I’ll tell you how it happens.

You just go ahead and live a little of your life and your blogging time diminishes to a little sparkly crystal of preciousness which you hold near your heart and stare at in your quiet moments.

Or something.

But we took a little family trip (to a sunny southern city) and we laughed and we hiked and we sang songs and we told funny stories and Kid 1 may have poured her coffee-machine hot cocoa into the bottom of her mug, forgetting that little detail of Turning the Mug Over. We swam and we fogged-in the hot-tub room and we ate 5 pounds of gummy worms among us. And those were a few really fun days.

But also. There was this other thing.

I’m querying, you see. And for me, querying is a mad mixture of exciting and horrible, much like cheese fondue or deep-fried anything. It feels so awesome right up until it starts feeling barf-inducing.

I’ve sent out several queries. I’ve gotten about 10% positive response. (No, Dad, that doesn’t mean offers of representation. That means people saying “That doesn’t sound too bad. Send the manuscript – or part of it – to me and I’ll have a look at it.” Which is so very, very positive. To me.) And I’ve gotten several very polite rejections.

Rejections, polite or otherwise, make me sad.

Because as much as I’d like to say I can separate myself from my work, it’s PERSONAL. You know? It is. And a tiny part of me wants to knock on the metaphorical doors of these nice people and say, “But LOOK at me. I’m nice. I’m groomed. I’m wearing accessories. And also, I know how to write a book that is Good.”

Which, naturally, I can’t say to them, because that’s not how it works.

Which, naturally, causes ulcers.

Naturally.

So I live with it. I put on a happy face and I do a few deep sighs once in a while. I send out five more queries. I eat a piece of something delicious (which was, up to yesterday, a square of almond toffee, but from now on until later, it will be something sugarless and without white flour, because also the one-pound-a-week thing isn’t working no matter how many positive thoughts I send its way. See note above re. gummy worms) and I move on.

Also, because I have had some successes (remember those positive responses?) I bought myself a book. “The Fault in our Stars” by John Green. I hope it’s glorious. I have reason to hope. Because he’s brilliant, and stuff. (But mine wasn’t signed. And I might have to do something about that. If you’re not a Nerdfighter, you may not know that JG signed like 150,000 copies of “TFIOS” for the first run. Who gets a first run printing of 150,000? John Green does.) **UPDATE: I looked it up. Only the PRE-ORDERED 150,000 books are signed. Pre-ordered. 150,000. Signed. Go, John Green. You go.

So, on we go, ulcers and rejections and smiles and carrot sticks and all.

We went to the high school basketball game last night. I love basketball. I love the never-stop, run-run-run, high scoring action. I love high school basketball because of the community that it envelops. But I have to say, high school basketball has changed since I was a student.

Maybe that’s  not what I mean. Maybe I mean that high school basketball in Utah is a totally different world than in Indiana.

For instance, in Indiana, basketball is not a democracy. I never, ever, in all my years watching Indiana basketball, saw a player talk a referee out of a call. Or even try to. Or saw his coach let him. But last night, the red team consistently chatted up the refs after almost every call that they disagreed with. Then they swore. Loudly. And don’t even get me started on the coach (for the other team – our coach is a gentleman) because holy cow, it reminded me of that scene in HOOSIERS where Gene Hackman is trying to get kicked out of the tournament. Remember that?

I think I saw 4 technical fouls.

And our fans. Oh, it made me sad. There was really rotten sportsmanship, and we (as a group) were stinky with it. It made it hard for me to love the game.

But.

Then.

I have to back up. There’s this community trauma going on right now where I live. There is a senior at the high school who is on the wrestling team. This sport is huge in my town, HUGE. Two weeks ago, this boy got into a hold and was dropped on his head (don’t quote me on that – I wasn’t there). Whatever the cause, the effect was that he snapped his neck and is paralyzed from the neck down (ala Christopher Reeve). In two weeks of constant hospital monitoring, he’s now got some feeling throughout his body (but no movement). It is a miracle that he’s alive, but a tragedy that he’s broken. The kids in town have rallied, making and buying and wearing “Super Dale” T-shirts, which looked so cute on all the cheerleaders last night. It was one of those things that make your heart glad. At the game, T-shirts went flying through the crowd as gifts. It was great. Then, at half time, the cheerleaders passed around Super Dale buckets, asking for “loose change to make a change.” In five minutes, they raised $1500 to help with his hospital bills. And plenty of that change came from the visitors’ bleachers. At the risk of running all cheesy, I have to say it was precious. I got misty. The town (and the rivals in the red bleachers) stepped up, each doing a very little to make a difference.

