Partnering with your pet in fitness

When starting a fitness routine, it’s great motivation to have a friend with which to partner. It’s much easier to keep going when you don’t have to go it alone. For some of us, that friend runs on four legs.

Very often, our pets become our best friends, and even our family. When it comes to playtime, and fitness, they can also be enthusiastic partners, helping us to feel like going out for that walk or run when we might feel like staying in and watching a movie. And let’s face it, our furry friends are hardly ever too busy for us, or have a job to go to.

With all of that being said, our pets need to be prepared for fitness as well. We need to make sure that our routine works for them, because they usually won’t let us know they’re having trouble until something really significant is wrong. As a registered veterinary technician, I’ve seen many health issues that could impact our pets and how well they are able to be part of our exercise plans.

A lot of focus on four-legged fitness partners naturally “goes to the dogs”. Cats tend to be a little more “free spirited” about walking on a leash, or jogging in the park. They often prefer a nice boxing match with a laser light. And your iguana? Well, he may not wanna. So, if your non-traditional four-legged friend wants to somehow participate in your routine, you probably need more species specific guidelines from your veterinarian. Where information is applicable to dogs and cats, it will be included in this piece.

In preparing our pets for our fitness routine, we need to consider multiple factors, including age, body condition, breed, location, and weather.

It may seem counterintuitive that running with our young dog could be a problem. After all, who is healthier than the average Labrador retriever puppy? With our juvenile canine friends, the concern with too much shock-absorbing exercise is that growing and maturing bones and joints are more prone to injury and damage. It might be fine for you to go out and run that 5K, but our puppies’ bones and joints need a little more babying.

Even young adult dogs with joint disorders such as hip dysplasia may have an increased chance of injury, or arthritic issues and changes when they put on too many miles. One of the more common injuries in young, active dogs is a torn anterior cruciate ligament—that’s a torn ACL for football enthusiasts. The cruciate ligament is like a rubber band that stretches over the knee to help keep everything in its place. When torn, this kind of injury can be repaired with surgery, but it might be costly. And foregoing surgery for the injury can lead to lifelong arthritic issues. Dogs who tear one cruciate ligament are at greater risk for tearing the other.

If we aren’t always thinking about monitoring activity level for our young and growing pets, most of us know that our elderly dogs can have arthritis. The right amount of exercise can keep the muscles around arthritic joints strong and healthy, reducing the risk of injury. At the same time, we need to be aware of even subtle changes in mobility, and waning enthusiasm, or tiring more quickly with exercise. When we notice those changes, it’s important to partner with our dog’s veterinarian to develop strategies for managing our senior pet’s health and comfort.When we carry more weight, exercise is more difficult. In the beginning, we need to build our fitness level. You have to respect your current fitness level, and work to achieve your long-term goals. The same is true for our overweight and obese pets. And sadly, just like us, a large percentage of our furry friends—both canine and feline—are either overweight or obese. Along with increasing activity incrementally, it’s important to watch for signs of fatigue, exercise intolerance and injuries. It’s also a great idea to visit your pet’s veterinarian to discuss weight loss goals, time frames for both short and long term weight loss, and dietary changes.

Some of our furry fitness partners may have several challenges when they start a new exercise routine. In addition to age and body condition, breed can greatly impact our dogs’ ability to keep up. Our brachycephalic—or smushed face—breeds can have a lot more trouble moving air during normal activity. That difficulty can increase greatly during exercise, and then again in hot weather. Dogs like pugs, English bulldogs, shih tzus, and Boston terriers are among those breeds that are more prone to heat exhaustion, and heat stroke. If you are unsure if your dog falls into the brachycephalic family of breeds, ask your veterinarian, and be sure to discuss the risks of exercise, and what signs to look for to determine if your dog is having trouble. When in doubt, wait the heat out.

Other breeds of dog, and breed types, may also have underlying risks when exercising. In some small breeds, like the chihuahua and Pomeranian, a luxating patella, or slipping knee-cap can be a very painful issue. The knee-cap can slide out of place during activity, and can be quite painful until it slips back. Surgical repair can help with this genetic defect. Our low and long-backed dogs, like the dachshund, have an increased risk of spinal cord injury, which can result in paralysis. Carrying extra weight can increase that risk. Surgical intervention is the best treatment for this injury.

And weather and location can play big roles in the success or failure of our pets’ participation in our fitness routine.

Heat can increase the risk of heat exhaustion and heat stroke in all pets, because they are not able to thermoregulate through sweating as we can. It’s important also to note that shaving some breeds down to help them stay cool may strip them of the built-in layer of insulation they have to protect them from temperature extremes, and even sunburn.

