You Can’t Solve Everything with a Good Run

Posted on January 13, 2019 by Callie Skokos

Oh January, you are so cold, I say out loud as I check the weather app. It’s 7:45 a.m. and 19 degrees. This is Colorado. I could wait a few hours and run in slightly warmer conditions with the sun fully shining overhead, but the thought of waiting hours to shake off the nightmare-hangover is too hard to conceive.

I call them nightmare-hangovers because they linger – with tiny traces of memory and visceral pangs sneaking into my early waking hours the way a few stiff margaritas do the morning after a stupid night out. Yeah, the idea of delaying that hair-of-the-dog is not appealing at all.

“I run because there are times when it feels like there’s no other way to solve it.”

JanuaryRunSo, I savor the last few sips of my strong – oh so strong – French press coffee in the really big cup, grab the laundry basket that’s always overflowing with running gear, and start rummaging through for the most comfortable clothes to layer strategically.

It’s hard to click the “Start” button on my Garmin with the clumsy snowboarding mittens I use for warmth, and – if we’re going to be real – for tissues, but it buzzes and I’m off.  Tap dancing over ice mounds that the snowplow neglected to clear and tip-toeing most gingerly over ice patches formed by the thaw the day before, I settle into the rhythm of the run. I start to regulate my breathing and to accept the punishment of the wind as she aggressively pushes against my forward momentum. She can be quite the bitch.  But, I’m used to her in the neighborhood. She’s actually become quite a comfort in the years I’ve lived here.

It’s mile two and I look over and beyond the sleepy neighborhood up toward the white and purplish mountains. These are known as the Dakota Hogback. They are mysterious to me. Not considered the full-blown Rockies, but so close that they form a ridge you can trace with your eyes and your imagination until you get lost in their vast nothingness.

It’s that vast nothingness, at that precise moment, when I feel everything. I am suddenly hit with an inexplicable sense of urgency. I have so much to say. It’s been over a year since I’ve shared my experiences on the road – describing the filmstrip of my mind’s eye as I move through the world with a freedom I only get from running.

“I stopped writing because I was afraid of what I might say and – subsequently – what you might think.”

I stopped writing because I felt sick, conned, and completely vulnerable. So much had happened in a span of only a few short months that made everything I felt and knew and thought was real – about God, and people, and love, and trust – seem like it all happened in some alternate universe.

And, I had written about it as if I had it ALL figured out. Oh, running opened my eyes and made me whole. Just lace up and get outside. Find God along the trail and you’ve got the anecdote to what ails you. All you need is faith and God and the goodness of human beings. Yup, that’s what I felt when I ran. And I wrote about it all. Hallelujah.

I didn’t lie.  Every word you read was the truth. I do run to discover new hope. I do run because it helps me gain perspective and see the world as a little kinder and a little more beautiful. I was combining running and writing to help me make sense of the mess – the mess of memories, sadness, struggle, lost love, shame, inadequacies, and loneliness.

But, I was naïve. I wrote these stories as if my words would heal me and give me strength to move forward with no pain and no lingering side effects. But they didn’t. In a blink of an eye, I was blindsided by what those runs uncovered. Childhood abuse and neglect, fear of connection, pastoral abuse, abandonment, and loss. The more I pushed them down, the harder they came to the surface. Gross, horrific, shameful sewage.

After I was choked awake by breath-stealing nightmares every night and my dissociation had become so intense that I couldn’t speak in meetings, remember how I got to the store, or read anything longer than a paragraph, I knew I was suffering from something that couldn’t be fixed with positive thoughts and prayer and a beautiful sunrise. Even though I had convinced myself and everyone around me that this would work.

Through sobs, and heaving, and snot, and breathlessness, I started at the beginning with a therapist who landed on my Facebook like an angel from the blogosphere. She listened. She cried. And she assured me that I was going to get better. Only once before did I have the nerve to “tell my story” and that was to a pastor. Just a few years earlier. And, well, that’s a story for a whole other day.

Please do not misunderstand. I believe in the run. I believe it has always helped me emotionally regulate to where I am able to live a healthy life. But I am not whole, and the run does not make me whole. It solves some heartache, it eases some hurt, it helps uncover some beauty, but it is nothing more than a band aid.

The nightmares still come, but now I know why. And now I have the tools to quiet my head and heart when the devil tries to defeat the truth. I go to therapy every week. I do hard work. I still hurt, but I am not alone and I am not to blame.

If you hurt and cannot feel unhurt, please seek out professional help. You matter.  You are loved. You are not alone.

 

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We Save People.

Posted on September 2, 2017 by Callie Skokos

My alarm startles me awake at 5:15 a.m. – relieving me from the nightmare I just had about massive floodwaters carrying me away after a breaking levee.  I breathe in, and feel incredibly grateful I only remember fragments of this terrible dream, but then immediately feel guilty that there are thousands of Houston-area residents who cannot simply wake up from this living nightmare we call Hurricane Harvey.

