We live in the era of urgent news updates sharing information about the most recent school shooting. Sadly, we have largely become numb to these frequent news stories and the subsequent “our thoughts and prayers are with your school” sentiment from our legislators. Is there anyone else out there who shares my sentiment — that thoughts and prayers for these students, staff and families are not enough? When are we going to enforce our gun laws and keep our children safe? When are we going to say “Enough is enough!” regarding our teachers being human shields for our children? When will we work to find a real solution to students bringing guns to school?
I’m writing about this because, though school shootings are horrific, most people feel significant distance from these events. We all have a “not in my neighborhood” mentality. We all want to feel that the community we’ve chosen is safe. However, on Friday, March 4, 2022, Olathe East had a school shooting. Olathe East — the school where my children attended. The school that houses students and staff who I care about. A school that’s practically in my backyard. Wait, what? This wasn’t supposed to happen in a suburban Kansas school!
Luckily, no one was killed in this shooting. The shooter was shot and later hospitalized. The assistant principal and SRO were both shot, but they were released from the hospital the day of the incident. Still, a school of nearly 2,000 students is left feeling traumatized and afraid. Teachers, like students, are anxious. Are there other kids in the building who regularly bring guns to school? Is there a way to make this building feel safe again?
As a teacher, I have lived through the pre-Columbine era, where a school shooting was both shocking and occasional. But since Columbine, school shootings have become a thing. We now have active shooter drills in schools to prepare for this event. Don’t get me wrong. I am glad we prepare. In the case of the Olathe shooting, it appears to me that the SRO followed protocol and probably saved many lives. The school was on lockdown, and no students were injured. But if you’ve ever been in a dark room with frightened first graders, hunkering down with the door locked and only a dim flashlight for light, you might reconsider your stance on what to do about school shootings. Gun violence at school should not be a thing, and small children should not have to ask their teachers whether an active shooter exercise is a drill or real.
I don’t have the answers, folks. I wish I did. But I do believe that though there are many responsible gun owners, we are a country that values our 2nd Amendment rights more than we value human lives. We allow underpaid teachers to go into buildings knowing that today might be the day that they have to block a child from a bullet or lockdown their classroom. And instead of helping us, many of our legislators offer this sort of statement, “Our thoughts and prayers are with you.” Well, that’s not enough. What about doing something? What about action and policy change? What about providing adequate funding to schools that will allow protections for our children? What about education and/or counseling for staff and students so they don’t feel anxious about coming to school? What about mental health initiatives to help students who attain guns? What about putting our heads together as a country and a community to make school a safe and harmonious place for our children? Please, no more empty words “addressing” this problem.
Let me end with this. I am prepared to protect a student from a gunman by taking a bullet. I am prepared to die so a child won’t. But folks, this isn’t actually my job. My job is to educate, support, mentor and encourage. We need to ask ourselves as a nation, is this the America we want — a nation where our children are afraid of being at school? We owe it to our children (and to our teachers) to do better than this.
“Teachers are the guardians of spaces that allow students to
breathe and be curious and explore the world and be who they are without suffocation.”
Brene Brown
Here are two organizations that work to end gun violence in schools (as well as in homes and communities) if you’re interested in getting involved.
I’ve always been a music girl (well, rock-n-roll girl in particular). I’ve been aware of pop music, classic rock, and other genres since I was a kid. I’m a pretty eclectic music fan. I grew up on John Denver, Neil Sedaka, Oak Ridge Boys and a variety of 60s hits my mom and dad played. I listened to the late 70s pop hits played on the radio. I listened to my aunt and uncle’s records they stored at my grandparents house. I memorized the words to the entire Grease soundtrack, popular when I was young. At that time, our record player was in our kitchen, and I’d play a record and dance around, belting out all of the lyrics. This is a fond childhood memory of mine and is probably why I feel like the kitchen should be a warm and welcoming center of activity in any home.
I started my own record collection at a young age, with my first musical selection being Shaun Cassidy. I loved him! I bought his first record at my grandpa’s Ben Franklin store, and I’d play that record on repeat and sing. When I was six years old, my grandparents got me four tickets to go to the Shaun Cassidy concert in Wichita as my Christmas gift. My parents and my two year old sister and I all journeyed to the concert. Shawn started singing, and I burst into tears. In my memory, it was my six year old self sobbing as if the Beatles themselves were playing. If you played “Da Doo Ron Ron” right now, it would take me right back to this particular era of my childhood. Shaun taught me early on that I loved a good concert — thousands of people letting go of insecurities, singing and dancing and sharing the joy of music.
Since then, I have realized that music sets people free. It inspires. It gets people out of their heads and lets them cut loose. Live music, in particular, can sometimes feel like “church” when you’ve got a crowd of people all singing an artist’s songs, swaying to the music, enjoying life and feeling uplifted. (I’m thinking U2 in Kansas City in 2017. Amazing!) This shared experience is what has always drawn me in. Recently, I experienced this again — this time at a Cyndi Lauper concert.
When I was in Middle School, Cyndi Lauper was my jam. I had her album She’s so Unusual, and I knew all the words to every song on the album. (This was back in the day when we listened to a whole album instead of cherry picking a few songs.) I would hole up in my room and listen to my records, especially this one. I’d belt out “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” as if it were my own personal anthem. Perhaps it was and is. When I hear these songs today, I am transported back to my 12 year old self — shy, insecure, but brought to life through music. Cyndi’s songs transport me back to when I had a crush on a boy named Mark, I teased Mr. Beye every day in Science class, I hung out with Michele and Kristyn on the weekends. I have a very strong tie to Cyndi Lauper in particular, although all pop music in the 80s (and beyond) has had this effect on me. Albums and songs connect me to specific times in my past.