Along with heat comes a nuisance for all of us—bugs. Who hasn’t been hit in the face by a zooming bug while on a bike ride or run? And while most of us wouldn’t intentionally snack on these flying pests, their mid-air collisions with our huffing and puffing mouths can leave us caught off-guard. But as unpleasant as these experiences may be for us, other things that come along with bugs are more than a simple nuisance for our pets, and if our fitness routines take us outside, their exposure to these bugs increases.

Depending somewhat on location, one of the number one bug related health risks to our pets in warm weather and climates is the mosquito. As humans, most of us are familiar with malaria and West Nile, but it’s also important to be aware of heartworm disease in our dogs, and even our indoor cats. Mosquitoes carry the heartworm larvae, bite our pets, and transmit the larvae into the bloodstream. The adult worms make their home in the heart—hence the name. In many parts of North America, there is a year-round risk of mosquito-transmitted heartworm disease. In our dogs, symptoms can include coughing, exercise intolerance, collapse, and sudden death. In our cats, there may be no visible symptoms at all, except death. There are many methods of heartworm prevention available for both dogs and cats. Your veterinarian can help you make the best choice.

Tick-borne diseases are becoming a greater issue for humans and pets alike. Lyme and Erlichia are two common tick-borne diseases that impact our pets., as well as Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. With changes in our climate, the prevalence of these diseases is changing. These diseases are being seen with more frequency in locations where they were at one time a more transient occurrence. There are a lot of new, and advanced methods for helping our pets avoid becoming the victim of tick-borne disease. The best place to start is with your veterinarian.

And what would summer bug season be without fleas? Fleas just aren’t very much fun, but for our pets, they too can be more than a nuisance. Fleas carry tapeworms, which live in the intestinal tract. Our pets usually don’t show us a lot of outward signs of infection, but they aren’t harmless. They are sometimes seen when our pets pass a bowel movement. In most cases, we discover parts of the worms in the area around their tail.

Tapeworms are gross, but another flea-related health issue is no less troublesome for our pets. Some of our pets are extremely allergic to the biting flea. This can lead to some very itchy skin, and potentially some very serious skin infections—often referred to as “hot spots.” The itch is relentless, and can keep your pet—and you—up all night. The “hot spots” such scratching and itching can instigate are painful, and require medical attention.

In the battle against mosquitoes, ticks, fleas, your number one resource is your veterinarian. He or she can tell you about the prevalence of the diseases they carry in your area, and what the peak seasons are for concern. As our climate is changing, the traditional concept of “flea and tick season” is becoming a thing of the past. Many of our pets need prevention all year, and in some cases, especially preventing heartworm disease, prevention is much less costly than treatment.

And one of the most important things to remember about flea, tick, mosquito, and heartworm 
prevention is that one size does not fit all! Products intended for dogs only  must never be used for cats. In some cases, this mistake can be deadly. In the case of heartworm prevention, certain breeds of dog may be sensitive to certain ingredients. Heartworm prevention is a by prescription-only medication, and cannot be sold over-the-counter. So, your veterinarian will prescribe a product that is safe and effective for your pet.

In the summer and winter time, we need to be aware of the surfaces on which we walk and run. We have the luxury of choosing our own footwear, but for pets, one size fits all. Hot pavement can burn and abrade our pets’ footpads. Sidewalks and roadways treated to prevent icing, or to melt it away can also cause injury and damage to our pets’ feet. Some pets will learn to wear booties, but staying off of potentially dangerous surfaces may be the best preventative. It’s true that humans and their pets share a unique bond. Whether your pet cheers you on with their fins  from a bowl of water, or runs right along side you, the most important thing for both of you is safety and preparation, because once you know your pet’s fitness strategy, that special bond can grow stronger, and you are both in for a lot of great fun!

Pity Party—table for one. Where is that oxygen mask?

So, sometimes the universe throws you a day from hell. Sometimes, it throws you a cold, a child with a cold, a husband with a cold, and intense feelings of frustration, failure, and defeat. Deep down, you’re not upset about the day. You’re just worn down to the very last bit of yourself, and it feels like everything in your life is still trying to shave off another sliver.

I know everyone has bad days, and I know that frustrating times come and go. But today, I felt an “uncle” creeping up to the surface. I felt a moment of surrender, and I found myself sobbing over the kitchen sink as I rinsed ketchup and ranch out of the compartments of my daughter’s lunch plate.

