It's Okay If You Don't Agree

There comes a time in every child's life when they realize that their parents might not be the "be all and end all" when it comes to opinions. There might, God forbid, be something that you question. Something that you choose, willingly, to defy. I'm not talking about curfews or rules when it comes to alcohol or boys in the house. I'm talking about the things that you believe to your core, the things that you choose to let define you, the things that you will go to bat to defend. The things that make you... you.

I was watching the presidential debate with my father, a man whom I have admired and revered as the smartest man in the room for most of my life. Trust me, he is someone who commands respect. He's a force, an imposing character that demands you stop what you're doing and listen to him. A man who knows that he might not always be right, but believes in himself no matter what the outcome, which is always something I have respected. A man whom I look up to now and forever.

A man who, until today, I believed knew everything about everything.

It's not easy disagreeing with your parents. They're the people that raised you, that instilled in you the very values that you base your claims on today. They're the people that trained you to look for the qualities in people that you look for on a daily basis. They're the people that taught you right from wrong, the people that taught you what was good and what was bad and how to sort one from the other. It's not easy to disagree with that.

But, there comes a time in every child's life where they learn that it is okay to form their own opinions. I have formed my own opinion. And I have been afraid to do so until now.

I have been afraid, and I don't really know why. My father, this man whom I have revered and respected, has his own opinion. He formed his opinions by watching debates and participating in discussions with his own father. Why should I, someone who has done both of those things, be so afraid of my own opinion?

I shouldn't. I have watched, I've listened, and I've participated in my own debates about who should and shouldn't lead our country. As an educated person, I should not be afraid to form my own opinion. I've read all the articles and watched all the interviews. I have the facts. So why am I so afraid?

I think part of it comes from the fear of growing up. Growing up means that we're adults, that the decision making is on us now. And that can be scary. We've looked up to our parents and mentors for our whole life, hoping they will tell us right from wrong. And finding our our own footing on something so fundamental as a political opinion can be terrifying when we think of it like that.

We have jobs. We have responsibilities. We have opinions. We are our own people. And we shouldn't be afraid to have these opinions. We shouldn't be afraid of who we are. Of who are striving to be.

We should be excited to sit at the adult table, to be able to engage in the adult conversations, and be the adults we pretend to be during the work week, even if we don't always feel like it.

Because we do sit there, at the adult table. We do have those adult conversations, and we are the adults. And we shouldn't be afraid to be an adult.

My father is a great man. He is a man whom I admire and revere as the smartest man in the room. I always will. He commands respect,and is a force to be reckoned with. He has his own opinions about who should and shouldn't lead this country.

And I have mine.

And that's okay.

That's okay.

Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Life, RelationshipsKatie SerenaNovember 8, 2016FeaturedComment

It's Okay If You Don't Agree

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