Jabez Prayer or Bust!

Scripture is still a part of my life and faith. I’ve branched out. I’ve learned about some different philosophies and practices. Yet, I admit, post- cancer diagnosis, The Jabez Prayer still influences me.

This prayer swept the Christian publishing world years ago. Workbooks and seminars were created to explore its attributes.

For those unfamiliar with the scripture, it’s a tiny little marvel, lost in what is not exactly the most exciting book of the Bible: 1 Chronicles 4, documenting Judah and Israel’s history. The little ditty goes like this…

“Now Jabez was more honorable than his brothers. His mother had named him ‘Jabez,’ saying, ‘Because I bore him in pain.’ And Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, ‘Oh that thou would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, and that thine hand might be with me, and that thou would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain!’ And God granted him that which he requested.

1 Chronicles 4:9-10

Now, before I’ve completely lost you in this Bible-y context, let’s just stop briefly and examine this prayer’s bullet points, in a more human framework.

Indeed, post- cancer diagnosis, I started viewing the prayer through this imperfect lens. It has become even more personal and, dare I say it, relevant.

Let’s break it down a little.

“Now Jabez was more honorable than his brothers. His mother had named him ‘Jabez,’ saying, ‘Because I bore him in pain...’

Okay, so we’re off to a fantastic start.

Names tell us a lot about a person. And it’s not confidence-instilling to be presented to the world as “Pain.”

We need to tackle first the ugliness of our origin story, even if/when pain is its central character. Breast cancer shoved me headlong into the reality of my past. I could no longer avoid it, especially as now, this dreaded diagnosis embodied fulfilled pain for me. No more dancing around it.

…And Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, ‘Oh that thou would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory…

We need to call for help. There’s no passivity when it comes to crisis moments.
And, underscoring that, we need to decide, what do we want? To be blessed or not? It’s not such an easy question to answer. How many of us self-sabotage? How many of us are sadistic with ourselves? How many of us think that we deserve pain and curses?

Yeah.

This part of the prayer not only calls a deeper 911, it confronts who we are and how we live.

Years ago, when I first encountered the Jabez Prayer, I saw it as the “gimme gimme” loophole to beg the Divine for my goodies. And those goodies included an enlarged territory of acceptance and acclaim.

But now, post-diagnosis, I see it differently. It’s about loving and accepting my own self-terrain. For as much external love, praise and applause out there, it means nothing if I cannot experience it within myself. I need to become more adept at self-love, self-compassion and yes, the infamous word, self-esteem.

I need HELP enlarging that territory indeed! How about you? Can you say the same?

…and that thine hand might be with me…

My past experiences taught me there was a malevolent force, not a loving one, ushering me into life circumstances and dictating outcomes. How many of us only see a wrathful God?

Part of my healing now, post-diagnosis, is to allow for good to guide me. Again, it all sounds so simple. But this is hard work. It involves trust in something beyond the finite human self. That is scary. It’s not about being naïve or stupid. It’s not about forsaking our own sense of responsibility for our choices. It’s about allowing for more. More can exist, without giving detailed explanations or soothing reassurances. A first step to experiencing the benefits of that “more presence…” is to ASK for it.

…and that thou would keep me from evil…

Further piggybacking that sentiment, we can make the choice to ask to be protected. We can make this request of ourselves. We don’t need to be subjected to harm.
We can make another choice. And part of making that different choice is that we allow protection from our own malevolent intentions and actions. We can be our own worst enemies. The cliché is true.

What are we willing to do with that?

 …that I may not cause pain!’…

Accurate self-assessment and personal responsibility are central themes to this part of the prayer. Again, many of us can often have distorted definitions of what constitutes “our fault,” versus what we should be accountable for. It’s tricky.

But we do have an inner knowing about right and wrong. It goes beyond religion. You and I know when we have crossed a line. With that knowing, however, human beings are far too adept at creating pain. No matter how nice or loving or sweet we claim to be, that reality humbles us.