Fast forward to my child-rearing years. My husband and I are both huge music nerds, and we exposed our kids to a lot of different kinds, especially the music of our youth. At some point along the way, my daughter Ally found Cyndi Lauper. It could have been through Spotify or on a car ride with me. Either way, she and I would be riding around in the car, belting out “True Colors” or “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and enjoying life. Ally shared my love of music, and some of our best times were spent simply driving around and singing.
In 2020, Ally died. She’d fought glioblastoma for nearly 3 ½ years. We had a lot of songs we loved to listen to together — songs that when they are played today bring me back to my days of parenting Ally and spending time with her. We both liked “Walking on Sunshine,” ”Here Comes the Sun,” “Raise your Glass,” and of course “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” It was sort of our mantra. We loved to live our lives doing fun things together, singing, dancing, laughing, and just hanging out. We even had “moves” to some of our favorite songs, which thinking about it today, may not have been all that safe when we were in the car! When I hear our favorite tunes, I think of Ally. Sometimes these songs make me sad, but usually they make me smile and feel grateful for these good times.
Now back to Cyndi Lauper. A few months ago, I went to a Cyndi Lauper concert with my friends Cheri and Kristy. I was so excited as I had never seen Cyndi live before, and like I said, she was my middle school jam. Prior to the concert, I’d done a little costume planning. I bought a t-shirt and cut off the neck to make it an off the shoulder, 80s sort of tee. I dug out my bright palette of eye shadow so I could paint my eyes in three colors like Cyndi sometimes did. I found some old Converse hightops, and I added some colorful hair strands to my hair to complete the look. I was excited — almost as giddy as I was in high school and going to a concert with my friends!
When we got to the concert and parked, I perused the crowd of concert-goers. I figured Cyndi would draw an interesting crowd, and I was not disappointed. There were tons of middle-aged moms just like me wearing 80s retro outfits. There were kids. There were older folks. There were men wearing kilts. There were twenty-somethings who, like Ally, had also discovered Cyndi’s music. It was a crazy, fun mish-mash of people and outfits and hair colors. It was a rock-n-roll Love Fest of sorts.
I was nervous that I’d cry when Cyndi took the stage — that my memory of Ally and I driving around town, heads bobbing to Cyndi’s songs would make me sad. However, as Cyndi came out and began to sing, I only felt joy. In the middle of the show, the moon came out and was framed beautifully by clouds. I took this as a nudge from Ally saying, “Mom, I’m here too! Let’s rock out!”
So I belted out all of the favorite songs of my youth, but especially the songs Ally and I used to sing in the car. I danced, and I hugged my friends. I enjoyed the muggy summer night with a hoard of strangers who, for ninety short minutes, felt like friends. I let the music wash over me and fill me up. And at the end of the night, Cyndi’s music brought me right back to 2017, in my white RAV4, running errands with Ally and singing these words:
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you
So don’t be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors
Are beautiful…like a rainbow
In a way, these songs let me preserve pieces of Ally — nearly tangible and treasured memories of time spent with my sweet girl. That’s what songs do for me; they provide a soundtrack to my life. Even when the people I love are gone, I still have memories of them captured through songs; I still have the pure joy these songs bring.
Crysta Hudson-Baier’s Extraordinary Playlist (in no particular order)
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper
Jessie’s Girl by Rick Springfield
They Don’t Know by Tracy Ullman — This song makes me think about Rich and how people used to think our relationship was a little unusual because of our playful banter.
Leaving on a Jet Plane by John Denver — My dad once told me a story about this song, and I cry (and usually call my dad) every time I hear it.
Calendar Girl by Neil Sedaka — This was one of my mom’s favorites. We listened to it in our kitchen in our house on Ohio Street.
I Want to Hold your Hand by The Beatles — This was on the first Beatles record that I ever bought with my own money.
Hopelessly Devoted by Olivia Newton-John — Elementary school Crysta used to skate around in our unfinished basement on Money Street and pretend to be Sandy, heartbroken over Danny Zuko.
I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For by U2 — This song reminds me to always keep seeking.
Just Like Heaven by The Cure
Fallen Angel by Poison
18 and Life by Skid Row
Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles — This song expresses one of my deepest beliefs — that things eventually get better. The sun eventually reappears.
In My Life by The Beatles — This is probably my 2nd favorite Beatles song. I want this song played at my celebration of life.
Country Roads by John Denver
Shake it Off by Taylor Swift
Longview by Green Day
These Days by the Foo Fighters
Free to Decide by The Cranberries — This was my drive to work/girl power anthem my first five years of teaching. I still listen to it when I need a boost.
California Stars by Billy Bragg and Wilco — Rich recently turned me on to this song, and it just brings me joy. The lyrics were written by Woody Guthrie and later set to music. If you have not heard it, go immediately to Spotify and listen.
Amish Paradise by Weird Al — I mean, what can I say? I have loved Weird Al since the 80s. His shows never disappoint.
When each new year rolls around, I like to think of a word that will be the focus of my year. It helps me start a new year with a sense of purpose, and in theory, the word guides my actions through the year. In 2024, my word was MORE. Not more as in more stuff. More as in more time with family and friends, more self care, more calm, more doing the things I love, more listening to my gut, more positivity.
