this unsuitable candidate.

I looked at my watch. 2:58. Show starts at 3:00.

I shut my eyes and “abracadabra-ed” my imaginary magic wand for a miracle.

I hustled inside and came across only one person by themselves: a mid-20’s man of asian

descent, flipping through an Opera House brochure. He wore a bucket hat. Bonus points for the bucket hat. If he wasn’t my dude, then it wasn’t meant to be.

Here we go Kendall, third times the charm.

“Excuse me, are you going to the magic show?”

“No.” My abrupt inquiry startled him.

“Do you want to go?”

“How much for ticket?” He asked in broken english.

“Free. My friend isn’t coming so I have an extra.”

“Free!?” His eyes flickered like a kid about to watch a magic show.

“Yes.”

“Yaaa!”

His animation jolted me to life. I love it when people are as amped about something as myself.

I told him we had to hustle, we only had one minute before the doors closed.

I rushed to the theater entrance, and The Chosen One quickly mimicked my strides.

I handed the ticket man my printed confirmation ticket. He told me I had to retrieve my actual tickets from Will Call. He urged me to run and required The Chosen One to hand over his backpack at the coat check.

The Chosen One and I locked eyes and nodded at each other, internationally communicating that we’d meet at the entrance. We then sprinted in opposite directions.

By some supernatural blessing, we whisked through the gate, and sat down with salty liquid mustaches and 30 seconds to spare.

“Wow!!!!”  The show hadn’t even started and The Chosen One was blown away by the venue’s vivid red curtains and theater lights.

“I’m Massa.” He shook my hand. Massa was from Japan and had been traveling alone for over a year in New Zealand, Bali, and Fiji. He arrived in Australia just yesterday. He had never been to a magic show before, but told me he really likes ball juggling and card tricks.

Before I could inquire more about his travels and illusion preferences, the lights dimmed. It was show time.

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Our hearts danced with enchantment, wonder, and awe for two straight hours. An acrobat floated in thin air, then disappeared in a flash.  A puppeteer skillfully pulled dozens of strings to manipulate his puppet person to perform a dazzling mini magic trick. A man, submersed underwater and shackled by his hands and feet, used a paperclip to escape in three minutes. It was wild and ended too soon.

The acts were jaw-dropping and mind-altering (still trying to figure out how you chop a woman in half, then another woman spontaneously emerges from the same coffin), but the magic I felt flowed beyond the wooden stage.

It sounds cliche to say that meeting Massa was destiny, but I believe when you open yourself up, miraculous things can happen. I had the opportunity to provide someone with joy so I interrogated random people, faced rejection (not bitter about it…), and ultimately stumbled upon a traveler exploring on his own for over a year. Both of us stretched outside our comfort zones.

Every day, in some shape or form, we have the opportunity to open up to others.  Even if it’s just sincere “hi, how are you?”, it could result in a rejection (like I said I’m not bitter…), but if you’re persistent, it has the potential to attract unexpected whimsical things into your life. Like a last minute complimentary invitation to a magic show from a frantic stranger, who just-so-happened to select you based off a self-invented “friendliness scale” because of your bucket hat. No scientific explanation. Just simply, true magic.

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Throwing Away 9 Trash Bags Full of my Belongings Changed my Life

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On every away trip I travel with a banana in my bag. I rarely anticipate traveling with the banana, but before I leave the house, there’s always one banana on the counter staring me down, begging not to be left behind. I give in and chuck the thing in my bag with the intention of eating it on the plane ride. Yet, without fail, I always forget I packed the banana until I arrive at the hotel. I open my bag and find a sticky, smeared brown mash covering the innards of my bag.

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The vomity goo serves as a blatant reminder of one of my least favorite qualities; I am a slob.