I’ve got a seven-mile run on my schedule this morning – and I cannot wait to get out on the trail so I can reflect, pray, and try to find some peace in all of life’s chaos.  But at the same time, I am enshrouded in a feeling of guilt.  Here I am, safe, comfortable, and healthy, running in Colorado – far from the rain, wind, and flooding.  I feel guilty the sky is so blue and the sun’s rays are glistening along the horizon.  I have done nothing for the last 24 hours except watch the news and gasp at the heartbreaking photographs. That’s where guilt lives.

What can I do to help? Can I be someone who rescues?  I’m so far removed from it all, but I have such a conviction to do something.   Then it hits me.  Re-charged by adrenaline, I pick up my pace as I remember the recent CNN story about how an anti-human trafficking group is using data to track criminals with donated Splunk technology.  It reminds me I work for a company that has a philanthropic mission to use real data to power real social change. It’s called Splunk4Good.

After walking in the door and kicking off my shoes, I check my email.  Sure enough, email threads are already stacking up about Splunk employees who have been impacted by the hurricane and recovery efforts that are underway – including a Splunk4Good Hurricane Harvey Disaster Relief Fund.

I know my purpose now in all of this. I know exactly what I am going to do.  I am going to write. I’m going to donate. I’m going to offer my support and encourage others to do the same.

My mantra today will be: “Do small things with great love and you’ll make a big difference.”

I’ve always been inspired by Splunk4Good – from my first day on the job when I was asked to volunteer at Buena Vista Horace Mann Middle School in the Mission district of San Francisco, to the latest CNN article about using Splunk to identify human traffickers committing heinous crimes.  Knowing what Splunk is doing in the community makes me feel the work I do every day really does drive social change.  At Splunk, I have finally found my purpose.

Some companies save people money.  Some companies save people time.  At Splunk, we save people.  Period.

Please join me in helping restore the lives, homes, and hearts of those impacted by Hurricane Harvey by donating to the Splunk4Good Hurricane Harvey Disaster Relief Fund.

 

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50K for 50 – Running for a Reason

Posted on July 19, 2017 by Callie Skokos

Even though I have the day off, I am too excited to sleep in. You see, it’s my 50th birthday and I’ve got big plans.  Thanks to my employer, Splunk, I have the day off as part of the company’s pledge to give back to the community through volunteerism.  Splunk offers its employees three days of paid volunteer time off (VTO) each year to support the causes they care about.  And so, I’m using my birthday and one of my VTO days to raise awareness and money for Children’s Hospital Colorado by lacing up my running shoes and logging 50 kilometers.

As I gear up, lace up, cue my Pandora playlist, and lock the front door, I am so grateful for these 50 years of life and the opportunity to give back to the hospital and staff that gave so much to help me and my family – giving their all to bring my 14-year old daughter back to me and the little sister back to her brothers.

I immediately notice the early morning sunshine on my bare shoulders and the coolness of the spring air in my lungs. There’s nothing that compares to this feeling. It’s freedom.  It’s peace. It’s hope.  I hit the start button on my Garmin and am curious to see what the filmstrip of my mind begins clicking through as I begin my five-hour journey.

The first few frames click through a series of Colorado sunrises.  I run every morning around sunrise in between dropping off the kids at school and beginning my workday at Splunk.  To me there is something about running that takes away all the doubt I have about myself – even if it’s just for one or two hours on the trail. I feel empowered and free for the moment. It’s during that time that I try to appreciate the beautiful world in which we live and to thank God for allowing me to be in it.

The filmstrip of memories advances through the days and weeks that my daughter spent at the Children’s Hospital. In my mind’s eye, I am back in the all-familiar waiting room with the other moms and dads who are trying to put on a brave face as they work through their own worries and emotions.  I spent eight hours every day for over 40 days in that waiting room – working in between the chaos trying to hold down a full-time job at Splunk, while desperately holding onto my lifetime job as a mother.

What we experienced together as a family was harder than any marathon I’ve ever run, but it was more emotionally rewarding than anything I’ve ever experienced. I learned that my daughter is the ultimate warrior, my manager, Kerri, is God’s grace personified, and all the people in my life are really, truly incredible human beings.

I look at my watch as I limp up my driveway and feel okay that the run has taken me four hours and fifty-six minutes – every step of the way was meaningful.  I’m exhausted and overcome by emotion – on the verge of tears as I see my daughter running towards me.  She hugs me hard and whispers, “I am so proud of you. So, so proud of you.”  I weep and tell her, “We did it. You and me and everyone.  We did it.”

We all did it.  Thanks to my friends, my co-workers, my family, and my company, we raised  $3,000 for Children’s Hospital Colorado and the little ones they care for every day.  I couldn’t have asked for a greater gift on my birthday.

 

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Trump Trauma

Posted on October 17, 2016 by Callie Skokos

“A word after a word after a word is power.” – Margaret Atwood

The filmstrip of my mind clicks through the scenes ever so quickly this morning – with every footfall that lands and crunches on the fallen leaves blanketing the trail. The question is: On what scene will it settle on today as I run my 15 miles and on what memories will it trigger with each mile? For reasons perfectly clear to me, it lands on the scene where the man’s fist smashes down onto the dining room table, rattling the silverware and china, as he howls, “This is precisely why women will never make it in big business.” It was 1987. I was 18. The man was my father.