She hasn’t shown any interest in eating anything besides fish sticks, macaroni and cheese, and yogurt for most of the last week. I know she’ll diversify her food choices again in a bit, but it’s just one thing on the list of things that are making me feel almost powerless this week.

I decided to take a stand over the weekend. I fight, plead, bribe, and beg her just to pick up the toys on the floor, because the constant battle of trying to keep up with that means I am not taking care of putting away much else. My declaration? I would not pick up even one thing for her for a week, nor would I let her have any sugary sweets until she did it herself.

It isn’t working. She just wails and howls when she asks for a sweet and I remind her of my ultimatum.

As she woke up at around seven this morning, she asked for a cookie, and she hit me in the face when it said it was too early. Everything went downhill from there.

When you’re sick, every little struggle feels amplified. This day and this week have been really loud. Having recently learned that I am prediabetic, I have found myself fighting to make even small changes to get back on the right track. I know that I have to make big changes, but quite honestly, I have allowed everyone and everything around me to become such an emergency that I know the only way I can make a start is to just start wherever I can.

I have allowed trying to maintain my own self-control with my daughter’s unpredictable behavior to steal my inner calm—the part that focuses on keeping my own emotional head above water. I have allowed other stressors in life to steal the voice inside that knows I should say “This all means I could get really sick. For a little bit, I have to put more of myself first.”

And this damn cold! And my damn body! And my damn feelings!

I started cutting and cutting, being more cognizant and aware of everything I was doing. Even after one week, I saw positive momentum. And then, without any change in how much effort I was making, that momentum swung right back the other direction. I tried to tell myself that it didn’t mean anything. I tried to tell myself my body’s defenses were kicking in, and giving a protest against me trying to change my habits. But that same voice everyone has inside of them that felt so pleased with the positive direction from the week before, was crestfallen and didn’t give a shit that it was just my body saying “Hey, wait a minute. What are you doing”?

And then, another shoe dropped. I felt just a little stuffy, but was running on my treadmill, and feeling better than usual. So, I kept running, because the slip in momentum my body had thrown at me needed to understand it wasn’t going to win out over my reasoning and logic about the situation.

By the next morning, two out three of us in the house had developed a nasty end of summer cold, and by end of that day, we all had it.

At this point, it might be reasonable to ask why a stupid little cold has to matter, and throw me into such an emotional and physical tailspin. But you see, it’s not the cold, it’s all the little things that seem to swirl around me in a low level hurricane all the time. This cold, my body laughing at me while I ate ice cream and wished there was a real Dr. Pepper in the house instead of diet, and my emotional meltdown over the kitchen sink are just the visible manifestations of the hurricane no one else usually gets to see.

As always, I could see the scene from the movie “Circle of Friends,” when Benny gets passed over by Jack at the dance, and stuffs chocolate in her mouth as she fights back tears.

“Ah, go on Benny. Ruin yourself”, she says.

And that’s how it feels. It feels like defeat. It feels like failure. It feels like everything else around me is grabbing and tearing at me, so what difference does it make? What difference can it possibly make that I can’t keep on track?

A friend reminded me that in the airport safety instructions, they always tell you when the oxygen mask falls, you need to put it on your face first, and then help those around you. You can’t pour from an empty cup. You can’t give what you don’t have.

This all sounds sensible. It sounds like common sense. But none of it works when it feels like life is grabbing the oxygen mask away from you before you can even reach for it.

And so, that’s how the little things get you. They chip away at your defenses and your strength a little at a time, and one bad moment turns into a bad day, a bad week, a bad time. You once again tell yourself that when things settle down with everyone else's struggles, you will be able to focus on taking care of yourself. And until you can do that, you have to plug the holes of your sinking ship with anything you can find, and hope that those plugs don’t somehow manage to make those holes too big to repair.

Add to all of those stupid feelings the knowledge that somewhere in the world, someone would give anything to have your “problems”, and you spiral back down to that place you always come back to—trying to push what you’re feeling down, because you don’t want to bother anyone else with things you should be strong enough to deal with on your own as a grown-ass woman.

And so,  the cycle continues. From the outside of things, we often wonder what leads seemingly happy people with seemingly perfect lives to make seemingly unthinkable choices. The reality? Nothing is black and white when it comes to how we feel, or how we deal with those feelings.

No, I’m not on the verge of making any dramatically awful choices about my tomorrows, but I understand how small things grow and become bigger to us than they would be to anyone else. I understand why people don’t reach out when they are struggling. No one likes to admit that the little things are too big for them.

Parenting, personal peace, and politics.