And I thought, how did both those feelings come out of the same gym? How did I get so discouraged, so disgusted, at the same event that also made me near tears of gratitude?

Maybe it’s the setting.

Hear my prayer: Oh, please. Take me not back to High School.

I’ve been wondering how/if I was going to say this. And whether it mattered to anyone at all (besides me). And you know, when you come right down to it, it’s not like I tell you guys Everything. I keep a whole lot of the boring parts of my life to myself. Also some of the other parts. I do.

(So much for Diving In.)

Here’s the thing. I had this dumb little spot on my head, right inside my hair line over my right ear. It was scar-ish. Small-ish, pink-ish, and raised. A little. Nobody really had to see it, except when my hair was wet, which, honestly, happens every day, but usually in private moments.

One day this fall, I came downstairs in the morning with my hair wet, and Kid 2 said, “Ewww. What’s up with that thing on your head?” To which I responded, “None of your business. Eat your breakfast.” But then, of course, everyone wanted to see my little scar. Which, apparently was growing larger, as opposed to following the growing-smaller plan that I had for it.

I’m afraid this might be a long story, Feel free to skip to the end. Or grab a handful of pistachios. Or declaw the cat. Whatever.

When Husband took a good look at it, he said, “You’re calling somebody.”

I placated. “It’s nothing.”

His eyes widened as he poked at me. “Bec, it’s growing,” he said, in that voice that oozes menace. As though the little scar was going to take over my face or something.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll call.” Which, by the way, I did, after only a few days and some email-style prodding.

A few weeks later, I went to the dermy. Nice guy. Well, if you like your doctors efficient and businesslike, which I do. He said, oh, hey, we see things weirder than this every day. The sun probably just damaged your skin because you are old.* Let’s just scrape it off.

So I got biopsied. Cute Megan the nurse/assistant told me I’d feel a little prick (that was for the numbing shot). I squeezed my fingers together waiting for it. I think I might have even been holding my breath, waiting for that little prick, when Cute Megan said, Okay, all done. Keep this lubed with this greasy polysporin gunk. (Or she may have said something possibly slightly more science-y. You get the point.)

They shuffled me out the door saying yadda, yadda, thanks, we’ll call you if it’s anything, blah, blah, keep it moist, whatever.

A week later, I got the weirdest phone call. “Hi, Becca,” the nurse who was not Cute Megan said, “We just wanted to call you because we got your biopsy back, and it’s skin cancer.” She kept talking. I heard words, but they didn’t mean anything. It was one of those moments when the time continuum sort of opens up, and you think, right there in that space between syllables, “Huh. Cancer. That really, really stinks.” I felt hollow in my brain and in my guts. I let her calm voice and her words wash over me and I started hearing things like “a million people a year” and “really simple” and “not dangerous” and “Basal cell” and “carcinoma” and “removed” and I reminded myself to breathe.

Then I sat down on the floor and didn’t get up for a long time.

I have cancer. I have Cancer? Are you kidding me?

Apparently not.

– and then, into my head:

remember the sunblock you don’t wear? you have no right, no right at all to mourn this news. you deserve this because you worship the sun. you are like the chain smoker who moans about lung cancer. you are the worst kind of lame. you may not feel sad, only guilty. and not only that, it isn’t even real cancer (that word again, oh, that word makes my guts sick) because you don’t have to have treatments. you just go in and they cut out the spot and they stitch you up and you drive yourself home and you go back in six months (forever) and over and over you face the full-body-scan humiliation and the doctor will keep taking spots off your skin and you will be grateful that it isn’t on the end of your nose. yet.

– and then:

not only that, but you really can’t play in the sun anymore. you can’t make it worse than it already is. who cares that you have stupid sensitive skin that reacts with welts and hives when you wear sunblock? nobody, that’s who. the tan portion of your life is over. learn to love white fat. yes, brown fat is prettier. deal with it.

