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(Un) Stuck

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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.

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. I read.  Generally, a good book with great, poignant quotes gets my creative juices flowing and leaves me feeling uplifted.
  4. 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.
  5. 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.”

A Few Thoughts on Motherhood

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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.” 

Erma Bombeck

On the Bright Side

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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. 

How Books Help us Grow

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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.  

  1. 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.   
  1. 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.  
  1. 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..
  1. 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.  
  1. 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.
  1. 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 is the 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.  
  1. 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.

Lean on Me

/ crystabaier / Leave a comment

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.”

― Kamini Arichandran

Freedom! 2022

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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.”

― Jim Morrison

The Ally League…a Sock Drive and so Much More!

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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

Thank You

/ crystabaier / Leave a comment

It was a Monday night, and I was teaching a restorative yoga class.  I was sitting cross-legged in the dimly lit yoga studio gazing at the sun mural.  My students were resting in savasana, corpse pose, the last pose in any yoga class.  The room was quiet, and I was trying to stay present while my students rested. I was running my thumbs over each finger over and over while I focused on my breath.  I listened to the ticking of the clock.  I tried to be still.

It was mid-breathe when my mind started to wander.  And then a thought emerged:  Crysta, you are living the life that you have dreamed.  You’re a teacher (I’ve wanted to be one since 4th grade), and you’re a yoga instructor (I’ve wanted to do this since I was in my thirties).  Even on the hardest of days, you are doing what you always intended on doing.  All of my being began to feel and hear these words:  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  These words became my unspoken prayer to whatever higher power there might be.

That being said, I don’t really pray anymore.  There are several reasons for this.  First of all, I don’t believe in prayers of petition.  I don’t think that prayer works in that way.  I also don’t believe in praying for things like a new car, a job, or a relationship to work out.  I don’t pray for these things because I don’t believe this is how the universe works.  I believe in a higher power.  I am constantly questioning what this higher power is, but I do think that he/she/it is filled with love.  This higher power doesn’t grant wishes like a fairy godmother; instead, I think that he/she/it is with us always, giving us strength.  I think that this higher power knows our deepest longings and our deepest worries.  This power is always with us, even when we feel the most alone.  I don’t need to pray, because my prayers are already known.

I do believe in gratitude.  Expressing appreciation for the many beautiful things in my life is a form of prayer.  My life has been far from perfect.  I have regrets.  I’ve made mistakes.  I have experienced deep loss.  But I believe with all my being that there is always something to be grateful for.  My daily prayer practice is to write in my gratitude journal, to document the experiences and the people who make my life better.  I am grateful for beautiful sunsets, books that I don’t want to put down, friends who keep me going, my family who supports me, a steamy cup of mint tea, an afternoon at my favorite coffee shop, memories of my children, a job that sustains me, a hug from a student.   Gratitude is a prayer to the universe, a prayer to the higher power, a prayer of thanksgiving for all of life’s small blessings.

As I sat in my yoga class contemplating my life, I felt fully aware that life, despite its difficulties, is good.  Life is also challenging, complicated and unfair.  Yet my life feels fuller — richer —  when I acknowledge the small, daily things that bring me joy.

Dearly beloved

We are gathered here today

To get through this thing called “life…”

Prince

Bright Spots

/ crystabaier / 3 Comments

The universe is filled with mystery — with things I will most likely never understand. Here’s one example we’ve all seen play out in the world: Sometimes good things happen to bad people, and sometimes bad things happen to good people. This sounds like a trite expression, but it’s one I’ve found to be true. You see, when my daughter Ally was diagnosed with glioblastoma, I didn’t blame God, even though that is a reasonable reaction. Instead, I attributed her illness to the randomness of the universe. Or maybe, to be a bit more coarse, I just understood that “shit happens.” Even the kindest of humans get cancer. Even the most loving people die much too young.

That being said, sometimes in the midst of a really difficult situation, a person is able to find some bright spots — small blessings that were gleaned from said horrible event — small gifts from the universe. This is true of my daughter’s illness and death. I know that losing Ally is the worst thing I’ll ever have to go through, but at the same time, I’ve met some amazing people through our family’s horrific journey.