So, I know that I talk a lot about, write a lot about, and get fired up about politics, social injustices, and everything associated with those things. I also know that there are probably people who just don’t want to hear it anymore, ignore it, or even just avoid me.

I understand. We may disagree, and I might feel that it’s so vital to the greater good that we should all care at a high level. But I truly do get that not everyone shares that feeling.

One of the reasons I often feel compelled to share my views is because in a lot of ways, it’s one of the few things I can do. I have been passionate about politics and making the world a better place since I was in third grade. Activism is a hands on, contact sport. It requires the ability to participate, help organize, and lend a hand. I’m not as able to do those things as I often wish I was. That frequently leaves me in the position of Internet warrior—signing petitions, sending emails, occasionally turning up at gatherings or marches, and making tiny donations to causes that truly help the people I see being marginalized, forgotten, or harmed.

Another reason is because even though it raises my ire, and there’s only so much I can actually do to effect change, it’s at least a subject I can wrap my head around. It’s an outlet for so many frustrations that I feel myself battling on much more personal levels.

I always thought that I would be teaching my daughter about empathy, kindness, equality, our role in the web of life, and our shared humanity. Obviously, I knew that I would be teaching her about these things in different ways, and at different stages. I thought that when I was going to a march or a gathering of some sort, I would be taking her along, and modeling the behaviors, values, and ideals that her father and I think are so important.

But I can’t take her with me. Not even when an event is not likely to last a long time. I love her. She’s the center of my life now, and she is my greatest challenge.

Since just before she turned three, our daughter has given us what feels like an endless roller coaster ride of ups and downs. She started having more frequent and substantial meltdowns that often lead to aggressive behavior, and other behaviors that astound us.

She throws things with intent to harm or destroy. She hits. She kicks. She name calls. She even very recently started threatening to pee during these episodes, and on two occasions, she has actually followed through. She frequently laughs during these episodes, which is almost worse than anything else about them. Today, she threw a hairbrush across the room and hit me so hard on the bridge of the nose that I won’t be surprised if I wake up with a black eye tomorrow.

I feel myself tense up, and tighten up, just thinking about leaving her with anyone. What will shedo when I’m not there? Will this situation go as badly as the last one? My husband and I have not had an evening or even an hour away from her in over six months.

She will will be a rockstar. 

I can’t take her to marches or gatherings, because if she strays, gets into mischief, or does something unsafe or inappropriate, I cannot be certain that I won’t have to drag her away—hitting, kicking, screaming, and now peeing. When I tell her to stop a behavior, she frequently ignores me, or looks straight through me. It makes me even more concerned that I might not be able to keep her safe. And so, I am an Internet warrior for justice, because I cannot be an active participant in all of the ways I would like to be.

I have spent hours reading, researching, brainstorming, and changing the ways I do things to more effectively parent. I have tried charts, rewards, timeouts, time ins, choices, consequences, love, logic, and even spanking. She’s been in play therapy for over a year, we talked to a psychologist, and she just qualified and started occupational therapy. This week, she qualified for speech therapy.

I spend a lot of my time feeling frustrated, inadequate, tired, overwhelmed, and stressed. The only thing that I have ever done that compares is working veterinary emergency, where I often felt I didn’t know enough, wasn’t skilled enough, and wasn’t even physically strong and fit enough to be of help to my colleagues, or my patients.

I know every parent feels like they fail at times. I feel it multiple times a day—everyday.

Her difficulty with self-regulation, and emotional regulation triggers my own issues with self-regulation, and emotional regulation. I’ve gotten some amazing professional, and medical help, but there are moments when I still blow it. 

I knew that parenting wasn’t a walk in the park. I just didn’t anticipate the kinds of hard that this last year or so has brought. I never imagined that I would be icing my nose because my four-year-old intentionally harmed me. I never imagined I would be seriously considering homeschooling her, because I am so uncertain that she can manage the social and behavioral expectations of a classroom.

I never want to seem to be complaining, or to be anything but delighted that she is here. We wanted her desperately. We struggled desperately to have her. We love her desperately. She is the most important thing in our world. There is nothing she needs that we won’t try to do for her.

I know she’s going to be alright. I know we are all going to be alright. And I know that all of the glimmers of joy, happiness, and amazingness I see in her are going to win out over the current madness.

So, yeah, I find myself looking for outlets—things about which I can be outspoken and opinionated. I cannot unleash about everything that I feel about my personal struggles each day. So, I give myself permission to breathe fire about everything else in the world that is out of balance, because so little in my own days feels balanced.