I think I had some measure of success the first half of the year. I made an effort to visit my parents regularly. I called on friends. I was gentle with myself. However, mid-year I found myself in a personal slump. I was unmotivated, uninspired, lacking my usual desire to be out in the world doing all the things. Reflecting back on 2024, I now recognize that it was around August when my word changed. That’s when MORE morphed into STUCK, as in I felt stuck and discouraged with just about every part of my life.
Feeling stuck isn’t a new thing for me. As a “creative” (at least a creative in my mind), I’m somewhat prone to bouts of indifference or lack of motivation. I get stuck for a day or two at a time, then something grabs me and I’m back to my normal, reflective self. But this time, my slump lasted for half a year. I had trouble getting re-inspired. Finally, around Christmas, I found that I was awakening from a six month hiatus. A happier, more creative version of Crysta was re-emerging. I ended 2024 grateful to be feeling unstuck and more like myself.
How do I get unstuck when I’m feeling indifferent about the world? In particular, how did I get out of this long slump? I don’t necessarily have a master plan or all the answers, but I do have a few strategies that generally help. Here they are.
I get outside. Sunshine helps my mood and creativity immensely. I like to sit outside and read or take walks with friends. Being cooped up inside tends to make me feel depressed.
I connect with people. I am an introspective extravert, and I need my family and friends. When I spend time with my favorite people, I am almost immediately pulled out of my funk.
I read. Generally, a good book with great, poignant quotes gets my creative juices flowing and leaves me feeling uplifted.
I focus on gratitude. When I focus on the things I am grateful for in my life — my son, my husband, my family and friends who support me, my job — it’s hard for me to stay down for too long. I almost immediately recognize that I have a blessed life in so many ways.
Finally, I write. When I sit down with my journal or at the keyboard, I am able to work through my feelings. Usually after a writing session, I have a better perspective on life.
The point of this is to say that everyone experiences slumps. Everyone has situations that feel insurmountable. And sometimes, a situation is crappy and there’s not much a person can do. However, the ordinary ups and downs of human life can often be resolved through persistence, through individual strategies, through a person’s desire to feel better (and sometimes, medication). It took me six months to climb my way out of my most recent slump, but I am so glad that I stepped into 2025 with a better outlook on the world…and a brand new word.
My new word, however, is for another day and another blog post. I will end with this — a quote from one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott. “There is nothing as sweet as a comeback, when you are down and out, about to lose, and out of time. Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.”
I’m sitting in my local salon having “hair therapy” with my stylist. We are talking about motherhood. My stylist is about twenty years my junior, and her son is a toddler; my son is twenty-three. And yet, the topic of motherhood, whether the child is young or a young adult, connects us. I’m reminding her to listen to her intuition, not the myriad of people who have “advice” for her. I’m reminded to do the same for myself, even now.
If you’d asked me in my early twenties, I would have told you that my biggest life aspiration was to be successful in my career (education). I figured that I would have children at some point, but I’d sort of always planned on spending my twenties and maybe early 30s focusing on work. Looking back, it’s interesting that I would have had such a lackadaisical attitude toward being a mom.
Today, even though my son is officially grown, I feel like my most important job in the world is being a mother. J, my firstborn, changed everything. I remember feeling both excited and terrified to be expecting. I babysat a fair amount as a kid, but I didn’t have much experience with babies. I had A LOT to learn. On the day J was born, I was handed my new little bundle, and I’m sure my expression was priceless — one of pure fear! At 29, I was still learning how to take care of myself. How was I supposed to keep an infant alive?
After J was born, I took two months of maternity leave. I remember laying him on his tummy on the floor and reading books to him when he was just days old. I used to hold him until he got squirmy just marveling at his chubby cheeks, his tiny fingers, his long eyelashes. I was certain that I had created the perfect little human.
The years of parenting this kid from birth to adulthood were filled with high highs and some lows as any honest parent will admit. Parenthood — motherhood — is the most challenging of all jobs. I can go into a classroom and, for the most part, not take the behavior of my students personally. As a mother, however, I got my feelings hurt a lot. I doubted myself. In fact, I still doubt myself. I could speak to my doubts here, but that’s a whole other discussion.
Ultimately, here is what I have come to believe: Mothering is not a “one size fits all” endeavor. There are many ways to be a good mother. I have friends who were stay-at-home moms; I have friends who were essentially the breadwinner of their family. I consider myself somewhere in between since, as a teacher, I was home in the summers but also brought in income. Yet none of these versions of motherhood are ALL right or ALL wrong. We moms are very skilled in figuring out what is right for our own family. (We’re also very good at feeling guilty about whichever choice we make.)
In my own case, I may have been a working mom, but I feel like I was an involved one. I also checked J’s backpack, kept in touch with his teachers, took him to school functions, attended his sporting events. I made time to spend alone with him both before and after his sister was born. I read to him all the time, including in the place he loved as a toddler — his closet. I helped move him into his college dorm, and I attended Mom’s Weekends for his fraternity. I did these things because I love J, I love being a mom, and spending time with my kid is important to me.
Fast forward to J at 23. After graduating from college, he is home for a brief stretch. He’s planning on renting a place with his friends in the new year. He’s ready to be out on his own. And here’s my dilemma. How do I mother an adult child as I am no longer needed in the same way? J has an adult job now that he found on his own without me nagging him. He is getting to work each day on time, and he is managing his own finances. J is doing his own grocery shopping and cooking his own meals. Even though I miss little J with long eyelashes and lots of opinions, I am over the moon proud of the man he is becoming. Today he still has long eyelashes and loads of opinions, but he is also (mostly) self-sufficient.