– and then:

oh. cancer. that word is so big and powerful for a collection of just a few letters. none of the letters are even tall. but the word – it takes a bite out of your soul, doesn’t it? it makes you sink to the floor and stay there. it gives you visions of your very own body, the body you have never loved enough, fighting against itself for cellular domination. cancer is a word that brings its own bags and moves in and lives on your couch and never, ever goes away.

And then I held my knees and said, just in my head, “I have cancer.” After that, I tried it out loud. “I have cancer.” I said it three times. Each time, it pinched my mouth. It tasted like charcoal dust.

Then I breathed for a few minutes.

After that, I called Husband. And do you know what happened when I made that call? I turned into The Protector. Does this happen to you? I decided who absolutely had to know (only Husband at that point) and I told the story with as much cushioning as I could manage. It started with the demand that he not worry. Because this was not a big deal. I wonder now – did I mean that AT ALL? I echoed the nice nurse’s words about a million people a year, and basal cells, and ease. I mentioned the part about driving myself home (a big deal, because I had made an appointment for the next day, when Husband was locked into a film shoot that he couldn’t miss). I probed for fear, for concern, for worry, and I swept them all away with the power of my words.

But underneath, there was the other word. The heavy word. The one that tried to pull all my cushy comfort words down and drown them.

I decided to tell the parents. Again with the cushioning. Again with the careful protecting. Again with the making sure that they were all fine. And then I asked them for prayers. That this small thing not turn into a big thing. Which prayers they promised. And I felt.

And for the rest of the day, I sat. I thought. I allowed myself the day to mourn. To grieve. To let go forever the thought of my mortal immortality. To set aside my delusion of wholeness. I asked myself for forgiveness. Which is a whole different discussion.

–

The next day, I went and had the spot removed (which was weird, because after the biopsy, it was pretty much gone). My mama came with me. She held my eyes with hers so I could try to miss the scissors and the needles and the no-longer-white gauze that danced around my periphery. I asked a few questions. I laughed with the doctor (or maybe it was only me laughing) and with Cute Megan the nurse.  I tried to pretend that I couldn’t hear the scissoring, but who was I kidding? There was that unfortunate knicking of the temporal artery and the subsequent mess. I walked out with a pressure bandage that stuck out of my head a whole inch, but could be covered by hair much thicker than mine. I carried on.

But inside, there was that word. Oh, that word. Cancer. It still sits there, heavy in my brain (metaphorically, okay? this is still about “just” basal cell carcinoma), and I carry it everywhere. There are days when the weight of that word makes writing hard. There are days when I want to say to all my demands, Hey, don’t you know that there’s cancer in here? But I can’t. Because, remember? It’s the “just” kind. The kind that isn’t dangerous. The kind that I brought on myself. The kind that is so much more an emotional cancer than a physical one. I think that is the final balance-tipping piece. I would allow myself to mourn more, to grieve more, if the physical were as big as it could be – if there was a treatment, or a medication, or a horrible chemo in my future. But since there’s not – just an occasional bald spot from lesion-removal (there’s that other word, that “just” again) – I feel like I’ve had my moment to mourn and now I have to get back in the saddle.

–

So for those of you who wondered about the sad things, this is one. It gets in the way, sometimes. But not every time. And carrying on is what we do. We who are strong and weak, and we who are whole and damaged, and we who are powerful and frail, and we who are fearless and daunted. We carry on.

We pray.

We listen.

We learn.

We feel.

We forgive and seek forgiveness.

We carry on.

And some of us seek to channel the power of other powerful words. The healing kind.

*I’m not old. I’m thirty-seven. And he is clearly older. Besides which, he didn’t say that Old part at all.

Are you listening, NWS?

You promised.

You said.

You guaranteed me the snowstorm of the century.

You used the word Blizzard.

—

You lied.

—

There was a teeeeeny bit of snow. A bit of wind. A lot of hype and very little delivery. Am I annoyed? Oh, you betcha.

I was prepared to be snowed in for at least three days. I even went to the store (along with everyone else in the Frozen Mountaintops) to get a bit of snackiness in the event (the Totally Probable Event) that we’d be without power for a few days and I wouldn’t be able to depend on fresh hot bread at my every whim. I was prepared to miss Thanksgiving dinner. I dusted off “A Christmas Carol,” all prepared to read by firelight, to ready my Kids for the best Christmas in living memory.