Morality and piety are not one in the same.

So, it’s been a rude awakening for a lot us to see children being separated from parents at America’s southern border. Many of us have not fully understood the history of our country doing this to families until this wave of separations occurred right before our eyes. We are learning.

Aside from separation en masse, as has happened so recently, deliberate separation was a big part of the slavery system in America, and while it is packaged in a different way, it still happens to families of color through the incarceration system.

There’s an inhumanity that many of us have never witnessed in family separation. Hearing the stories of toddlers being taken from their parents’ arms—even a nursing infant being taken away from its mother—has been especially unfathomable to many of us.

And so, we have raised our voices. We have gathered to rally. We have raised money. We have written emails, signed petitions, made phone calls, and we have worried about these kids.

Today, I saw a screenshot of a Tweet declaring that anyone believing abortion is okay should not speak about the current situation at the border, and now scattered around the country.

Piety and the judgment of other people’s choices or “sins” is a luxury of the privileged.

When I say it’s a luxury of the privileged, I mean that it is very easy to make judgments about reproductive choices, and the care of displaced or unwanted children when you were conceived and born into loving relationships, never questioned that you were supported, and never had to go without care or things you needed. It is breathlessly easy to judge the choices other women might face when you have never been in personal danger, or the victim of abuse.

For a lot of us, that just isn’t the case. 

I am the product of an unplanned teen pregnancy. I was born before Roe vs. Wade was decided, but it wouldn’t have mattered if abortion was legal, because my mom never could have made that choice.

My mom was sixteen, born to a poor, abusive, and uneducated family. If I can believe some of the things she has shared with me about her childhood, she wasn’t planned or wanted either.

My father, also a teen, was born into a slightly more affluent and respectable family. Without much effort, he was easily persuaded that my mom’s promiscuity made it pretty likely he wasn’t actually my father.

My mom had no education about reproductive matters, sex or anything associated with it. She was desperate for attention, affection, acceptance and anything that resembled love. I think that’s at least part of the reason she mistook sex for being cared about. And the combination of ignorance and desperation is what got her knocked up. She thought she would only get pregnant if she was thinking about having a baby when she was having sex.

My father walked away from the situation—completely free of consequences. He finished high school, married someone else, and had a child he wanted. I tried connecting with him when I was a tween. I just wanted to know him. I accepted he wasn’t interested, and I moved on.

Some might say that my mom made a “selfless” choice in deciding to have and keep me. She gave up a lot.

She did briefly go to a home for unwed mothers with the intent to stay through her pregnancy, and then to give me up for adoption.

She couldn’t do it. My mom doesn’t exactly have a high tolerance for uncomfortable situations. She lasted two weeks. I don’t think her heart was ever really in that option. And so, she decided to have me and keep me—much the same way a child chooses a stuffed animal to cuddle and love. I think she was looking for a kind of love she never experienced. Before becoming pregnant, my mom was already a high school drop-out. She had no skills, education, familial support or future.

My mom has never been selfless a day in her life. Lonely? Yes. Pragmatic? No. Self-sufficient? Not even now.

So, she brought me into a home of abuse and desperation. And only a few short years later, she did it again when she married an abusive husband.

Some might at this point look at me and say “Yes, but look at how fortunate you are! You got to be born! You have made the best of everything!”

Not many of us will argue that we would be better off if we had never been born, but those who would cheerlead you simply for making it out of a uterus are usually not people who have ever had to worry about the kind of decisions someone like my mom faced.

It’s easy to make blanket statements about the morality of people who make “wrong” choices when in almost any difficult situation in which you have found yourself, you had the support and resources to truly have options. It’s also easy to talk about someone needing to accept the consequences of their actions when you have just been lucky enough to not be caught under the same circumstances.

Most people who choose to end a pregnancy aren’t immoral. They aren’t selfish. They aren’t avoiding a consequence. It is irresponsible to have a child you do not want, and/or cannot care for. My mom was irresponsible. Her choices have impacted my entire life. And if every single child in foster care or in search of a forever home was suddenly placed in permanent homes, the argument that giving up a child for adoption is the only moral option might work.

That’s not the case.

My mom could have given me a better and safer life, but the circumstances that drove her to desperately seek love in inappropriate ways were the same circumstances that led her to make an emotionally immature and selfish choice. She kept me, simply because she wanted to.

I respect and admire any woman who faces the consequences of her actions by considering her choices with respect to what is unselfish.