So what does momming J look like now? I’m still figuring this out. Here’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to give him independence. I’m trying to let him figure things out on his own…unless he specifically asks for help. I’m trying to not judge his decisions and not nag him about future plans (although, let the record state that at some point, I’d really love some grand kids). I’m trying to be someone steady in his life who loves him unconditionally — someone that he knows he can come to no matter what. I’m trying to let go and let J soar.
Over the years, I have learned that being a “good” mom means loving the little person who grew inside me through the darkest of times, through the triumphs and through the many different stages of life. Being a mom – J’s mom – was and is a privilege; though it has sometimes been hard, I am grateful for the ways in which being J’s mom has changed and challenged and stretched me.
“Eventually they will leave your home and head out into the world on their own. While they are growing there is little time to think about Big Things – you’re too busy making sure that at least most of the balls you’re juggling stay in the air.”
When I talk about our cancer journey, I usually start on December 2, 2016 — what I call D-Day. This was the day Ally had her first MRI, the day we found out she had a mass on her brain, the day we packed our bags for a week long stay at Children’s Mercy Hospital. I could talk all day about how I felt about this day and the following week that would change my family forever. However, I never asked Ally her perspective. And then I stumbled upon an old journal entry.
Can you imagine, being a 12 year old girl and wondering…Could I die? This was the first question she asked me when the two of us were alone.
Can you imagine the fear and absolute solemnity of the situation for sweet, optimistic Ally?
Can you imagine facing a brain surgery and a hospital stay with more courage than most adults could muster?
Here is the story, in Ally’s words. She wrote this second semester of her 7th grade year, a few months after getting back to school; she was probably going through treatment when she wrote this. Ally was a bad ass, as the piece below will show.
This is my view on what happened. But it’s not going to be that easy. It all started maybe one, maybe two months ago at basketball practice. I was having some bad headaches, so I was unusually tired. I told my parents about what was happening, but they just gave me Ibuprofen and told me to shake it off.
The headaches kept happening, so I had to go to the doctor. They said it was a “menstrual migraine,”but the headaches still kept happening. Eventually, I had to get an MRI scan. A few days later, on a Friday night, I found out I had a tumor the size of a baseball in my brain and had to have brain surgery. So I packed my bags and headed to Children’s Mercy Hospital.
When I got there, I was so disappointed in the “stupid” tumor in my head. It wouldn’t be for another TWO days before I would have my first of two surgeries on my head. It got MISERABLE. Over the course of one week, I must have moved rooms five times!
The nurses were super nice about it, though. One of the nurses, Hannah, made me a really cool Harry Potter sign with my name and a Grindelwald’s sign on it. I got lots of love. My parents counted the number of visitors, and I got over 34 visitors! Family, friends, church friends, and other people who know me came. In fact, I am still getting gifts. One of my neighbors even planned a meal train for my family! Even Mrs. Schmitz, my 2nd grade teacher, made her famous blueberry muffins for me! I got a dozen (but on two trips).
Surgery day. Sooo exciting. I was ready to knock this baseball-sized tumor out of the park! But, they only removed a part of the tumor, so I had to have a second surgery due to it being so tough to remove. That Tuesday, I got the same hole cut in my head for ANOTHER brain surgery.
After I got out, I got really upset. I felt like I was going INSANE! But, on the bright side, I was feeling tons better within a day of the surgery, probably due to the poop emoji pillow I got. I had some headaches after, but I was mostly good. In fact, I was so good I was allowed to walk around! There were many opportunities for me to walk around, but I was kind of lazy. After all, I just had two brain surgeries.
The week was passing by, and we were STILL waiting for news from the doctors. I was getting used to being in the hospital. The food, the IV, the needles for getting blood drawn, etc. I got fed up with it. I kept getting mad, then sad. Let’s just say I was feeling conflicted. On my last day, I was pumped up about leaving. We packed up at about 3:00 p.m. and left at about 5:30. When I got home, we had a nice chili and cornbread dinner. The hospital was a journey to remember.
When I read this, I hear some worry and frustration, but I mostly see persistence. Ally did not give up on life just because of a grim diagnosis. (We didn’t know until leaving the hospital that she had glioblastoma, and I can’t remember how many details we gave Ally at the time about the kind of cancer it was.) Ally knew she would be fighting cancer, and because of her vivacious, hopeful spirit, she fought glioblastoma for close to three and a half years — much longer than many folks are able to fight. And though Ally’s tired body succumbed to cancer on May 3, 2020, her legacy of optimism, grit, bravery, and hope lives on.
Note: Because this was a stream of consciousness journal entry, I did add paragraphing and correct maybe two spelling errors. Aside from that, this is Ally’s telling of her story. And the poop emoji pillow she mentioned — that was a very beloved gift from her Aunt Katie and Uncle Brandon.
I have been an avid reader ever since I was able to read independently. As a kid, I devoured books — The Trixie Belden series, books in my school library about suffragists, Little Women, Judy Blume and Judith Viorst books — anything I could get my hands on. As I got older, my love of reading influenced my career choice. I became an English teacher then a school librarian because of my love of books. From a very early age, I understood the powerful effect books have on a reader. For me, books offered escape, knowledge, and insight into life; books changed me.