The image my mind’s eye has summoned is old but very clear, and I feel my neck and jaw muscles tense as the memories begin to unspool, spewing out the events that led up to this outburst. Pounding fists, a carving knife thrown into the hardwood floor, a smashed cocktail glass – behavior that was not uncommon at the antique dining room table where my siblings and I spent most of our childhood dinners hoping not to be called on to answer a question about history, or politics, or science, or philosophy. This was the place where stomachaches were the norm and demeaning insults left one or all of us shell shocked, ashamed, and terrified. Those not within firing range were ever-so-quiet and secretly hoping the focus wouldn’t shift to them until dinner was over and we could scatter like scared mice until bedtime.

sadgirlI’m trying to pick up my pace as I run against the wind in hopes that I can shake the images and return to something more pleasant, but I know that’s not going to happen until God and I have had time to work through things today. Every day, every sunrise, every swaying blade of grass reminds me that He is here and waiting for me – to talk, to listen, to cry, to smile. It’s our time to make sense of the mess, mile after mile – until His hope pushes down my hopelessness.

“Making sense of the mess, one mile at a time.”

It all started this morning as I laced up my shoes and scanned the day’s headlines. Donald Trump’s “Locker Room Talk” continues to trend with more and more of his misogynistic behavior surfacing with each passing day.  His tone. His body language. His facial expressions. His words. They are piercing and triggering to me – so much so that I have tried to avoid most social contact (online and in person) since the video surfaced. I realize now that because of my past, I cannot seem to engage in conversation about it logically and reasonably. It is obvious that I am traumatized by every sexist thing this man represents.

Trauma can be caused by one major event or a hundred things connected together. The trauma I feel when I see, and hear, and watch Trump is the result of a lifetime of oppression and fear, insecurity, abuse, and pain. And, it is never just because of his words.

This memory is brought to you by trauma.

It was right before the end of my sophomore year in college and my father declared that if I was ever going to have any possible chance of getting accepted into law school, I needed a real corporate job. One of our neighbors, ‘Mr. Gold’ was a high-powered executive at a big investment firm at the World Trade Center and, according to my father, if I was “really nice to him” maybe he would get me a job in the legal department. I remember feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as he said it – it was in the tone, the body language, the facial expressions. I felt immediately sick to my stomach and breathless. What did that mean, “If I was really nice to him?”

But, I had spent my whole life being scared, and abused, and marginalized, and bullied by my father, which led me to do everything possible to stay off the radar and make him look good. I tried to stay quiet, do all my chores quickly and without complaint, get good grades, be agreeable, be nice to my teachers, play the piano for his friends, and be responsible. So I gathered my courage and after a few very awkward phone conversations with ‘Mr. Gold’ and a short interview with the hiring manager, I got a job as a summer intern in the legal department.  During the days when fax machines were a novelty, microfilm was the norm, and mainframe data entry was king, I spent 8 hours a day in a smoke-filled file room wondering if law school was really worth it.

But, to be honest, the work was actually the good part. The bad part was the drive to work – spending two hours each way in the car with this 50-something neighbor executive to whom I owed the job and now the transportation. My father’s career advice on my first day: “Try to act like a woman, talk intelligently, and be gracious for everything he is doing to help you be a successful female in the working world.”

Every day, I would get in the car with this man and feel his eyes scan me as I tried to sit as modestly as possible in his sports car with my college-budget business suit and faux leather brief case at my feet. I tried to make eye contact, but when I did, I was reminded of the old black and white cartoon of the hungry wolf salivating as he eyed the lone sheep. He was eerily silent most times, but when he did speak, his conversation was always laced with sexual innuendos and off-color cynicism. I was inexperienced and had no idea how to interpret the message or diffuse the conversation. So, I spent the commute like a stiff mannequin praying that he wouldn’t move his hand any closer up on my seat or turn off into a dark alley.

The image of the stiff mannequin child-girl is paused in my mind’s eye as the headwind kicks up dirt and pushes me backwards. I run for many reasons, and one of them is to feel some sense of power. It’s moments like these – when I’m tired, or struggling, or fatigued – that the memories feel bigger and I feel very little power. Without missing a beat, the filmstrip of my mind returns to the family dinner table. I remember it was hot and I had spent a week feeling humiliated, denigrated, and on high alert. The history of the dinner table was that I was now about to deal with the same behavior from my father, so I sat silently.

Then it happened – as usual. He barked and I jumped, “What is wrong with you?” I told him nothing was wrong. There was no way I was going to tell him what was really wrong. I knew how that would turn out.  He pushed and yelled. So, I finally said, “I don’t feel well.” He laughed. “What? Do you have your period?!”  He scoffed and then pounded his fist down on the table.  “This is why women will never make it in big business!” I slumped lower in my chair, nodded, and tried not to cry as he droned on about women being inferior to men. If I said nothing more, maybe the yelling would stop.

I made it through that summer by moving out, living alone, and commuting via a long walk to two trains just so I could feel as if I had some sense of power. But, in truth, that was simply one more way I ran – one more escape from confronting the hurt and the cruelty. I lived in that place for a long time, well into adulthood. It took me over 20 more years to find my voice and stand up for myself. And it took me 7 more to find the courage to tell my story to anyone.

