Project To Love Ourselves

Part of me is quite sad that I’ve taken such a long break from writing on this little blog of mine.  Another part of me feels like I’m still outputting creatively, just in different realms.  On the Studio blog, on Instagram and Facebook.  But I think a bigger part of me really misses coming here daily to write.  I remember way back in Memphis I was posting multiple times per day!  Where did all that free time go?!  I’d like to post more, and I’m going to make an attempt to be more consistent.  Don’t we go through this every year?

I’d be ok with this blog becoming a place where I get to write when I have something worthy to say.  A big topic that I want to elaborate on, rather than a log of my food and training runs.  Maybe I can work back into that.  But, here is what I want to write about today.

I have been considering for years some way to “get involved” and give back.  I’ve looked into volunteering at nursing homes, in after school programs, Big Brothers Big Sisters, animal shelters and even hospice.  Nothing ever really jumped out at me as something that I truly felt passionate about and felt was feasible flexibility and time wise for me personally.  Of course I want to help better the world in any way I can, but I also needed it to be something I enjoy doing or I know I wouldn’t last.

Then one day, I saw via an acquaintance’s Instagram (acquaintance is tough.  She is more important than that.  Once upon a time we were close friends, but years and miles and missteps across time just pulled us apart.  But what do we call that?) that she had created this incredible project to send handwritten letters to girls who were struggling in a particular stage of life.

Of course she did.  This gal was a big rock for me in the tumultuous years of high school.  The years when we found our worth in grades, athletic performance and boys.  I still have a photo album of beautifully simple and silly words scrawled on brightly colored scrapbook paper reminding me “we do not wait by the phone for him to call.”  Oh W, how things have come so perfectly true for you!

How brilliant.  How simple.  How powerful.  This project caught my attention because I was lucky enough to be surrounded by powerful letter writing women in my adolescence and even on into young adulthood.  My mama is a wizard with words and I have shoeboxes of letters saved from occasions, some momentous, some trivial like my first homecoming date (which turned into heartbreak eventually), getting into college, rejection from college, more breakups, studying abroad, starting a business, joining a sorority and on and on.  Whether she was proud of me or hurting for me or empathizing or encouraging, or was able to predict inevitable fear and doubt before I even saw it, her words helped me start to believe in myself.

img_4286-jpgI give a grand amount of credit to these letters for making me the strong-willed, stubborn girl today who thinks her way is usually right.  Sure, my stubborn streak can be trouble at times but it is well worth the strong foundation of self-worth and self-love that is cemented within.  I’m willing to take risks and be vulnerable because I know that failure in business or relationships or even running goals doesn’t diminish who I am as a person.  And I owe that to all those letters.

I still have some sealed cards from a different close friend with specific titles on the envelopes – “open when you’re feeling sad”  “open when you don’t know what to do” .  Early and mid-twenties were a weird bitch mix of self-doubt, flopping around for new friends in the city I made all my best girlfriends in after we all leapt our separate ways, dating and doing adult things with no real rules.  Having gentle, positive and encouraging words to read and re-read when I needed them was more than once helpful.  I felt less lonely.  Less helpless.

15385320_1847128965571317_8467625916250713597_oAnd now, I get to give back in the same way that helped shape me.   By writing letters.

I will believe in you, until you believe in yourself!

If you’d like to join in as a letter writer, you can sign up here.  (I’m lookin’ at you mama)15304490_1846385145645699_1298334868843623591_o


First photo: Lemongrass Wedding Photography

Second and third: To Love Ourselves


State 16: Minnesota (1/3) – The Birthday Surprise

Hello y’all!  I’ve got another state under my belt – Minnesota!  I didn’t reveal anything leading up to the trip because it was a surprise visit for Popsicle who turned 60 (!) the week after the race.  So now I will start at the beginning for you:



Cali dreams

In June I went to visit my brother and future sister-in-law in California where they lived for a few months during his job training.  Shelby came on a 6 mile run with me and I dropped the idea in her ear that she should train for a half and I’d love to coach and run with her.  We all knew they were eventually going to land in Minnesota and I hadn’t run that state yet.  She floated through that six miler, so we started to make plans for the big race before I left. We had a few picked out in mid-September to try to get everyone together for the big surprise.  I had to call in Momsie to figure out what their chicken-related travel plans were (none, but a big Californian sailing trip was taking up some September time).