Last summer, I read a book by Cheryl Strayed. The book was Tiny Beautiful Things, and it’s a book filled with posts from her advice column Dear Sugar. You might immediately think of a Dear Abby situation, which strangely enough, I read voraciously as a kid, but Cheryl (Sugar) goes much deeper than Abby ever did. Cheryl shows compassion with her responses and calls people out in a gentle way. When you read her book, you can tell that she really ponders each situation and responds with wisdom and honesty.
In this book, there was a letter from a dad who lost his 22 year old son. I immediately wanted to reach out to this dad, although this was written more than ten years ago and there’s no way for me to find out who this man is. His letter slayed me. But then Sugar’s response really hit home. Here are some things she said that resonated with me, and maybe they’ll resonate with you as well:
“My grief is tremendous but my love is bigger.”
“Your boy is dead, but he will continue to live within you. Your love and grief will be unending, but it will also shift in shape.”
“More will be revealed. Your son hasn’t yet taught you everything he has to teach you. He taught you how to feel like you’ve never loved before. He taught you to suffer like you’ve never suffered before. Perhaps the next thing he has to teach you is acceptance. And the thing after that, forgiveness.”
“You go on doing the best you can. You go on by being generous. You go on by being true. You go on by offering comfort in others who can’t go on. You go on by allowing the unbearable days to pass and allowing the pleasure in other days. You go on by finding a channel for your love and another for your rage.” This has become one of my favorite quotes.
“…Grief taught me things. It showed me shades and hues I couldn’t have otherwise seen. It required me to suffer. It compelled me to reach.”
Strayed’s book, as well as many other books I’ve read over the years, help me when I’m down, when I’m experiencing a wave of grief, when I’m just trying to figure out the world. I want to share with you some phenomenal books that, over the years, have impacted me and the way I see the world.
Remembering the Good Times by Richard Peck. When I began my degree as an English major, I had this weird idea that the books I read should all be classics. Then, I enrolled in a YA Lit class and I read this book. It was the first (and definitely not the last) YA book that made me cry. Since then, I’ve been a big YA reader and believe that there are lots of great lessons to be found in YA fiction.
Running Loose by Chris Crutcher. This is probably my all-time favorite YA book, and I think EVERYONE should read it. In fact, after I read this back in college, I made my dad, my sister, and my future husband read it. This book is about family, love, and standing up for what is right, and you just can’t help empathizing with the main character, Louie, who gets mistreated after trying to do the right thing. Since reading this, I’ve devoured all of Crutcher’s books, and they are all very moving and appealing to both young adults and adults like myself.
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. I first read this book in college, and then I taught it in my Junior English class . I love the “I to we” theme — the idea that society works better when we lend a hand to those who are struggling. I know that this novel is long, it’s very descriptive, it’s probably not for everyone. However, I see The Grapes of Wrath as a beautifully written historical fiction work that continues to teach me about the nature of humanity..
The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. I remember the first time I read this a few years ago, and I couldn’t stop talking about it. Walls’ memoir is extremely powerful. As a parent, I could not even fathom the level of neglect the children in the story experienced. I admire Ms. Walls for removing herself from a toxic family situation and for having the courage to share her story.
Wangari’s Trees of Peace: A True Story of Africa by Jeanette Winter. This is a picture book/biography about Wangari Mathaai, a scholar/environmentalist from Kenya. Every year I read this to my 2nd graders around Earth Day. It’s both sad and uplifting, with brilliant illustrations that add to the message of the book. Although this is a children’s book, I highly recommend you take a look or read about Wangari Mathaai. She was an amazing human, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, and someone you may know very little about.
Junkyard Wonders by Patricia Polacco. I love this book. It’s one I read again and again and again to my students, and every time I get choked up. Junkyard Wonders isthe story of a teacher, Mrs. Peterson, who teaches the kids who don’t quite fit in a traditional classroom. The other kids see Mrs. Peterson’s students as “junk,”, but Mrs. Peterson sees them all as wonders. It’s a beautiful story about a class that forms a lifelong bond and, in the process, learns to never give up.
In the Wild Light by Jeff Zentner. I read this in 2022, and I have been talking about it ever since. It’s a YA novel that is beautifully written; in fact, it is prose that feels more like poetry. The story is about a boy growing up in Appalachia, being raised by his grandparents. He gets the opportunity to attend a boarding school on the East Coast with his best friend, and this changes his life. In the Wild Light is about family, friendship, love, and becoming the person you were meant to be.
The point of this list is to show how books can impact readers and how books impacted me. Each of these books has taught me something valuable and presented me a different perspective on life. These works have inspired me, allowed me to work through my own emotions, and carved out the version of me you see today. I am better, wiser, more accepting, and more empathetic after reading these books. I hope that these books — or whatever books you are reading right now — have this same impact on you.
I feel like I’m an open person. I try to be honest about who I am and what I value in life. Most people who know me know that my last few years have been colored by my daughter Ally’s illness and death. (If you’ve read my blog at all, you know this, too.) I am absolutely fine with talking about loss, grief, my daughter, and all the emotions I’ve walked through. Still, there is one thing I’d like to address that goes along with being a bereaved parent — people are afraid to lay their troubles on me. For instance, I can be having an ordinary conversation with a friend, and he/she will say, “I feel bad for telling you this. I know this is nothing compared to what you’ve gone through.”