Now, I find that the power I need is not just in the run, but in the writing. My hope is that it helps someone, somewhere, somehow to find their voice and use it to show the biggest bullies, the meanest men, the greatest manipulators, and the most abusive partners that they do matter and they have the power to write their own ending.

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Seeing With the Soul

Posted on October 2, 2016 by Callie Skokos

When I open my eyes, I am confused that I can see with such clarity – from the neon numbers on the alarm clock to the headlights marching in a line outside my window, to the waning moon. On this day, they are not the usual smudge of light or dark, the way one sees things when they are legally blind. They are sharp, crisp, and in focus. How can this be?

It takes me only a few seconds to realize that I fell asleep the night before with my glasses on and my iPhone in my hand. It’s now 5:44 a.m. How is it possible that I slept through the night like this? I groggily pull the glasses off my face and snuggle back under the covers, but as soon as I do, the alarm begins to chime. It’s actually time to get up.

My gut reaction is to be annoyed. But then it occurs to me that this is actually a pretty incredible way to start the day – with rare and unusual clarity. This is a blessing that I do not want to get lost in the mundane.  To see clearly. To have clarity.  Yes, today, I will not only look, but I will see.  This will be my running mantra I declare as I slide out of bed and dump over the laundry basket in search of clean running clothes.

“Look around, but really see,” I think as I pull my tangled mass of hair into a ponytail and try to rub the dark circles out from under my eyes.  On this Tuesday in September, I will endeavor to be uber-present in this life – vigilantly mindful of the world around me and how it is stitched together to create a perfect tapestry of oneness.

I’ve been running since I was 13, but it has taken different forms and served different purposes depending upon the season of my life.  I once ran because I was competitive. I was fat. I was inadequate. I was depressed. I was lost. It took me many years to realize why I was truly drawn to it – so drawn to it that I would eagerly fall asleep at night in anticipation of waking up for the run.

Most people don’t understand and others just think it’s my addiction.  But I’m learning that running isn’t the drug. Running is actually the recovery.  It’s on the run where I find the most peace and see my life – the present and the future – through a more compassionate lens. It’s where I am reminded of how small I am in God’s universe, but also of how big I am in His eyes.

As I tighten the laces on my running shoes, I notice that the air is getting much cooler as we sneak up on the first days of autumn. And the sky is clear but not yet brightened by the sun, which hasn’t quite found its way to the horizon. This is my favorite time of day. Right here.  Right now. I look around and try to really see. I am determined to open my eyes and allow my brain to take it all in – every waving blade of grass, every ray of sunlight dancing on the horizon, every song of every bird waking up and wishing me good day. I believe that if I can see, He and I will talk.

I am quickly disappointed.  My mindfulness lasts about 10 seconds before the filmstrip of my mind begins clicking through to find a certain scene to play on this 8 mile run. I was to be present today – to see, and feel, and bask in the world in which I exist. But I feel powerless to change the direction of my heart. I am lost in my own thoughts again, and this time, I have no idea what has triggered the scene.

seeing-through-the-soul-imageThe filmstrip of my mind lands on a frame showing the image of a woman in a hospital bed. She’s the mom of an acquaintance. I’ve never even met her. But I learned from my son the day before that she is on life support after complications from a kidney transplant. Still running, I look to the right and notice that the sun is now a starburst on the horizon. I am suddenly overcome with emotion. I stop short, almost hyperventilating, and start weeping. I’m begging God to be with her – to help her family and to bestow upon them His power and His love. I have no idea why this has happened. At the moment, I have absolutely no control of my mind or my heart.

My mantra for the run was to be present, but I am quite the opposite of present as I stand here lost in my thoughts on the side of the trail. And while I feel like I am in another place, I have intense clarity about what I need to do. So, I pull my iPhone from my armband and search for her number. She hardly knows me except for a few interactions with my son and her son, and some mutual friends. I wonder if she will even have my number in her phone or how uncomfortable she will feel with an almost-stranger sending her a text like this at 6:45 a.m.

But none of this really matters. I am convicted to make sure she knows she is loved and protected. I tell her that I am running and I felt an overwhelming urge to send her and her family love and prayers. My hope and comfort during this uncertain and emotional time. I hit send and it occurs to me that I am almost scared to get a response. My hands are shaking as I tuck my phone back into the armband and start running again.

As I finish my run, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted. I am more at peace now as a quote from Rumi floats across my mind’s eye:

“The soul has been given its own ears to hear things the mind does not understand.”

None of this was me.  It wasn’t my clarity. It wasn’t my mindfulness. It wasn’t my intuition. This was all God. It was Him opening my heart and doing his work inside my soul. He was the One who opened my eyes. He was the One who gave my soul the ears necessary to hear.

And, it all started with a glorious sunrise and a little faith to truly understand that which I cannot possibly see.

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Power Dressing

Posted on September 20, 2016 by Callie Skokos

I awake to my 49th Fourth of July. It’s 7:30 a.m. and already 71 degrees in Littleton, Colorado. I hop out of bed – secretly thrilled that I logged almost 8 hours of sleep and no one else is awake yet.  The run this morning is going to be glorious. With no pressure to get back for work, I’m giddy as I start planning for my long run. First, what to wear?