Perhaps, for everyone and everything we have the potential to help and heal, we also have the potential to harm. Therefore, we need an accurate assessment of ourselves, even while we pray any altruistic or desperate prayer. We have not transcended being imperfect and all the wreckage that can come with that state of human being. But we are not responsible for every evil, either. We’re in the murky middle.

…And God granted him that which he requested.”

Here is probably the most concentrated “Bible-y” point of the Jabez Prayer: God. Lightning rod. Controversial statement. Conjectures, debates, maybe even bar fights abound because of this point.

“I don’t believe in God.”

“This isn’t the ‘right” or the ‘true’ God.” 

“There’s no such thing as God.”

“It’s all just a con job.”

I still adhere to the tenets of my Christian faith. But I concur with yet another scripture that that’s states how I see through this spiritual looking glass darkly, at best (1 Corinthians 13:12).

No one has the exacting answers. And here is where the “F-Word” usually gets trotted out: Faith.

Faith is an infuriating concept, because, after all, I want to KNOW!!! I WANT ANSWERS!!! I demand to speak to the cosmic manager already!

But all that I’m left with is getting “Ma’am-ed” to Kingdom Come.

Faith declares that we don’t know for certain. How very dissatisfying! Still our spirit, soul, inner being, instinct, aura yearn and reach for something beyond finite, tangible answers. There has to be something to that, right?

My cancer diagnosis has got me reaching. And yet, even, slamming down my “Cancer Card” hard doesn’t qualify me for all answers, all certainty.

But it is possible that I am being granted all that I seek, in-process, right now. In messy, imperfect, frustrating process, I am my own interpretation of Jabez. A well-known scripture, cited ad nauseum, admonishes us to “ask, seek, knock.”

Isn’t that we are doing, somehow, someway? Even in the most content and complacent of us, we still want something more?

Jabez is about wanting more. It’s not greed. It’s human need, the essence and the dignity of humanity. We don’t need to apologize for or be ashamed of that.

I apply the prayer, in earnest.

I await and engage in the results from- and because of-it.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

Not a Self-Help Project

 

The Meaning of Life...

 

A Job For Dish Towel Cape Cat Today...

 

Meditation for the Antsy

 

A field of flowers. An ocean of crystal blue. A sandy beach.

Nope couldn’t picture it, let alone, sit still for it.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve tried to get into meditation. Being still. Being present. Centering myself. And then, two minutes in, I’d remember I have to return a phone call or pick up cat litter. Wham-o, just like that, I’m out of my meditative state. So much for my still, present, centered self. So much for any trace of flowers, blue ocean, or being beachy.

As I’ve hopped along the bunny trail of de-stressing, detoxing, learning healthier life skills and keeping cancer at bay, I’ve taken stabs at this mindfulness stuff. Already praying since childhood, I thought, what’s the harm in adding meditation/visualization? It could be helpful.

However, most of these “guided meditations” I’ve been encouraged to try, again, focused on nature, and on some flute playing in a forest somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s pretty. But I found myself soon thinking about a weird piece of trivia from my past. I’d be asking myself a question like, “Did I have physical education class for first or second period when I was in the seventh grade?”

Over and over and over again, I’d start out with beautiful scenery and then devolve into remembering who was my math teacher when I was nine. After numerous attempts, it finally dawned on me to stop with the flowers, landscapes and mysterious flute playing and just skip right to whatever school memories I could entertain without trauma counseling.

No easy feat, by the way.

But I needed to stop fighting my mind when it wandered away from the pretty scenes. I had to channel it, instead, to those notorious school days.

I’m not talking about the bullying or the mean girls. That’s not helpful. I’m talking about something a bit more mundane, perfect for its meditative possibilities.

I’m a detail-oriented person. So, I first started to meditate on some of the details of my school building.

Originally built in the early 1900s and named after President McKinley, my high school had two major parts to it: the old and the new. The original old part of the school always struck me as being quite wooden with red painted walls throughout the small hallways.

Eventually, in the 1950s, because of the explosion of rural teenagers, they tacked on the newer addition. And, that part of the school struck me as being incredibly green and tiled. I don’t know. Maybe there was an unconscious desire to celebrate the complimentary color wheel or promote Christmas all school year long. Whatever the case, as a scurrying adolescent, I remember making hundreds of treks, zigzagging from red and wood to green and tiled classrooms, connected only by a bland library.