First off, let me say there is no comparison of grief and pain. We all have our own hardships. We all have hurt and sadness. But there is no such thing as a grief competition. I don’t want to be the “Big Winner” because I’ve lost my daughter. I know my loss is a big one, and yet I do not want to be the kind of person who forgets to, or cannot, care for others.
When Ally was sick, immediately after she died, and the months since her celebrations of life (there were two), my family and friends have carried me. I survived the worst of times because of the people in my life. I had loved ones call and text, send cards, and bring food. Friends took me on walks and got me out of the house for bits of time to distract me. Our family came to be with us and to spend time with Ally before she died. And my sister and I went to the Price Chopper parking lot one night and screamed to the Universe. My point — I was never alone in my grief. People listened and cared for me and my entire family.
I am writing this because I do not want my friends to feel alone in their struggles AND I do not want people to shy away from leaning on me. I feel certain that my way through this mess, my way to honor Ally, is to help other people struggling. I never want my friends, family, or heck — even people I don’t know, to feel like they have no one to call when they need support. I am tough, and though I’m grieving myself, it is important to me to help others in the way that they helped my family. I want to show up, listen, maybe advise, but mostly just be present.
One of the saddest things I’ve heard since losing Ally is from another bereaved mom in a Facebook group I’m in. With tears in her eyes, she shared with our group that since losing her child, her friends have abandoned her. They didn’t know what to say, so they dropped out of the picture or stayed away. I can’t even fathom how horrible this must feel for her. This was the exact opposite of what I have experienced, and for that, I’m immensely grateful.
I believe in facing hard things head on, and for me, that means being there for people, even if I am in pain. I lessen my own pain, or at the very least distract myself from pain, by showing up for others. I may not have the right words. But I will listen, hold your hand, take you for a walk, give you a hug. So please, friends, if you need me, give me a ring. Shoot me a text. Drive to my house. You are not alone.
“No matter how many obstacles we face from birth—the outcome of letting loose love and showing up marks humankind— for success wins human equality, discreetly.”
On May 3 , I will be facing the third anniversary of losing my daughter to brain cancer. About a week or so ago, I started feeling ALL of the things I feel this time of year — grief, sadness, longing, disbelieving. But fast forward to today. Today, at this very moment, I feel anger. I feel like If I was confronted by someone right now, that my 5’2′ nonviolent little self might take the person down. I feel like I could run a hundred miles, and the physicality of it still wouldn’t touch the fury. I’m not wallowing self-pity; I’m wallowing in anger that I cannot seem to work through.
My truest belief about grief is that it’s important for me to feel all of the emotions. My ability to feel things is, in my opinion, my super power. I feel comfortable naming a feeling, working through it, and then moving forward. Rinse. Repeat. Over and over until I feel better. Most days, I am rational about what I’m feeling. I understand that life is filled with challenges, and mine are no bigger than anyone else’s. But right now, I can’t get a grip on feeling furious at the world. I don’t like this feeling, but I also believe that anger is a part of the grief process. It’s normal, but it’s just not where I want to land.
Right now my anger is directed at trivial things at work, imperfect relationships, and my own mistakes and imperfections. Yet, I know that this anger stems from one thing — not the little irritations in my life, but my grief in losing my daughter at a much too young age. Fifteen year olds should not die before their parents, and fifteen year olds should not have to battle an aggressive cancer like glioblastoma.
Where does this leave me? I’m not sure. I generally try to be optimistic in the face of challenges. I try to be hopeful, even in times of despair. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to stop feeling mad. Tonight I went for a walk with a friend. I wrote. I read a book. In my mind, I screamed at the universe. The rage persists. The rage is just not me.
Is there an easy way to rid myself of anger? I don’t think so. I am confident that the only way through my anger is through it. I have to ride it out, recognize what I’m dealing with,wrestle with it a bit, and know that tomorrow will be a better day. But out of all of the emotions driven by grief, anger is the hardest for me to sit with. The challenge for me is to not let this anger consume me — to continue to work to be a good wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend, teacher and human. I believe Brene Brown when she says this: “Anger is a catalyst. Holding on to it will make us exhausted and sick. Internalizing anger will take away our joy and spirit; externalizing anger will make us less effective in our attempts to create change and forge connection.” I have to find a way to let my anger lead me back to joy and gratitude.
As an educator — a teacher of little people — I see children every day dealing with big feelings and trying to figure out how to handle them. We have picture books about this topic, and most schools these days have a school counselor who helps kids work through their emotions. I find that as adults, we shy away from emotions. Either we don’t talk about how we feel, or we try to avoid processing our feelings. Emotions are hard. They cause us pain and/or discomfort.
In 2021, Brene Brown released her book titled Atlas of the Heart. The book goes into detail about a variety of emotions — positive emotions, negative emotions and emotions that are somewhere in between. Brene knows what many adults can’t acknowledge: We have big feelings too. Brene also believes that confronting our feelings leads to a richer, healthier life.
A while back I read the book A Man Called Ove by Fredrick Backman, a book that evoked strong emotions in me and numerous other readers. I have to say, I had a strong distaste for the book for maybe the first third of it. I couldn’t stand the negativity of the man called Ove. As the story progresses, I began to understand Ove’s story and why he was so unlikeable. Ove was frozen in a state of deep grief. Eventually, Ove becomes a friend — almost a grandpa type figure — to his new neighbors, and he ends up finding a way to live again. Ove had big feelings with no outlet for them. What finally healed him was friendship and connection.