Ultimately we landed on the Land of the Lakes Memorial Half Marathon.  Once Momsie committed she and dad, and Shelby committed to purchasing an entry, I got my ticket to MN and signed up too.  It was more of a challenge than it should have been to keep that a secret.  There’s wedding planning going on, we’ve got group texts of various sporting teams and daily chicken updates – I’m proud of all of us for keeping the details of the trip out of those texts dad was included in.  No small feat for this clan.


I trained Shelby over emails and texts for about 8 weeks for her first half marathon.  Normally I wouldn’t advise that quick of a training routine but like I said, she sailed through the six in Cali with no problem so I felt more comfortable pushing it.  And to both of our surprises she turned out to be quite the runner.  I was not at all surprised that she could keep up with the miles but she blew it out of the water.  SO FAST!  She kept up with everything I prescribed to her, sending me screenshots when she finished of her routes and I kept telling her, “You’re doing so great!  Your times are really fast, I won’t be able to keep up with you!”  And she brushed it off in disbelief.  But really, you’ll see, I couldn’t keep up with her.

The week before the race

I was stricken suddenly with some kind of stomach virus the week of the race and wasn’t able to do any running before making the trip.  Shelby was right on schedule, my parents’ trip was right on schedule and I recovered by Thursday of race week.   I was definitely not hopeful of keeping up with Speedy Shelby at this point.


We knew that I would be arriving late.  We knew my parents would be out to dinner with Nathan and Shelby.  We knew I would take the light rail into the city and meet them wherever they were.  But that’s about it as far as having a planned surprise for my dad.  I asked if Nathan could acquire sixty balloons that I could walk in with but that idea was vetoed quickly.  So I started the group texting on my light rail ride in from the airport.  The final plan was for me to grab dad’s drink at the apartment lobby bar and take it to their table.

After a little detour (the light rail was closed for maintenance on the last leg of the trip so we were herded onto buses.  It was the smoothest public transportation transition I’ve ever experienced – good work Mpls!), I made it to Nathan’s apartment complex and was hurried to the front desk where I stashed my bags and waited for the “GO” text.  I had to re-watch Serena battle it out for a shot at the Grand Slam title but finally it was go time.

I approached the bar, and like the well-executing pranksters the Sprenkels are, the bartender knew I was coming.  I had a Manhattan to deliver to my dad, as the rest of the crew had their drinks delivered just before me.  I don’t know why I was nervous but I was.  Didn’t want to spoil the surprise too early, drop the glass on the way, spill it all over me.  You know mess it up.  Turns out I had very little to worry about.

I came up behind my dad, made eye contact with mom and brother, trying not to laugh and said “A manhattan for the old man! Happy birthday!”  He was very gracious and said thank you but didn’t really register that it was me.  So I hung around for a second and continued to converse with him, sliding in a one arm hug and even calling him dad once or twice.  Still didn’t recognize me.  Everyone at the table was stifling giggles at this point, a little incredulous that a dad didn’t recognize his own daughter.  Finally I said, “DAD!  It’s me, Happy Birthday!”.

“Whoa, what are you doing here?!  I was just texting with you a minute ago!”

“Yep, funny how that works, I can text from wherever I am and I was just in the lobby.”

I’d like to cut him some slack – it was dark, he was tired from lots of late nights editing chicken shit and I was wearing makeup. All reasons you might not recognize your first born.  Apparently my hair is extra blonde these days too (it’s not).



The Sprenkel Gang

The Sprenkel Gang

Stay tuned for Saturday’s festivities of touring Minneapolis and wedding dress shopping!  Happy Birthday Popsicle!