In the pile of running clothes stacked in my closet, I notice my Superman top. Well, it’s actually the top half of a ‘Sexy Super Girl” costume that my 12-year-old son and daughter dared me to buy one Halloween – to run in. Feeling fit and brave at the time, I bought it but never wore it. I felt silly – like I didn’t deserve to wear it and people would know I was a fraud. So, it’s been pushed to the bottom of the pile time and time again.

supermantopBut for some reason, today the Superman half-top has made its way to the top of the pile and I’m curious. So, I pull it over my head, examine myself, and think, “Who’s gonna’ see me? This could be fun.” As a spiritual person, I believe in God but I also believe in energy. In fact, I believe that everything has energy and it can be harnessed for pretty much anything you desire. At one time in my life, I designed women’s running clothes for this very reason.  I truly believe in the energy that a person can get from the right clothing.  You don’t have to own a lot of clothing, just the right pieces – pieces that make you feel confident or respected or approachable or unique.  The Power Tie.  The Perfect Little Black Dress.  The Classic Coat.  Sometimes, just dressing for the part can give you incredible power.

On this Independence Day, I am power dressing.  Maybe I’ll run faster, farther, stronger. Or, maybe I’ll just feel happier.

Shoes laced perfectly, I tug my ponytail tighter through my ball cap and hit play on my Above and Beyond Pandora station. I stop and whisper out loud, “Nah, today deserves some Avenged Sevenfold radio.” Clicking up the volume, I’m off timing my footfalls to the bass guitar in the background.  Immediately, though, I feel self-conscious about my clothing choice, but the negative thoughts quickly fade as my mind’s eye falls on my 16-year-old self.

When I was 16, I had to give up running due to injury. So I decided to train to become a competitive junior cyclist.  When I entered the sport, I used the money that I had saved from my babysitting jobs to buy my first racing bike. I was so proud. I thought it was the Ferrari of all bikes, but in comparison to my cycling peers, my pink Miyata was more like a Ford Fiesta.  After buying the bike and upgrading some of the parts, though, I didn’t have any money left to buy professional-grade cycling apparel like team jerseys, sleek sunglasses, brand-name shorts, and comfortable shoes.  The result was a self-conscience teenage girl who often felt like the other racers really didn’t take her seriously because she didn’t look the part.

I was convinced that if I looked better and had better gear, I could pull it off – play the part better.  Little did I know that summer, as I was boarding my flight to Belgium with my Nana, that my theory was about to be tested.  It was July and the Tour de France was in full swing as I watched one of the stages with our European host. Realizing that I knew quite a bit about cycling, this 16-year old American girl and that 30-something attorney from Belgium finally bonded. It took yellow jerseys, time trials, road rash, and mountain switchbacks, but it happened.

As Nana and I said our goodbyes to our Belgian host-family, my Tour de France-watching friend handed me two very authentic-looking European cycling jerseys.  He explained that they had once belonged to a professional Belgian road cyclist who had nothing left of value to pay his legal fees.  The cyclist’s name was Ludo Loos and they were his team jerseys – one of which he had actually worn in the 1980 Tour de France when he won Stage 18.  This was one of the most incredible gifts I had ever been given.  I felt the energy from the moment I held the wool jerseys in my hands.  I couldn’t even imagine what it was going to be like wearing them on my training rides.

Although many people would be aghast to know that I trained in these authentic jerseys every day for over three years, I did – with no regrets. When I wore them it was as if I was channeling the energy of a legend.  As I cranked up the hills and tucked down the descents, I was now somehow akin to Ludo Loos – Belgian Tour de France racer.  I was stronger.  I had more courage.  I had power.  In my mind, I deserved to be on the road and competing with my fellow cyclists.  In my heart, it was possible to become a legend. And today, on the trail, in my imagination, I am Superman.

With the right gear, the possibilities are beyond imagination.

 

(This post originally appeared on the blog site for a friend who is the president of gearmunk.com)

 

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No One Can Love a Stone

Posted on April 27, 2016 by Callie Skokos

On this day, I call myself the Ragamuffin Runner – desperate to make sense of the mess one mile at a time. But only a few years ago, I would never have outwardly admitted that I am “burnt-out, bedraggled, and beat-up,” to use the words of Brennan Manning. I was trying to hide all of that from everyone. Because, you know, messy people are just, well, messy.

I’m thinking about all this on my run because of the mud. There is mud covering the entire trail this morning and despite my best attempts to run around, and jump over, and sidestep the sloppy spring runoff, I’m filthy. And, not only is it splashing up onto my legs, but somehow it’s found its way into my ponytail and the back of my neck. But, I’m not annoyed at all. I’m actually trying to stifle the giggling. This is fun. I feel free and liberated. And, like most morning runs, it doesn’t go unnoticed that this is God’s way of sharing. His way of giving me one more moment to be a child again – and all I needed was to accept the mess.