Before I could talk, my parents nicknamed me SQ, short for Spill Queen. An average meal ended with mac and cheese splayed across the kitchen floor. As I grew older, my biggest fights with my parents revolved around my messy room. They’d ask me to pick up my stuff and I’d stall as long as possible.  Usually, they laid down an ultimatum and threatened to call my friend’s mom to tell her I wouldn’t be able to have our much anticipated weekend sleepover. Only then, would I give in, pile up all my belongings from the floor, and chuck them into my closet with just enough space to shut the door.

This is not something I’m proud of. I dislike my slobby tendencies and have failed many times in attempt to become tidier. After a deep clean of my room, I’d swear on my Eeyore pillow pet that this would be the day that I consistently put away my belongings. One week later, I’d be back to square one.

I simply accepted that I was an unfortunate beneficiary of this irreversible personality trait.

But then, awhile back I was at a family dinner and my mother informed me of a book she started reading;  “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.”  I had never before witnessed someone so animated about organizing and cleaning.  My brothers, dad, and I rolled our eyes as she explained the book’s philosophy which involved clothes having feelings and a tutorial on how to fold your clothes.

I left the conversation intrigued, but not sold. I always have heaps of books that are on my to-read-next list, and a book detailing how to clean wasn’t a worthy addition.

A couple days later, my team and I landed after a late-night flight. We arrived at our hotel near midnight and I zombie-walked to our room, eager to hit the hay as soon as I reached my bed. I zipped open my bag to grab my pajamas, and felt something sticky on my fingertips. Another smeared banana.

You’ve got to be kidding me! This was the last straw. I was fed up with having to wash my bag after every trip. I’d had enough of this monkey business. Tomorrow I would start the “Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.”

The book commenced with a background of the author Marie Kondo. When Marie was in middle school, she hid in her classroom and tidied up the bookshelves while her classmates were outside running around in PE class. She spent her free-time scouring magazines and articles for the newest methods of organizing. After school, she’d hurry home to emulate these techniques in her own room. Now at 30 years-old, Marie has established herself as an organizing consultant.

Right off the bat, Marie’s undeniable passion intrigued me and embodied an Arrow Living mindset. This is someone who managed to create a career around her obsession of tidying.

Marie went on to explain that messy rooms aren’t due to a lack of skill, but rather a lack of awareness. Only a select few organize naturally. All this time, I blamed myself for my inability to stay clean, but Marie was telling me it’s not entirely my fault. I was starting to dig this chick.

Marie claimed that her method, if followed, will allow you to be tidy for the rest of your life. I took out my pen and a pad of paper, and vigorously took notes.

I finished the book in two days and am convinced Marie cast a spell on me. I could not be more excited to get home to begin the tidying process. Who was Marie turning me into? I didn’t know, but I liked it.

Due to the vagabond lifestyle of a professional women’s soccer player, the majority of my clothes reside at my parent’s place. Once we landed back in Portland, I drove straight to their home to begin the organizing.

Marie’s first step is to choose a category and place every item you own of this category into the same vicinity.

I decided to be aggressive and tackle my biggest category first; clothes. My closet is jam-packed with 12 year old soccer cleats, holey socks, high school memorabilia , yellow-but-supposed-to-be-green weathered shirts, Forever 21 star-ladened belts, and every free t-shirt I’d ever caught at a sporting event. I keep most everything with the thought process of “maybe next year my sparkly crop top with embroidered artificial diamonds will be trendy.”

But that was the “pre-meeting Marie” me. Now that Marie was my homegirl, I was inspired to make moves. I heaved every shirt, jacket, pant, scarf, skort, and purse out of my closet and into the middle of my room.

After compiling all of my clothes into the same arena, I realized a few things. First, I am a raging tea bag and gum wrapper hoarder. I could open up my own tea shop with the amount of spare tea bags I found dispersed throughout my coat pockets and backpacks. And I could then decorate the wall with a 10 foot by 10 foot edgy art piece solely consisting of vibrant 5 gum wrappers.