I was LOOKING FORWARD TO A SNOWSTORM. Do you know what a big deal this is, NWS?

Do you?

This never happens. I like Spring. I crave sunlight. I want to get out and mow the lawn. But yesterday, I was giddy at the thought of sinking into the couch with a heap of blankets and a box of Wheat Thins.

So, thanks a lot.

See if I ever listen to your dire, evil, false predictions again. Pooh.

The End.

If we don’t know the hard stuff, what do we really know at all?

I’m extremely lucky (lucky = blessed), and I know it. I am healthy. Happily married. Supported. With 4 excellent, healthy, smart, obedient  kids who love each other. The hard things we go through in our family are fairly consistent, but nothing, nothing compared to some of the hard things other people face. And how do I know that? Because people talk about their struggles. They write about them. And careful novelists write about the hard stuff they know – either because it happened to them or someone they love, or because they learn enough to know.

For instance, did you know that there’s a standard September book-banning issue? At the beginning of a school year, people say what they don’t want anyone to read. I have issues with that. *Please don’t misunderstand. I have plenty of standards. There are many, many books that I choose not to read, becuase of content or message or for any number of reasons. I am fairly conservative in my reading. But I don’t tell people that they shouldn’t read things (except for once in a while, my kids. Because that IS my job. Totally.) So, anyway, people campaign for books to be removed from library shelves, in schools and out. And this year, one of the books that a religious group is trying to ban is Laurie Halse Anderson’s SPEAK. I was about ten years late reading this book (don’t ask me where I’ve been since 1999), but I was floored by it. Floored. It was really one of the most touching books I’ve read. Ever. I put it right into the hands of my then-14. She recoiled a little. As she might. The book deals (forthrightly) with rape. And its aftereffects. And it’s hard. But does its being hard mean we should never read it? Or never let our kids read it? Or ignore that the problem sometimes exists? I say no, especially when the problem (in this case, rape) is always going to be prevalent, and some girl needs to know that she’s not alone. That she’s not singled out for pain and horror.

Do I want to read any book that glorifies violence? Oh, no. But do I leave it in your hands to decide if you want to seek out such a thing? Of course. Does SPEAK glorify rape? Not a bit. Not at all. It gives a voice to a victim. It’s the responsibility of the strong to speak for the weak, of the mighty to stand with the unprotected. (And then, that victim, that weak one, that unprotected child stands strong and speaks for herself, and for others.)

Many people are saying this better than I. Click on this link to hear Anderson’s words, and see her suggestions for effecting change.

And there’s this other thing. I read on Sara Zarr’s blog yesterday this quote by author Veronica Roth:

“It’s all fine and good to walk around thinking “I’ve been saved! Woohoo!”, but seriously: saved from what? Sometimes I wonder if they even know, or if it’s too uncomfortable to think about.”

Is it simplistic, childish and unfair to say that I see both sides of that question? Some things are too uncomfortable to think about. But we stretch our brain by thinking about them anyway. We stretch our spirit. We grow. Remember growing? That’s what we’re doing here. Learning, growing, choosing – and how do we know what to choose? We learn the difference between good and evil, when it comes right down to it. Does that mean we delve, explore all kinds of evil, so we can really know it? No, not for me.

Want a metaphor? Well, you’re in luck. Because I have one.

Once upon a time I lived in Oklahoma. Which is a remarkable place. And I tried to grow a garden, because I’m some kind of glutton for punishment. Here’s the thing about gardening in Oklahoma. The dirt? Is brick. Like, you could probably cut it in cubes out of the ground and build a wolf-proof house out of it. It’s red, and hard, and solid. Seeds bounce off it. The ground sort of laughed at my efforts. Shovels didn’t really make a dent. It was sort of… baked.

And as I tried to plant seeds (because a woman of character grows things in the dirt) I realized that this ground needed to be broken. Split. Harrowed up. And I made it happen. Do you know what? It hurt. It hurt me to push through that hard. To use muscles I’ve never used before. To see very little success. And to move away before I could enjoy the fruits (but that’s another metaphor entirely). But what if my heart, protected, untouched and hidden, baking in the warm sun, has hardened like Oklahoma dirt? What if, by staying away from the shovel and the pick, crucial seeds are bouncing off my heart?