The sticky mud on my running shoes makes me feel like Frankenstein as I exaggerate my stride because of the extra weight. My Nana comes to mind again as she’s sweetly calling me her ragamuffin girl – dirty and sweaty and disheveled after playing outside in the summer heat. My Nana loved the mess. She adored this little girl – maybe because she loved the innocence of the child who lived in a messy world but didn’t know how very perfect she really was in His eyes.

Everyone needs to see the authentic you – broken and whole

Everyone needs to see the authentic you – broken and whole

In a flash, the movie of my mind clicks to a different scene.  It’s me and my twins in the waiting room of the child therapist’s office. They are only six years old, chattering away about everything and nothing.  We were there because I had decided to take them to see a professional after our marriage had ended and we had become just another statistic.  The kids went in for their session, and like most weeks, I sat in the empty waiting room with my game face on like a good soldier. I remember, though, that this day was different.

After the kids were done, the therapist asked me to come into her office and posed one simple question to me: “How are you doing?” I remember just staring at her.  Not one person in the months since my divorce had asked me that question.  I mean, why would they?  I had it together.  I was the rock.  I had to be strong because there was no other option.  But, as I stood there looking into the therapist’s tired but kind eyes, I decided to be real. I explained that the week had been rough.  I had broken down in tears in front of the children after a long day of work – staring at a messy house, a pile of bills, and frustrating homework assignments.

I remember the conversation almost verbatim.  “I feel horrible that they saw me like that. Sick to my stomach that they saw me cry and break down.”  The therapist held my shoulders and said, “Look at me.  It’s okay to be human in front of your children.  They need to see your emotion – to know that you are not a perfect robot.  Everyone needs to see the authentic you – broken and whole.  Callie, no one can love a stone.”

No one can love a stone.  I heard that from the therapist all those years ago, but it’s taken me many more years to realize what this means in a broader sense.  I once heard a preacher say that people are not attracted to our competence, they are attracted to our confession.  We don’t attract others with our muscle and our might, our intellect and our have-it-all-togetherness.  People find their way to us when we admit, “I am broken, afraid, and worried – just like you.”

After a few miles trying to daintily dodge the puddles, I’ve given in and I’m now gloriously covered in caking mud. Some of it is drying and it’s beginning to crack around my knees.  “Don’t ever let them see your cracks. It’s not okay to show your brokenness, your frailties, your human heart.”  That’s what we learned.  That was then, but things look different today.

“Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.” – Leonard Cohen

I look up at the cloud-covered sun barely peeking out, and feel peace for I am loved despite my cracks – and, in fact, most likely because of them.  We live in a messy world, but I think that admitting my mess has made me both more lovable and more loving. And, I pray that my children no longer see a stone, but instead see a ragamuffin:  an imperfect mama who loves them even more deeply because of the light that shines through – and from – their own broken pieces.

 

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My Protector Wore a Hat to Church

Posted on April 21, 2016 by Callie Skokos

I woke up smiling today. Oh, how I wish I could have gone back to sleep so I could spend more time with her. The dream was so real. I was my age now, but she was still the age I remember her when I was 20. My Nana was with me again for another glorious dream sequence and I cannot stop thinking about her as I tighten the laces on my running shoes and pull my hat down over my ears just a bit more. I have a feeling my run today – although quite cold as I step into the Colorado dawn – is going to be more therapeutic than most.

I run almost every day and genuinely look forward to the early mornings and the quiet miles. Some days the run elicits tough revelations and dredges up some hard memories. But, even on those days, the run usually ends with a sense of solace because I’ve learned that I never run alone. I feel God’s grace all around me – in the swaying grasses, the cold wind, the sun’s rays, the glistening ripples on the lake. I start out some days with extreme anxiety, but return enshrouded in greater peace. That has to mean something.

My training run today isn’t supposed to be fast – just a bit longer for a Thursday. And I’m lucky because although it’s cold, it’s not snowy or icy and the sun is already starting to inch up above the horizon. The sky is perfectly clear and I can feel the rays already caressing my cheeks. That’s how my Nana used to kiss me. She would gently hold my face, press hers against mine and slowly shift until her lips kissed the apple of my cheek bone. Her touch was life-giving.

It’s at that moment that I promise myself that I will buy a hat in her honor.

It’s at that moment that I promise myself that I will buy a hat in her honor.

The filmstrip of my mind clicks through the dream sequence as if the movie is all taking place on a foggy morning. It’s a bit out of focus, but it’s not really the images that I need to remember – it’s the feeling of comfort that I always had in my Nana’s presence. From what I can discern, we apparently have a date to go house-hunting. I meet her and sigh because she looks exactly the way I remember. She is wearing a skirt, a matching cardigan sweater, and her handbag and shoes coordinate perfectly. And, she’s wearing a fedora.

That’s one of the many things I always adored about my Nana – she was her own person in character and clothing and that’s what made her so unique. I open the car door for her and tell her that I love her hat. She smiles, kisses my cheek, and hands me a hat just like hers. Remembering that part of the dream makes me smile and the tears begin to close my throat.

It’s at that moment on the run that I promise myself, and the spirit of my Nana running beside me, that I will buy a hat in her honor.