Could I care for a child properly? Could I commit to healthy choices during a pregnancy? Am I in an unstable or dangerous living situation? Could I be strong enough, and unselfish enough to complete a pregnancy and give that child away? Was my pregnancy the result of irresponsible behavior, or was it a failure of my contraceptive? Was I raped?

My younger sister is one of the strongest women I know. She became pregnant, and due to a very mixed bag of circumstances and no true support, she hid her pregnancy and nearly died giving birth. She is one of the kindest, most loving, and caring people I know. And I know she still loves the little girl she unselfishly gave to a couple who could give her all that she could not. Even if she had not gone on to have a second child, my sister would always have qualified as a fantastic mother, because she was able to summon the strength to love that child more than herself.

If, however, she had chosen to end her pregnancy—as her then boyfriend pressured her to do—I would not think any less of her strength, or her morality. As long as it was a choice she made in the interest of not bringing a child into an unstable, unsupported, and ill-prepared existence, I would still be proud of her.

I don’t claim a faith. I do believe in acceptance and love. I believe in body autonomy. I believe in privacy. I value life. I fought hard to have my own daughter. I wanted the baby I miscarried.

I don’t think that my respect for another woman’s beliefs, realities, circumstances, and choices makes me less moral than someone who does not respect or understand those things. And it certainly does not make me less qualified to speak out and cry for a sobbing toddler who does not understand what is happening to them because of a truly selfish and immoral policy implemented to manipulate, and pleasure a monster’s base. I’ve been a crying child in dangerous circumstances I could not understand at the hands of a monster.

The child in front of me will always command my attention. The child suffering in front of me will always mobilize me to action. I believe in family—probably even more than someone who has always been part of a stable one—because that just wasn’t a luxury afforded to me at birth. It wasn’t a luxury throughout my childhood.

Life is more than being born. It doesn’t stop when a baby pops out. It doesn’t stop when that baby is brought to an invisible line in the dirt. Anyone who has never had the luxury of privilege understands that piety has no place in arguing for the life of a child. Morals are not defined by recognizing another woman’s circumstances and choices are not the same as mine.

I will hold the hand of any woman facing the consequences of her actions, and the tough choices that might come along with that—not because I approve of her actions or choices, but because I understand the consequences of being a product of those choices.

We are not our labels.

So, I am white. I am middle class. I am a mother. There are a lot of words that can be used to describe things that I am—labels.

Language is important. It’s how we interact at a level more sophisticated than body movements, or primal grunts. It’s one of the things that separate us from other species. It helps us build deep relationships and connections with those we care about, but language can also divide us from each other.

I love language. I love words. I like the way they can be strung together in ways that new people, places, and stories can be told. I like when they turn into songs, poetry, and funny jokes. I like their strength, their occasional subtlety, and I like their vulnerability.

Words can be victimized by their users. They can be turned into things they were never intended to be. As Michael Hutchence of INXS wrote: “Words are weapons, sharper than knives. Makes you wonder how the other half dies.”

I think people who have found themselves deeply hurting at one time or another have a relationship with language and words that is different from the relationship most people have. We often feel we have to craft our thoughts so carefully when we share them, that they cannot do us more harm, and they cannot be dismantled.

I had an amazing thought yesterday when I was driving. I don’t have a lot of self-confidence. I often doubt my abilities, and my capacity. The thought I had was magical. It was like my inner voice wanted to share a secret with me.

“You are who you are, and you are so good within that space that you never need to worry about being better or more for someone else. There is nothing incomplete, wrong, or inadequate.”

I don’t know where it came from, but it felt amazing. The words had nothing to do with any labels I normally wear. It doesn’t mean that I woke up today feeling like a brand new person. I didn’t. But I still have that to carry.

Most of today, I continued to be white, middle class, and a mother. I fit under those labels and categories—among others.

Not everyone is so lucky to have the kind of labels that fit me. And that is where language and labels come in. The labels that most people use to define me are like soft, warm blankets. Most of the time, I am treated with respect, dignity, and kindness. Only my four-year-old doesn’t seem to understand my labels.

There are other words—other labels—that aren’t as lucky. Black. Mexican. Trans. Immigrant. Illegal. Muslim.

Nobody questions my humanity. My labels don’t erase my species, my DNA, my physical makeup. They don’t turn me into something else.

Today, I saw a post on social media about a woman who had a cake made to honor the deaths of 77 transgendered women of color who were killed because of hate. One of the first comments was by a man declaring that “blacks” kill other blacks, and anything else that moves. For the last couple of years, our country has been divided over what should happen to people who come here illegally, or as refugees. “Illegals” need to do things the legal way. “Illegals” need to stay in their own countries and work to make them better instead of coming here. “Refugees” need to stay behind and fight for themselves. “Refugees” aren’t our problem.