There are things that need to grow in my heart. Sympathy. Empathy. Understanding and forgiveness. But if I can’t let the seeds in, nothing will grow. It can’t. I’m not allowing it. So I need to let my heart be broken open. I’m not talking about inviting abuse. Not at all. I’m talking about allowing some of the pain that real people experience every day to crack me open a little so something beautiful can grow. And when our hearts get a little harrowed up, a little broken on behalf of someone else, I think our souls expand. I think that learning to understand others’ pain makes us bigger. And from the fertile ground of a broken, harrowed heart, beautiful trees can grow, to shade the weary and feed the hungry and make the world a little more beautiful.

Yeah. That.

In fact, I have probably gotten good fortunes in my life. Just not within my memory. In fact, last week when we celebrated my birthday, my parents and sisters and I ate Chinese (at Shoots, yum) and half of the table had to leave before fortune cookie time. So we tried a little experiment. I cracked open a cookie (which, at Shoots, is dipped in dark chocolate, because why not?) and read this:

“You wil make many changes before settling satisfactorily.”

Um?

Really?

Not even “happily?”

Just “satisfactorily?”

Thanks, anyway.

So I took another one.

“Focus on your long-term goal.”

Thanks, Mom.

And again, because Dad left early to go teach a class, missing his chocolate-dipped “fortune”:

“Listen these next few days to your friends to get answers you seek.”

Noted.

Oy.

But were they all like that? Oh, no. Julie’s was awesome – something about delirious joy and romance. I’ve blocked it out of my mind, if you can imagine. Husbands are always, always good — promising dollars-and-cents fortunes.

But I get advice cookies. And, frankly, not very great advice. And when I think about it, I sort of get in a huff. Not enough to stop eating Chinese, but maybe enough to start bringing my own pieces of paper to shove inside the cookies.

“Size 8 jeans are just around the corner for you.”

“Your wit and charm will continue to stun and stupefy all you meet.”

“Your husband thinks you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and he is absolutely right.”

“All calories from lemon chicken are hereby negated.”

“Your children will act like perfect angels for the next seventy-two hours, we promise.”

See? It’s not that hard. Maybe I’m in the wrong business…

No. Wait. I’m not. This is the perfect business for a disgruntled fortune-cookie receiver. Just as soon as I finish Ivie’s story, I’m going to use this. Somehow. (I’m sensing revenge for the lame-fortuned. Stay tuned.)

A big thirty percent of sadness-reading is validation. It is fine to feel sad, the book says. It is normal, it says. I feel it, too, it says. And sometimes, mine is so much worse than yours, it says, that yours lightens up enough to bear.

And the rest? That other fifty-five-to-sixty? Puts words to our grief, our pain, our hurt, our darkness. The book can tell us how we feel, give us definition. The words can put wings to our sadness and help it fly up, just a little, so it hovers over our heads instead of smothering our hearts.

Not wallowing. Healing.

Point: Husband took these gorgeous family photos and has them mounted so cool, and hung on the wall. He wonders why nobody has said anything about the display. Um, sorry, love. Nobody’s come to our house since they’ve been up. Yeah, that was June.

Point: We have a kind of partying neighborhood. But mostly we hear the parties from inside our house, or from our backyard. Yes, I recognize that most of that is our choice. Mostly.

Not to sound ungrateful. I have friends. I do. Nice ones. Fun and funny and lovely friends who do really nice things, and serve my family, and care about us. But I don’t do extravagant girls’ weekend trips, or weekly lunch get-togethers, or shopping sprees. I’m not so much a big social kind of girl, and sometimes that has gotten me down. Not so much lately, because I’m getting over it. Maybe it’s an age thing, a maturity thing. Or maybe I’m facing inevitability. Either way, I think I’m figuring out how I can do validation from the inside.

And do you know what? Validation from the inside is heavenly.

Enter Stuart Smalley: “Because I’m good enough, and I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.” (Or at least I like me.)

Maybe it’s part of that growing up feeling where you stop wondering what people are saying/thinking/telling/asking about you, because you realize that NO ONE IS. They just don’t care that much. And, good.

Maybe it’s a self-preservation exercise.

Maybe it’s part of that growing up feeling where you realize that you have limited energies for fostering and cultivating meaningful relationships, and maybe those energies are best directed to the people inside your own home.