I remember walking into the KU Cancer Clinic the first day Ally had radiation. It was a horrible day. I tried to be optimistic and stay strong for Ally. Her dad had to leave the room. And Ally — my amazingly tough girl — remained steadfast and strong. Afterwards, as we were leaving, we were stopped at a check out desk. The lady behind the desk handed Ally an envelope containing a dollar bill. You see, a donor whose wife had struggled with cancer noticed the number of kids who were fighting this disease too. This pained him. He decided to donate money so that each child received a dollar each time they came for radiation. He wanted to provide encouragement and hope. I don’t know this man. I’ll probably never meet him. But I admire him and his kindness. I feel like his seemingly small act is something that will impact me forever. I want to dole out acts of kindness like this anonymous donor did.

After Ally died, I’ve been able to connect with several other mothers who, like me, lost a child. I know that this connection probably sounds sad and maybe even morbid. But I feel like we’re all in the same club — the club that no parent wants to be in. If we must endure this loss, we may as well survive it together.

This summer, I was invited to speak at a children’s hospice inservice along with several other parents. We were talking to hospice nurses (angels on Earth) about our experiences during our child’s illness and death. It was a hard, but important thing to do. My words could potentially bring change to a program that will impact mothers just like me. My social worker friend Karen accompanied me so I didn’t have to do this alone. I listened to other stories, similar to my own, and I spoke about my beloved Ally, her life, and her time in hospice care. This event, even though challenging, was also cathartic. Afterwards, a mom asked if she could give me a hug. We hugged tightly, and without words, we shared a poignant connection. I will not forget this mother, even if I never physically see her again. I will not forget her daughter, even though I never knew her.

Recently, I met another mother who had lost a child. This is a new co-worker who I predict will also be a new friend. This woman overheard me talking to another parent about how I’m holding up. A day later, my co-worker came to me and asked if I had lost a child. She then said that she had lost her sweet son nearly 25 years ago and asked if I’d like to get together and talk.

This week, we met at a coffee shop. I’ve only known this woman for two months, and it feels like it’s been a lifetime. We have shared experiences — trauma, grief, mom guilt, and finding joy despite our circumstances. Again, it probably sounds weird to befriend another bereaved mother, but to me, these friendships feel like a small gift from the universe. There is another mother who feels what I feel and stands in solidarity with me through my pain.

I am certain that my daughter’s life and death have changed me. I’m not the person I was before she was born, and I’m not the person I was before her cancer diagnosis. But in some ways, I’m better. Stronger. More loving. More joyful. I understand the value of the small but significant gifts the universe has offered up to me, and I am grateful…for the small things, for friendships, for the short but significant life of my daughter.

Family Matters

/ crystabaier / 1 Comment

It was 8:15 on a Tuesday night, and I’m leaving dinner with a friend. I noticed that I missed a call from my dad. My parents are at the age where I’m both grateful for getting to talk to them regularly and worried when I get a call. So as I drove home, I called my dad back to see what was up.

After answering, Dad switched over to the speaker phone so I could talk to them both, and we started talking about our day. Then, like many nights, our conversation reverted back to Ally — my sweet daughter who died in 2020. We talked about losing Ally, but we also discussed the world, grief, age, and how sometimes life doesn’t turn out as we hoped. It could be the cocktail I just had with my girlfriend or maybe just the wisdom of growing older, but I felt acutely aware that our relationship is rare – that not everyone can say anything to their parents. That night, I felt especially grateful. I know I am lucky to still have both parents, and I’m lucky to have parents who love me unconditionally. More than that, as I was hanging up, I could hear love and pride in both of my parents’ voices. Even though I’m a grown woman, it still gives me joy to make my parents proud.