From the side of a building in Dublin.

We use other language and labels, too. We need to help our “own people” first. We need to take care of our “vets.” People on welfare are “lazy.” They should get jobs, and work like the rest of us. She was dressed like “a slut,” no wonder she got raped. We conquered the “savages,” and built a great nation. The “blacks” are better off here than if we’d left them in Africa—never mind that not all blacks actually came here from Africa. That’s another way we dehumanize people—by refusing to learn or know anything about them.

Words are weapons. We use language and words to dehumanize people, and that dehumanization makes anything we do to them all right. We use language to justify our personal greed, and to find someone to blame for our feelings of disenfranchisement. We use language and labels to take what we want from people who have less than we will ever have, and from people who have already been robbed.

Right now, there are around 2,000 children in cages, because their “illegal” parents came here in search of safety, security, and to escape violence and oppression. There are a fair number of people who think this is okay, because “illegals” need to do the right thing. They need to come here legally like the rest of us.

We have a history of taking words, language, and labels and twisting them to our own advantage. Maybe that’s human nature. I don’t know. But I do know this. I take the label of “mother” very seriously. I take the label of “child” seriously. There is no such thing as an “illegal mother,” or an “illegal child.” There is no such thing as an “illegal” human.

This is our work—our blackness, greed, sadistic, and inhumane nature. If we can look this thing in the eyes, and give it a label that makes it all right, we earn whatever hellish words others will use to describe us.

Words and language are my drug of choice. They’re what I use to sift through all the scattered clutter, and disarray that lives within me. They’re what I use to figure myself out, and where I fit in the wider world. I don’t care about my labels—what words people use to describe me. I know who I am, and even with all of my flaws, foibles, and failings, I can look at myself and know that I am no more human than anyone living across an imaginary line, or possessing a different level of melanin. I am no more human than someone who wears a hijab, or who wears a cross around their neck.

I am no more human than anyone else. And being able to recognize that feels like truth, faith, love, and all of the things that are hard to claim. Any one of the kids in those chain link fences could be my child. Any one of the young black trans women who have been murdered before the age of 35 could be a friend of mine. Any one of the mothers holding their children in fear of what they left behind, and in fear of what lies ahead could be me.

Knowing all of that is what earns us one label—one honor—humanity. That’s the only label we should be striving for.

Sometimes, you really can’t make it on your own.

So, twice in the last week, the worst possible result of mental illness has taken the lives of people who seemed to have it all.

Most of us would have identified Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain as people who had built lives that were grand, strong, and in many respects, untouchable. We didn’t know them, but their presence in our lives for their respective reasons gave us license to feel connected to them—even if only loosely.

I never owned a Kate Spade bag or accessory. I have liked some of them, and even coveted them a little, but even when I made my own money, I never would have indulged myself at that level.

I only occasionally watched Anthony Bourdain’s different series over the years, but his rock ‘n’ roll approach to travel, exploring unique cuisines, and other cultures always left me a little in awe.

I knew absolutely nothing about Kate Spade, other than her relationship to David Spade, and the fact that she had lived in Kansas City. I didn’t know her story.

I knew that Anthony Bourdain had stumbled down a checkered path with substances, and due to his chosen profession, he had probably sustained plenty of scars, some of which didn’t come from a gas burner or careless knife handling.

Both of these celebrities had so much to “be happy” about. They were well-known, well-loved, wealthy, untethered to so many of the anchors that most average people feel in their daily lives. They had so much going for them.

But here’s the thing: Mental illness does something to us that most people don’t realize. Mental illness—depression, anxiety, addiction, post traumatic stress disorder—perpetrates a crime. It steals our identities. It steals the part of us that we identify as ourselves, and leaves behind something very different

Sometimes dress up hides our pain.

. Feelings of sadness, anxiety, hopelessness, despair, or lack of control don’t necessarily infiltrate our lives everyday, but at times, they can surface so fiercely, and without warning, that we find ourselves spiraling when yesterday we were fine. And it doesn’t necessarily require a trigger. It can be cumulative, and we can reach a breaking point at which the load is just too heavy, and it’s suddenly a lethal combination.

Many are quick to label those who commit suicide as being selfish. After all, the deep void they leave behind is often deeper, because unless you’ve been suicidal, it’s very hard to fathom. It’s hard to understand that when you spiral into this abyss of despair, you’re not always trying to relieve your own pain, but instead, you are frequently trying to unburden those you love by lifting your weight from their lives.