My first school meditation, beyond a building, focused on the class schedule from my senior year, mainly, the route it took small town, public school student me to get from class to class.

 

I remembered all of those treks, Mondays through Fridays, to and from seven periods of classes and classrooms. And, my senior year stood out the most. Maybe because it was equal parts “yay, I’m almost out of here” and “I’m soon going to be an adult; uh-oh.”

Regardless, focusing on that last year of high school, I visualized myself at the start of the day. Arriving at 7:45, I’d wind my way up two flights of green- tiled stairs, to greet the long expanse of the second floor, which housed lockers for grades ten through twelve on the left side, classrooms on the right. So, there I was, getting set for first period, French II, which was almost directly across from our lockers. Not much zig, not much zag.

After about fifty minutes of being called by my French class name and feeling like an ignorant American, the bell rang and I’d start my first really big zig zag of the day, from the new to the old part of the school: art class. I’d plow down the length of that long, green- tiled hallway, dodging my fellow adolescents, weaving through the library connector. I’d go down one flight of stairs, lined with red painted walls, through a dark wooden area which sported four major classrooms. My art class was in the room closest to the original old steps, exiting the school. I’d walk into the wood-centric space and proceed to draw and paint.

Art class was one of my favorites. The fifty minutes sped by and, before I knew it, I’d have to clean my brushes of acrylic paint, mentally prepare myself for my least favorite class, Business Math. I’d hightail it back to the edge of the old school, bordering on that connecting library.

This classroom was an odd mixture of early 1900s wood and not- quite- sure- why- they- decided- to- add- it, 1970s wood paneling. An arsonist’s dream come true, possibly? One lit match and poof! The whole thing goes up like a tinderbox!

I had a lot of those kinds of wishes as, for the next fifty minutes, time crawled. Did I mention how much I hate math? No? I hate math! Math hates me! It’s a mutual hatred society.

Okay, so the bell rings again, mercifully, and I skedaddled from the too-wooden math room, winding through a white tiled hallway, half a flight up from the library. I descend three small steps and again, look at the long, green hallway on the second floor, with one of three classrooms close to the end of it. I make my way to fourth period, Choir.

Located in the newer part of the school, not surprisingly, this mostly white, “soundproof” classroom was right next to the band room. As the choir began doing “Me-May-Ma-Moe-Moo” vocal warmups, we’d often have to compete with the sound of a tuba. Almost always, a tuba. I never actually saw the tuba.

Anyway, after a musical (?) fifty minutes, the bell rang, signaling feeding time for the animals. Lunch.

Do I go to the cafeteria, located on the first floor, in the old, red, wooden part of the school, to enjoy pizza burgers and whipped potatoes? Of course not! Senior, remember? Cafeteria lunches were something only seventh and maybe, a couple of eighth graders did, before they reached the age of reason.

But being a senior, top of the totem pole? Where did we convene? Remember that three-classroom cluster, comprised of the choir and the band rooms? Well, that one remaining room was heralded as the senior room. I remember we were the first class to enjoy such a privilege.

Not that it was much to exalt. A classroom, with scattered desks and chairs, including one beanbag chair (not sure how and why it got there). And, when we weren’t going off campus to a local restaurant or grocery store (or, for some, smoking, drinking, possibly getting pregnant in a sketchier part of the school property or parking lot), we’d herd into that space and feel ever so adult as we huddled in cliques and had disdain for one another. This would go on for about forty minutes and then, ding!

Fifth period has arrived: Senior Social.

How can I explain this class? Part sociology, part history, part “To Sir with Love”-themed, we- gotta- get- these- kids- ready- for- the- adult- world.

Huh. Ready for the adult world.

This was my one and only class held on the first floor. I’d take the two sets of steps and go downstairs in that green-tiled part of the school and camp outside of the classroom, three doors down. Eventually, our teacher would surface, unlock the room and, for the next fifty minutes, we’d learn all about current issues, sex education, birth order and how to do taxes. Eclectic.