More and more memories about my Nana have been surfacing lately – and those memories have started raising questions that I never really knew I had. While I have beautiful memories of being with my Nana, at her house, learning how to sew and draw and cook and say grace, there are a lot of memories that seem almost odd and unexplainable.

Why, at five years old, did I often go to bed in my own bed only to awaken at her house? Why was she always the one to sit beside me at dinner – out of all the grandchildren – and help me eat my dinner? Why is it that she’s the only person who I can remember ever brushing my hair, washing my face and hands, and mending my torn pants?

Why did it seem as if my Nana was always there – whenever I needed her – and even when I didn’t even know I needed her?

Why was my Nana the one who helped me with my school projects, took me to the DMV for my driver’s test, asked me to travel with her, and always took me – the only one of my siblings – to church?

Being at church with my Nana is one of the most vivid memories I have and it’s even more clear in my mind’s eye as I run along the quiet trail this morning.  I remember attending the services at the Presbyterian Church in her town of Red Bank, but what I recall was not that Nana was a devout Christian who knew all her prayers and could sing all the hymns. What I remember to this day, on this run, was that she exuded love – love of the purest kind.  Her love flowed from her soul without effort and without expectations. She was unconditional in her gift of loving.

It’s taken me years to put into words what this woman truly meant to me – and what she still means to me. I always knew that without her devotion, her patience, her kindness, and her grace, I wouldn’t be here to write this down. Yes, I knew her love was special, but I never truly understood the depths of it.  As I stride along and gaze out onto the snowcapped mountains in the distance, I can now put it into words: My Nana’s love was otherworldly. She was the human embodiment of God’s grace.  She was my protector who wore a hat to church. And I thank God for her on every single run.

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The Twelve Steps

Posted on December 16, 2015 by Callie Skokos

The trail is completely covered in tufts of fluffy white snow that sparkle in the morning sunlight. As I maneuver the slippery cracks and ruts of the route, I notice the trees are still blanketed in heavy snow but that the sun is doing its hard work to lessen the weighted down branches. Snow plops from the branches of every tree I run past. It’s very cold.  But, I feel euphoric. This is just the shot I needed to feel present and alive again.

snowyrun

Running is not the drug. Running is the recovery.

People often ask me if I feel like I’m an addict.  Maybe it’s because they know my past or maybe because they see my present. But, it’s usually triggered by mornings like these when they see me running. “You just have to go, don’t you? You just have to get your fix. Running is your drug of choice.” My response is usually an awkward giggle and half-hearted nod. But today, as I breathe in the very cold air and squint from the sun’s glare, I realize that running isn’t the drug. It’s actually the recovery.

Running is the recovery. From the time I was a little girl, I’ve known – and deeply loved – alcoholics and drug addicts. I have seen their demons and have often been in the trenches alongside of them. It’s tragic. I’ve been there, which is why I would never presume to compare my life to theirs. While I have compassion and profound empathy, I cannot begin to fathom their pain, their heartache, their constant struggle, their desperation associated with this type of substance abuse. But I do know what it’s like to feel all of those emotions – because my struggle is with shame.

I’m running almost directly into the sun now and it’s as if these rays are playing the role of the lightbulb illuminating the filmstrip of my mind. I see the frames that show Brené Brown on stage during a TED Talk and I remember that she was my first conscious introduction to shame and what it really is. What it really does.  During her talk, she admitted that, “Shame is the intensely painful feeling that we are unworthy of love and belonging. It is an unspoken epidemic. It is the secret behind many forms of broken behavior.”

Shame is not “I am sorry I made a mistake.”  Shame is, “I’m sorry I am a mistake.” Often, shame is what causes addicts to become addicts – whether it’s drugs, alcohol, or abuse.

It was “The Day of Brené” when I was finally liberated. Alone with my laptop and her voice filling the room, it finally became so crystal clear to me. Why do I behave the way I do? Why do I always feel responsible for everyone else’s brokenness? Why do I always feel the need to apologize? Or fix? Or try harder? Or mourn? I’ve never had a problem recognizing my brokenness. I’ve had a problem living with it because it all feels so futile.  No matter what, I believe I will never be good enough. Brene answered it all with one word: shame.

At this point, I’m deliberately running slowly – being careful to watch my footing in the deep, slippery snow as I soak in the frozen beauty. My mind gets hung up on the word ‘frozen,’ as I’m reminded of why I run. If I keep moving, I can’t freeze. “Take the first step because that’s all you need to get started in the right direction.”