But even more startling was the amount of clothes I’ve acquired over my lifetime-especially for an anti-shopper like myself. I want to gauge my eye balls out when I walk into a store and see a plain grey V neck shirt that is the same price as a four-course steakhouse dinner.  I appreciate shopping occasionally, but I’m more a one shop and done person.  Then I crave my eye mask, some chamomile tea, and a nap with my dog.

Next, I began the second step: purging. In the past, I’ve gotten rid of things because I simply didn’t like them, or for size issues. For instance,  I’ll part ways with my middle school dress only because it now fit like a skin-tight tank top.

But my girl Marie had a different way of looking at it. Marie instructs you to take each item of clothing, hold it, feel it, do what you need to do with it, then ask yourself the question “Does this bring me joy?” If it does, then you may keep the item. If not, or if you even doubt your love for it, then it goes in the discard pile. You need not feel guilty about getting rid of anything, even if the purchase ripped a hole through your wallet or your grandma gifted it to you for your Quinceañera. Marie explains that the item brought you joy at some point, thus it’s served its purpose. Thank it and move on knowing it will bring someone else joy.

I am firm believer that a successful life revolves around experiencing happiness. We should be doing things that make us happy in the present moment or in the foreseeable future. In order to achieve this joy, we should surround ourself with positive supportive people, and take actions that trigger enjoyment.

Yes, many times we perform tasks that don’t immediately elicit happiness- like running hill sprints, paying taxes, and voluntarily entering the torture chamber that some call the dentist office-but the reason for these actions, almost always comes down to the fact that it will eventually make us happy.

I’ve made a conscious effort to follow these happiness guidelines. Yet up until now, I’d severely overlooked the significance of my room. The space that bookmarks ever single one of my days. The space I come home to, slide under the covers, and shut my eyes to absorb all of the day’s insights.  Then,  9 hours later I open my eyes to this space, verifying that I’ve been given the opportunity to live another day.  Yet I’ve cluttered this sacred space with meaningless and outdated items.

There are many circumstances in life that are out of control. But we do have the ability to dictate what items surround us and I’ve realized that all my life I’ve unnecessarily immersed myself with “okay” items.  But I’m not okay with living an okay life. I’m not okay with okay dreams or okay relationships. I want insanely rewarding and fulfilling experiences. If I want to achieve maximum happiness, it’s logical to create a living quarter filled with things that ultimately align with this innate desire.

After asking “does this bring me joy?” to my underwear, socks, and hundreds of other items, I gained a pretty solid understanding of what brings me happiness. Since then, I’ve used this question as a filter beyond my linens and garments.

“Does this bring me joy” is an invaluable question because it discourages deep analytical thinking or outside influences. It’s an emotional question that is based on intuition that only you can answer.

It’s pretty transparent whether something elicits or will elicit joy. This allows us to hone in on our self-judgement and get a better sense of who and what we want in life, and then take steps towards living in alignment with these values.

Through asking this question, I eliminated 9 garbage bags full of belongings. Holy s*&t!(pun intended).

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After purging, Marie then tells you to put your clothes in their designated home and fold them the “Kon Mari” way. The standard stacking clothes method, leaves the poor clothes at the bottom of the drawer neglected and suffocated. The Kon Mari method allows each item to stand up vertically, giving the clothes life and making each item visible. The method essentially brings the clothes to life.

 After fully completing the entire process, I can verify that Marie’s title, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up”, is warranted.

 It’s been months since my re-vamp and I can honestly say I’m a new woman. I’m not only tidier, but I feel a sense of relief and bliss when I enter my room. I am happier and I am the first to admit that it’s weird. Really weird. I never in a million years thought tidying up would have such a profound impact on my life. Occasionally, I let my clothes pile up and I still spill on myself at meals. Some things never change. But one of the most revolutionary byproducts of the process: I haven’t had to deal with any smeared bananas since. Does that bring me joy? Yes, yes it does.