Mental illness is a great deceiver. It whispers lies that twist inside your darkness and make sense when nothing real does. It tells you that those you love are better off not having to worry about you along with their other troubles. It tells you that when people are kind to you, it’s not because you are worthy of that kindness, but because they feel obligated, or they’re just being polite. It finds all the holes in your confidence and sense of self, and it gnaws away at them, until you are filled with doubt, and who you are is both shredded, and unrecognizable.

Not knowing anything about Kate Spade, I wasn’t aware that she had actually sold her brand just over a decade ago until I read an article about her after her sudden death. She had recently changed her legal name to Kate Valentine, and had launched a new brand called “Frances Valentine.” Her new brand hadn’t performed as well as her original effort.

But aside from whether or not her new venture was as much a success as her original venture, can you even imagine what it must be like to find yourself in a position where you can’t even call yourself, or your work by your own name? Sure, selling her company was her choice, but for someone who battles mental illness, struggling to find an identity in a chaotic emotional state can make you a much easier target.

And that’s why it happens. 

As for Anthony, a couple of articles I read today discuss his openness about struggling with addiction and depressive episodes. On at least a couple of occasions, he talked about the kinds of things that would trigger him. One really struck me.

In an episode of his show “Parts Unknown”,  he talks to a therapist about something that had triggered a near breakdown. He and his crew were preparing to film a staged fishing scene. Dead squid were being tossed into the water around him. In the therapy session, he reflects on the event.

"For some reason I feel something snap, and I slide quickly into a spiral of near hysterical depression. Is this what it's come to, I'm thinking as another dead squid narrowly misses my head,” Bourdain narrated. “Back in the same country almost a decade later, and I'm still desperately staging fishing scenes?”

He also talks about a nightmare in which he is in a hotel, but cannot check out, and cannot find home. He doesn’t know where to go to get home.

Sense of integrity and grounding seem very apparently to have been traits Bourdain strived toward in his work, both in the kitchen, and on his shows. I could easily imagine a staged scene making him feel like a fraud—and I can also easily imagine how bad that taste would have been in his mouth. Having a home—a place to ground yourself and regroup is a basic necessity, and not just a physical home. Being set apart from others can prove so isolating that you are left to look at yourself, and your life from a distance.

Again, a loss of identity, connection to self, and who you are as a person is the crack in the armor even someone as seemingly strong as Anthony Bourdain has trouble fighting.

We’re living in a tough time. There’s a lot of crazy swirling around in the world. It can be difficult to process all of it without some of it sticking to you. It doesn’t take much to trigger deep pain, especially if it’s not buried as deeply as you thought.

I would never discourage anyone from checking in with a friend if you suspect they’re in trouble, but it’s also important to understand that when they respond, the part of them reassuring you that they are “just tired,” “just busy,” “a little stressed,” and any number of other things we say to persuade people that we are fine may not be the person you think you know.

It’s hard to ask for help when you are swept away into the maelstrom of nonsensically troubling, but deafening thoughts and emotions. Being strong enough to ask for help when you need it is an Olympic level feat.

Helping someone who can’t ask for help, and who cannot let you in is also an Olympic level feat. Does that mean you shouldn’t try? Of course not. It might mean that we have to do something really hard. We might have to connect more deeply, and more honestly with the people we love, so we can better perceive when something feels “off” with them. It may mean that we have to be willing to take risks with the relationship in order to lead them to other loved ones or professionals who can get them the help they can’t ask for.

The loss of Kate Valentine and Anthony Bourdain in this way seems like a wake up call to those on the outside of mental illness, and recovery. But for those of us who have fought demons, and who occasionally find ourselves chasing them away again, their loss is a chilling reminder that things are not always what they appear to be, and no matter how beautiful the “picture”, not being able to connect with your real identity can pull anyone under.

So, I will never own a “Kate Spade” bag, because in the end, she was struggling to find herself as Kate Valentine, and if ever I am lucky enough to indulge myself with such a bag, I will choose to honor her struggle for self by choosing a Frances Valentine bag.

Th next time I travel, I will try to get out of my own comfort zone at the table, and take a few more chances to live a bit on the edge. I will honor the spirit of reckless grit that Anthony Bourdain brought to every table upon which he broke bread, and raised a glass.

And in the meantime, I will try to be kind to myself in my own struggles, and I will try to be on the lookout for those I love who seem to be lost at sea. When we are feeling strong enough in ourselves, we need to be willing to carry someone who is not.