So, like the addict I am, I follow 12 wobbly steps in my makeshift 12-Step Program. The biggest difference between my program and the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-Step Program is that my program was not designed for recovery – it was designed for coping. It enables me to organize my thoughts and tame the wild voices that try to wrestle control from me – especially when I’m exhausted from trying to validate my existence by doing more, faster, better, perfectly.  When I’m feeling especially vulnerable, I run through this 12-Step Program – over and over:

  1. I try hard to admit I am powerless over the past – and try extremely hard to believe it.
  2. I thank God every day for being there – for being the one and only who really loves me despite my flaws and my mistakes. Who makes me feel worthy.
  3. I try to remember that not everyone is spending their time thinking about what a mistake and screw up I am.
  4. I try to take an honest inventory of myself and who I am – not based on my warped view of myself but based on what I hope others might see on my good days.
  5. I try to resist admitting to others, almost too readily, the nature of my brokenness.
  6. I try to control the urge to reach out to all of the people I believe I’ve hurt and ask for their forgiveness – because often my shameful perception is not their reality.
  7. I try to stop myself before apologizing for things that I couldn’t possibly be responsible for.
  8. I do my best to look at the world more logically – using facts to determine the truth about me and the way I influence the world around me.
  9. I try to have hope – because without hope there really is nothing.
  10. I work hard to believe that other people are broken too. Their behavior is not always and entirely the result of my interaction, presence, or behavior.
  11. I pray for God’s grace and thank Him for the grace He’s already shown me.
  12. I run every day – and every day I work through these twelve steps.

According to Brené, “Shame cannot survive being spoken…and being met with empathy.” For this is why I write. [And why I run.] Thanks for being alongside of me in my recovery.

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The Good Samaritan – Part II

Posted on October 16, 2015 by Callie Skokos

[This is continuation of a story that couldn’t be told in just 700 words]

I was trembling and sobbing with both hands gripping the steering wheel – feeling humiliated and terrified as I focused on my attacker arrogantly jogging from the scene.  My suit skirt was torn from hem to the waistband and my stockings had holes that had started running down my thighs with each tear that fell. I had done it again, I thought. I was such an idiot. I should’ve known he wasn’t who he said he was. I shouldn’t have believed that he really needed help starting his car.

“You’re not even worth it, bitch.” And then he laughed. And then he left.

It’s been a long time since I’ve pulled these feelings back up from the compartment where I had stowed them, I think as I head into my final few miles along the wooded path. I am not absent today as I run – not so deep in my head that I miss the leaves turning gold on their branches or the ones falling slowly to the earth. I’ve been working hard to use my running to help me be more present, more mindful rather than just another way to escape. It’s nice to feel the cool air on my cheeks and see the minute details all woven together to create the tapestry on the horizon.

It is God who justifies.

It is God who justifies.

As often as I do try to escape by lacing up my running shoes, I cannot ever predict what the filmstrip of my mind will show on any given day. But today, the memories were stimulated by the distressed-looking truck in the parking lot with jumper cables dangling from beneath the hood. Just the flash of an image is sometimes all it takes to trigger hours of emotions that will need to either be addressed or suppressed.

 How I handle the trauma on this day will be my choice.

My pace is quite fast today. The irony is that whenever I remember the events from 20 years ago, it’s like a slow motion reenactment of a car crash. I can recall every second, every scent, every microscopic detail. The man had climbed into my car and was sitting in my passenger seat like he belonged there. Within seconds, I was pinned to my seat. Terrified, I awkwardly smashed my attacker’s nose with the back of my fist and screamed, “You’re in so much trouble!”

What was I thinking? That’s all I could get out of my mouth? What a fool.  What a pathetic girl. And he knew it. He looked into my eyes like he could see all the years of pain and embarrassment and just piled more on.  “You’re not even worth it, bitch.” And he laughed like the devil in khakis – jogging away only to return in my nightmares.

These words did so much more damage than his hands ever did.

He could have beaten me, or kidnapped me, or raped me. He didn’t. In fact, all he did was tell me exactly what I already knew about myself. I wasn’t worth it. It was as if he was simply the human embodiment of my disgrace. To quote Brene Brown, my attacker was “shame riding shotgun.” Literally.  And he’s been riding in the passenger seat my entire life. After that day, though, something happened.  My shame was now augmented by anger. Not only was I ashamed, now I was humiliated.  I remember driving home thinking, “Where were You when I needed you most? Why don’t You ever protect me?”

I decided then and there that if I was going to survive, I would have to save myself. I would be unbroken. I would bury any emotions that would cause my defeat. I would never let myself get hurt again.

I have less than a mile left on this run and the sunlight from the East is creating a long, alien-like shadow of me on the side of the trail. Although I am almost back to my car, I know I still have a long way to go – metaphorically speaking.  But I am healing.  When the Hound of Heaven finally tracked me down, opened my eyes and softened my heart, I began to see who I really was.  With every morning run and every beautiful sign of grace, I am healing. I now know that I’ve been protected my entire life. I was protected by God’s grace every single day. I was just too weak to see it or too scared to accept it.

Yes, there are some days that my faith is tested.  But there are more days when my faith is so strong that I weep when the sun’s rays quietly greet me and warm me from the morning chill – leaving me with the feeling that the Lord is right there wishing me a good day. No matter how strong my faith, I now know this to be true: I am valuable. I am worth it. And it has nothing to do with my past, my progress, or my potential. Instead, it has everything to do with the fact that I am His beloved daughter. Cherished and protected for no other reason than because I am His.

On the hard days, when shame rides shotgun and the past comes back to steal my spirit, I live by one belief. It’s one belief that gives me permission to be authentic, to love with less fear, and to like myself a little more with every glorious sunrise.

It is God who justifies.  

It is God who justifies.  

It is God who justifies.  

Thanks be to God.

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