Readers, I’m sure you’d all agree that family is not always easy. I love my family to death, and sometimes they (still) drive me crazy. As a teenager, I felt like we were fairly dysfunctional. And yet as I’ve grown up, I’ve seen some truly dysfunctional families. I know now that mine is only moderately dysfunctional. (Kidding/not kidding!) I feel badly that when I was growing up, I had this inner voice telling me that my family was “wrong.” We didn’t have enough money. We didn’t have the right clothes. We didn’t do the right things. For instance, my Dad wore mismatched running attire when we jogged together — often by a “cool” friend’s house. Thirteen year old Crysta was mortified. You know what 50 year old Crysta would say to these notions? Bullshit. That’s right. I call bullshit on my adolescent views on life. I was young and dumb; I know better now.

I’ve mentioned my parents, but I should also talk about my sister. She drove me crazy growing up. I remember liking a boy in 6th grade, and as we were walking home from school, she went out of her way to embarrass me. I was again mortified. Now I know that she was just trying to spend time with me. I remember our neighbor punching her in the stomach, while I, in a near stupor, did nothing. This is one of my childhood regrets — that I did not defend my sister. If I could redo this moment in time, I would. And recently, I learned that my sister punched one of her friends for badmouthing me back when I was in high school. Jaime, I promise to fight back if “she who shall not be named” holds your arms again so her sister can use you as a punching bag.

My sister and I have had some horrendous emotional and physical fights, as most siblings do. We used to share an apartment, and you can guess how disastrous that was. (Don’t worry Jaime. I won’t share all of your dark secrets here!) But after time passed, we both had families, life went on, and we got past these adolescent spats. At the end of the day, I know she has my back and I have hers. I’m pretty sure I was the first person to know about my sister’s impending divorce and the reason behind it. And even though I have an amazing tribe of friends, I called my sister to be with me when my daughter was dying. Sisters. The most interesting love/hate/mutual admiration/I’ve got your back relationship on the planet.

My parents raised my sister and me to be strong and independent women. They wanted us to have our own opinions, and boy did we. That is one thing that hasn’t changed through the years. I’m sure they didn’t enjoy all of our arguing and debating as kids, but as adults, one of our favorite things to do together is to sit at the dinner table and discuss relevant topics. All of us chime in. And as I tell my friends who know what a talker I am, I am actually the 3rd quietest in my family. I almost have to raise my hand to get a word in. I understand now that not all families communicate like ours does — for better or for worse.

On a good night, my dad will get out a napkin and doodle his view of the world. I know someday I will miss his napkin missives. And my mom, well, as a kid she’s always put a note in my lunch when I’d go on field trips. That used to embarrass me; now, I’d love to have saved one of her notes. I know now what I believe no kid understands when they are young — how devoted and hard-working my parents are and were.

When I was in college, my sister and my dad used to create crazy scenarios just to come for a quick visit. Jaime had to “borrow an outfit for school.” Or Dad was just “driving through town” and thought he’d stop by. During my first years of teaching, on the days I felt dejected and ineffective, my mom would come to my apartment and either sit with me or drag me out of the house to get a Sonic drink. I guess what I’m trying to say is that my parents, like my sister, have always supported me. That doesn’t change with age or with distance or differing opinions. For that, I am eternally grateful.

As an adult, I understand that my parents may not like my choices, but they will support me even if they disagree. I know there’s nothing I could say to my parents that would make them turn me away. I can let down my guard around my mom and dad, and even on my worst days, they will still love me. Best yet, my parents don’t just love me; I think they legitimately like the Crysta that I’ve grown into. Good thing I’ve matured because sixteen year old Crysta was a pain in the ass. They must have worked hard to tolerate her.

I am going to end with a quote from Erma Bombeck, which pretty much sums up my upbringing from my parents’ point of view:

“Someday, when my children are old enough to understand the logic that motivates a mother, I’ll tell them: I loved you enough to bug you about where you were going, with whom and what time you would get home. … I loved you enough to be silent and let you discover your friend was a creep. I loved you enough to make you return a Milky Way with a bite out of it to a drugstore and confess, ‘I stole this.’ … But most of all I loved you enough to say no when you hated me for it. That was the hardest part of all.”