Bell rings again, signaling my sixth period class: English. Another favorite, neck and neck with art. Up we go again, to green-tiled, second floor, three doors down and closest to the bathrooms. This classroom was especially green and white. I don’t know if this was intentional from those 1950s blueprints, but I must admit, all of that green did have a soothing effect on me. Not that I really needed it in this beloved class with my favorite teacher. And focusing on words. I loved words. Those fifty minutes also flew by until the next bell rang.

Where to now? Study hall, held in this same classroom, with the same favorite English teacher in charge of the motley crew. As motley as rural can be, anyway.

Not surprisingly, I loved seventh period study hall. I spent most of it, doing my homework, getting hall passes to finish some art project, wa-a-a-y in the older part of the school. And, because my favorite teacher was also my drama and speech coach, I spent time writing and reciting lines, essays and speeches.

This last period of the day was a great way to wind down. Some would even say meditative?

If you’ve hung in there with me all of this time, first, thank you for that.

And second, why am I taking this stroll down memory lane when it has nothing to do with you and your challenges, you may ask? Well, by virtue of taking these strolls, concentrating on various details of the rooms, the routes and everything else occupying my senses, I am, indeed, meditating. I’m actually doing it!

And that’s really the point of mediation: to concentrate, to do it, to focus on something that gets you out of your stressed head and transports you to another dimension. You may not choose to go with the high school dimension. But is there another time, place and set of details you can comb over? Call up as many exacting memories as you can. What does that look like for you? Go there. Be there. Forget about the flowers and the beach. Work what works for you.

Namaste. I bow to the light in that!

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

 

In Bad Spirits

 

“She’s in good spirits.”

How often have we heard that expression? It reminds me of the scene in “The Wizard of Oz” in which Glinda, floats in on her bubble, asking Dorothy a blunt question, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

Those of us who are diagnosed are often met with the expectation we will be “in good spirits.”

We hear so much about a positive outlook, about how joy and laughter are healing for any recovery. We are shown countless stories of individuals who had such sunny perspectives, even though they were end stage this or that disease. We see heartwarming testimonies of how a person is determined to “beat the odds,” “to never give up,” and “to be an inspiration for the rest of us.”

Then, there’s usually some chronicling of this individual doing something impactful, to help others, to make people smile. Noble. Inspiring. Worthy of being labelled “in good spirits.” And, perhaps, making things ten times more difficult for the rest of us diagnosed, as the rest of us are struggling, feeling angry and depressed. We feel like we’re only draining people, not helping them, because of our circumstances. We, by comparison, are “in bad spirits.”

As part of my “Cancer Care,” I have regularly been in doctor’s offices and exam rooms. Part of my treatment and monitoring involves me filling out something called a distress test. It’s the add-on feature after answering a slew of questions about any new symptoms, like unusual pain and difficulty breathing. You know, fun things to think about. The distress test gets right to the anxiety and depression questions, probing about suicidal thoughts, feeling isolated, even getting into one’s own spirituality.

Indeed, like clockwork, I get flagged as I respond honestly to the question, “Are you experiencing anxiety or depression?”

“Yes, I’m scared; I’m depressed.”

And then I have to encounter a further interview from that nurse about my mental state.

“Do you feel like you are struggling with your spirituality?”

“Yes, I have faith and I pray about my situation, but I’m still scared and depressed.”

The nurse’s brow furrows a bit.

“Do you feel like people would be better off without you?”

And here’s where I’m expected to respond with something like…

 “Oh, no, of course not. My loved ones are there for me and are supporting me. Everything’s great. I’m blessed!”

But most of the time, I just respond with, “No,” and leave it at that.

“What kind of support do you have in your life?”

Get ready for some cliché responses, everyone…

“Well, I have a wonderful, loving husband, some great friends and I am in therapy.”

The nurse nods, conveying a sigh of relief.

I guess I answered correctly. Maybe I even passed the distress test with flying colors.

But, make no mistake about it, I’m still distressed.