Naturally, when I saw the previews for the movie A Man Called Otto, I knew I needed to see it. I took my husband to see it last weekend. A Man Called Otto was a beautiful film, and I am already anticipating seeing it again. But as I was sitting through it, crying in several parts, I got to thinking. Why can’t grown-ups talk about feelings? Why are we so uncomfortable sitting with and working through our big emotions? Am I the only weirdo out there who talks about things like joy and grief and happiness?
There is a part in the movie where Tom Hanks (Otto) was sitting at his wife’s grave talking to her. Tears were running down my cheeks. My husband looked over at me and mouthed, “What’s wrong?” We weren’t even thirty minutes into the show, and I was already crying. I would have been sobbing if there hadn’t been people around. This movie showed a man experiencing so many different feelings, grief in particular, without a way to process these feelings. I understand. And I think other viewers will understand this, too.
How do I explain my own big emotions during this scene, throughout the film, and in life? This movie made me think about grief — Otto’s and my own. It made me think about love, life, friendship, work, acceptance and purpose. However, it wasn’t just this film that got me thinking. These ideas and emotions rattle around in my head all the time. I am a person who feels things deeply. I accept that now, and I even like that about myself. In the last few years, I’ve learned to sit with these feelings. I hold them in my hand and feel their shape and texture. I talk about them and write about them. I try to make people feel comfortable talking about them too.
The truth is, dealing with big emotions is not just something children experience. Feeling, managing, and understanding our emotions is part of being human. I don’t believe that we ever master the many emotions we encounter in this life, but I do believe it is healthier to understand — and maybe even work through — emotions that are both helpful and harmful. Sometimes we do this internally and privately, and sometimes we do this with the help of friends or a therapist. But I don’t believe we can just push our feelings down and expect to feel okay.
Back to our curmudgeonly loveable protagonist Otto. Otto was a grouchy old man, but he was that way because he could not see a path through his grief. He loved deeply, and the person he loved the most died. What he discovered, though, was a way back. Otto found a way to live again. He rebuilt his life. He found new ways to be useful. His grief was not completely expelled, but by the end of the movie his grief was at least shared. Otto evolved into a person who opened his heart to new and uncomfortable emotions, and he lived a richer life because of this.
I want to be like Otto. I want to evolve and grow and feel. I want to face my emotions and be unafraid to just sit with them. I want to create a rich, vibrant life despite grief, fear, uncertainty and other emotions that get in the way. I believe wholeheartedly that this life is possible if I allow myself to feel and process both the good and the bad.
“We cannot selectively numb emotions. When we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.”
Every year in January, I pick a word for the year — a word that will serve as my theme. One year my word was authenticity. Another year the word was discernment. This year, however, I picked the word FREE.
I’ve always liked the word free, in part because free can be used in a variety of ways. Free-spirited. Free will. Freelance. Free speech. Free rein. Back in the 90s when I was a single, working girl, I used to rock out to the song “Free to Decide” by the Cranberries. At the time, that song felt like my own personal anthem. I can still picture twenty-something Crysta driving to work, volume cranked, belting out the lyrics…”I’m free to decide, free to decide…”
So fast forward to 2022. In thinking about words for the year, I decided to choose free. In a way, free sounds like a word with no boundaries…free to do whatever I want. But that’s not the way I viewed my word of the year. I’m a mom, a wife, and a teacher. I’m not free in every way. There are things I can’t do due to various factors in my life. However, this is not what I was thinking when I picked my word. Here’s what I was thinking.
I’m free to be myself — free to be weird, goofy, funny, serious, quiet, chatty, joyful or sad without apology.
I’m free to like myself even when (or maybe especially when) the world is sending me messages saying I’m not enough.
I’m free to make mistakes and make amends. This applies to home, work, and life in general. I don’t have to obsess about being perfect.
I’m free to like my body, even if I’m a bit heavier than I want to be. My body is strong and healthy, and I don’t have to be a size 2 to feel comfortable in my own skin.
I’m free to embrace my wrinkles and the physical and emotional scars I bear from being on this earth for a while. Growing old is a privilege, and it’s okay to be grateful for age and experience.
I’m free to try new things. This year, I’ve changed my hair color at least once, I’ve gotten certified to teach yoga, and I agreed to play in a piano recital again, even though I’m the only adult. I believe with all my heart that we should always try new things, no matter how old we are.
I’m free to set boundaries — with my students, my family, my co-workers and my friends. This is hard and sometimes painful, but I find myself less resentful when I create some reasonable boundaries. It’s okay for me to expect to be treated kindly.
I’m free to be creative — to write, to color, to make music. I don’t have to be good at each endeavor, but the doing of the activity is enriching.
I’m free to learn new things. As a teacher and a human, lifelong learning is very important to me.
I’m free to step away from things that are not working — jobs, people, activities and so on. Life is too short to spend time on people and things that no longer fill me up.
Finally, I’m free to live in a place of uncertainty — to question things and allow my perspective to be shifted when presented with new and compelling information.
As 2022 winds down, I realize that I picked an important word for my personal growth. This year when I reminded myself that I was free to do all of the things I’ve mentioned here, I felt lighter, less stressed, less boxed in. I gave myself permission to try new things, to mess up, to make changes when necessary. After all, isn’t that what life’s all about?
“The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. There can’t be any large-scale revolution until there’s a personal revolution, on an individual level. It’s got to happen inside first.”