And possibly, maybe, maybe everyone feels like this. Maybe we all sit inside our houses with our noses pressed to the glass wondering how and why everyone else is out there, together, laughing and eating good food and making memories. Meanwhile, I’m trying to unstick my face from the window, turn around, and enjoy the party going on right here.

Because right here? The party is pretty excellent.

Because he stopped and because he looked, the Lord spoke to Moses out of the bush. He called him by his name, because that’s what the Lord does, and he asked Moses to take off his shoes. “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.”

The poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning said:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

How do I become the one who sees? Can I figure out when the presence of God is near, when I’m on Holy Ground, and remove my shoes? How can I find the divine in the drudgery?

When my kids were little, needy and demanding and helpless, I’m afraid my first reaction to a burning bush would be to toss a bucket of water on it. One more emergency to deal with. One more demand on my time and sanity.

When they were bigger, I think my reaction would be different. All right you people. Who has been playing with matches? You know the rules. You’re all busted.

Some days, don’t you feel too tired to care? After work and dinner and cleaning and dishes and homework and dentist appointments and practices and laundry and family night and concerts and presidency meetings and emergency room visits and games and meets and matches and scripture study, could you (like I could) look over your shoulder as you flop onto the couch and say, “Huh. That bush is on fire. Hope it doesn’t singe the furniture. Pass the remote.”

And when the kids are grown and gone, are there times we peek under beds and search out fingerprinty windows, desperate to regain a tiny portion of that sweet innocence, only to ignore the flaming bush in the middle of the room?

The Lord wants us to recognize the “great sight” in our path. He rewarded Moses for turning aside, seeking out the miracle. We will also be rewarded for seeking out the miracles.

There are plenty of barefoot moments in motherhood. Some of them are messy, some of them are funny; some are precious and sweet and sacred. All these moments testify that God is near.

Do you remember the first time you took your fussy baby out of church and walked the halls, muttering about why am I doing this? I’m getting nothing out of these meetings, and we’re disturbing everyone within a fifty-foot radius only to have that little person hang over your shoulder, lean behind you, point to a painting of the Savior and say “Jesus.” Remember that you didn’t even think that child knew that word? Remove thy shoes.

Remember the time you came downstairs because you heard someone crying? Grumble, grumble – these kids are always fighting. I’ll give them something to cry about. Here you come, ready to dispense justice, and find your youngest cradled in the arms of an older sibling who’s kissing away the hurt and coaxing a smile and a laugh from behind the tears. Take thy shoes from off thy feet.

Remember that one time – that one time – you got that note, that email, that text that said, “Thank you, Mom”? Remove thy shoes.

And watch them, as adults, choose each other as best friends. See them seeking out each others’ company. Listen to them laugh together, remembering the happy times that are buried somewhere in your memory, under piles of muddy shoes and broken dishes and dents in cars and angry words. The memories are there. Take thy shoes from off thy feet.

We can train our eyes to see the “bush afire with God” – to notice the things that could not be, without the influence of the Lord. If I want that gift, that ability, I only need to ask for it, to work for it. To write it down when I see it.

And when we stop, and remove our shoes from off our feet, we can hear the Lord call us by name and remind us that the place we stand is holy ground, the position we hold is ordained of God, the people we nurture are really His children.

(*I wrote this last year for a Mother’s Day weekend event. Since maybe three people read my blog last year, I’m willing to risk a rerun.)

And there’s guilt. Because I’m not there. I’m not standing with the family, surrounding the hospital bed. I said my last goodbye over the phone. How tacky is that? I wasn’t holding Husband’s hand while he watched his dad go Home. And I should have been there, of course. So, guilt.

And then there’s excitement. Giddiness, even. Because I get to be a Star. Our play (“Joseph”) opened Thursday. Dad W. passed away Friday morning. We performed Friday night. And tonight. And tomorrow, and next week, and it’s SO FUN and I really, really love it.

And I don’t know how to feel that all inside this one heart.

And it’s hard to balance it all. My head would explode if I tried to feel it all at the same time. So I have to take a breath and remember: It’s time to feel this. It’s okay to feel that. And I let myself compartmentalize it all so I don’t just dissolve.

Is there a word for that?