This past Sunday morning at church, we worked on a service project during our Adult Education hour. The project was a sock drive for the Ally League, an entity created by my sister back in 2019 to show support for my daughter Ally who was fighting glioblastoma. Ally was a great kid, a lover of all things comic book related (preferring DC over Marvel, of course) and a warrior. She remains the strongest person I know. And her optimism, despite a harrowing diagnosis, continues to inspire many, myself included. After Ally died in May 2020, the Ally League decided to ask for donations for colorful, patterned socks to give to kids at Children’s Mercy Hospital. You see, Ally loved socks, loved kids, and loved helping others. She would be thrilled to see that we celebrate her life by donating socks to kids fighting illness just like she did.
But back to the project. As we were separating and counting socks, I was asked to speak about the Ally League. I hadn’t prepared anything, although I do better speaking off the cuff anyway. I’m a teacher and writer, so finding the right words is usually not a problem. But I was feeling particularly tender this morning, and when I was asked to share about the Ally League and our sock drive, I cried. I had to pause and collect myself. I tried to convey the meaning of the Ally League and why it is special to me, but I don’t think I did it justice. Instead, I came home and decided to write about it. Reflect. Take time to say what I need to say in the way I want to say it. Here goes.
In August of 2019, my sister created an Ally League Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/allyleagueforever and thus the Ally League was born. The Ally League was a place where I could go to share information. It was a place where we could rally the troops in supporting Ally’s fight. We first used this page to form a team for Head for the Cure, an organization that raises funds to fight brain cancer.
Head for the Cure 2019 was the absolute best. Ally was still with us, radiating hope and positivity, inspiring her tribe. We had a crazy number of folks — church friends, neighbors, my own friend group, family, Ally’s besties — all come out in support. Our youth pastor Chuck brought communion, and those of us who wanted to lined up to partake before the race. Ally was in a wheelchair, and I was fully prepared to push her the 3.1 miles. I was grateful for the opportunity to raise money toward this horrible disease and honor my sweet girl.
Before the Head for the Cure race, we hugged, celebrated Ally, silently cursed brain cancer, and surrounded Ally with love and hope and joy. Unfortunately, right before the race, a rain storm rolled in. Instead of walking the race, we all took shelter. My family and several friends headed to Einstein Bros to enjoy a bagel and a little fellowship. (After all, Ally did love her carbs.) I’m not sure the walk itself was important that year. It was the gathering of people who loved Ally, the circle of support, that mattered the most. This was when the Ally League was formed. And though Ally is gone, our group remains.
In May 2020, after a long and brave battle, Ally succumbed to glioblastoma. I was shattered. And yet, I wanted to do something positive. I wanted to honor Ally’s legacy of love and kindness by gathering crazy, “jazzy” socks in Ally’s memory. These socks would go to other kids who were hospitalized — kids who needed a bit of hope. My initial goal was to collect 200 pairs of socks. We ended up collecting nearly 4,000 pairs. To me, each pair of socks we received represented a deep love for Ally and for our family.
Fast forward to 2022. The Ally League held our 2nd sock drive. (I figure we’ll shoot for doing this every two years.) We ended up with 163 pairs collected at my school with an additional 88 pairs being collected by my friends at St. Andrew Christian Church. That’s a total of 251 pairs of socks.
This sock drive matters to me for a number of reasons. First of all, Ally loved her socks — Harry Potter socks, mismatched socks, caped superhero socks. Crazy socks exemplify Ally’s bright and quirky personality. This sock drive also represents hope. Each pair of socks could potentially be a bright spot in some child’s day — some child stuck in a dreary hospital needing a little pick-me-up. It does not matter to me whether we gather 300 pairs or 4,000 pairs of socks each time we hold our sock drive. What does matter to me is that we keep Ally’s spirit alive, we celebrate her strength and positivity, and we continue to help other children who are hospitalized and fighting illness.
The 2020 Stats
We donated 300 pairs of socks to Children’s Mercy Hospital in November of 2020.
We donated 130 pairs of socks to the Ronald McDonald house in Kansas City, Missouri.
We donated 30 pairs of socks to KU Pediatrics.
We donated 250 pairs of socks to Wesley Children’s Hospital in Wichita, Kansas.
We donated 810 pairs of socks to Mission Southside in Olathe, Kansas.
We donated 1,532 pairs of socks to the Overland Park, Kansas, nonprofit called Kuzidi. Kuzidi is in the process of creating care kits for displaced children, and there will be a pair of socks as well as other comfort items in these kits.
At Christmas-time, we gave socks to students and teachers at the school where I teach, so around 170 socks for students and 40 socks for teachers and support staff. (My school is a Title 1 school, and my students were thrilled with this unexpected gift.)
We donated 150 pairs of socks to a teacher at Children’s Mercy Hospital who planned to personally pass out socks to her students who were hospitalized.
We donated 482 more pairs of socks to Kuzidi.
The first Ally League Sock Drive (from 2020 – 2021, as socks continued to trickle in for months) totalled 3,994 socks. Wow!
The 2022 Stats
Edgerton Elementary donated 163 pairs of socks. These came from my co-workers and even a few former parents.
St. Andrew Christian Church, my church home, donated 88 pairs of socks, then my church family helped me pin all 251 pairs of socks. (For each pair of socks we donate, we include a short note about Ally’s life.)
AMR of Kansas City held a sock drive. Their socks have not yet been counted.
I intend to donate these socks to Children’s Mercy Hospital and to the Ronald McDonald House sometime in November.
One Last Thing
Here’s a link to a story about our very first donation. Sock Drive 2020
Crysta Clear 