I’m not ragging on the medical community for sheer ragging sake. I know everyone is just trying to do their jobs. Saving lives. But there still seems to be this built-in discomfort surrounding my diagnosed reality. They get uncomfortable with my uncomfortable truth. They want me to be Pollyanna Optimism when it comes to how I view “my cancer,” my life and my attitudes about mortality. They want me to “beat the disease” and “be a warrior.” Here’s a Breast cancer pink ribbon for you to wear and get more life- affirming for wearing it.

Medical community, your heart may be in a good place, but it’s still misguided.

You want me to respond a certain way because it makes you less uncomfortable. Yeah, sure, you want to save my life, but you’d rather not hear about my scary, two o’clock in the morning death thoughts as I lie awake in the dark. I have heard from you nurses just how inspiring my fight is, how courageous I am. But you’re not as inspired to know that, before my routine appointment with you, I cried for an hour, gauging exactly, when I should put on my makeup, so that I wouldn’t cry all of it off before I showed my face in public. How courageous am I now? How inspired are you by me now?

I am not “in good spirits.”

It feels like no one knows what to do with me, other than give me some more cliché responses like, “you’re a fighter,” “you’re a trooper,” “you are going to beat this!”

Are you sure? How can you be so sure?

You may be reading this and assert I’m choosing to think and feel negatively. I’m whining. I should make the choice to be positive about my plight. I should embrace life and focus less on death. I should count my blessings, be thankful for all of the good that surrounds me. I hear all of that, partly because its messages come from within, not just from other people’s suggestions. All of the “should’s”- yep they’re here for roll call.

But how, exactly, is all of this “shoulding” supposed to help me “beat cancer,” anyway?

How is not being honest with my real, true feelings, sublimating them under an inspirational script of stock answers, supposed to help me? Truth reveals itself, regardless.

Do you really want me to lie that much about my diagnosis, prognosis, life and death circumstances? And, if so, why? Is it because you feel better about the lies instead of the truth?

Most of us do, if we’re honest. Lies are comforting; truth is less so.

If I were Dorothy, responding to Glinda’s question, I guess, nine times out of ten, I’d have to honestly answer her with, “I’m a bad witch. Go ahead and drop a house on me.”

My diagnosis has taught me a lot about who I really am, cliché as it sounds. I know who I am not. I am not optimistic. Realistic, at best. I can go full-on pessimistic in the blink of an irritated eye. I have spent much of my life trying to override that, believing I was wrong, immoral, sinning, all because my feelings weren’t the stuff of “get well” cards. And, even though, as the medical community likes to say, “we don’t know why a person gets cancer,” what if, just what if, suppressing my less-than-inspirational emotions helped to create the disease? What if that suppression was carcinogenic? It’s possible, right?

So, couldn’t it, likewise, be possible that “getting real” about all of the fear and ugliness could help me feel better, even if it didn’t cure me? Healing is different than curing. Healing is deeper. And that’s what I’m about these days. I’m doing a deeper dive.

And, if it takes me being “in bad spirits” to do so, then, so be it.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

 

 

Jade

 

“No is a complete sentence.”

I have come across people who cannot accept my no, on various issues, including, but not limited to, being accommodating about doing what they wish instead of doing what’s best for me. Cancer has changed that because it had to change the acquiescence that I once gave others.

Twelve Step Recovery Programs often include the acronym, “J.A.D.E.”

And, since my diagnosis, I’ve discovered JADE has covered the bases, falling under the statement, “No is a complete sentence.”

I may be taken behind the woodshed and shot for that perspective.

How dare I?

How dare I be displeasing?

Yet, here I am, Ladies and Gentlemen, often placed on trial, asked to prove my case.

Therefore, JADE…

Justify:

Right after I was diagnosed, medical opinion asserted that a simple (hah, simple) Lumpectomy would be all that was necessary. Let’s schedule me, then, for that procedure.

So, when I informed my surgeon I decided differently, I was met with surprise. I decided to have the more radical, in some peoples’ minds, choice of a bilateral mastectomy.

Taken aback when I voiced my decision, my surgeon immediately asked me about my choice.

I gave my reasons which were personal, as this whole Breast cancer context is, indeed, personal. But, looking back on it now, I see it more as “I don’t need to justify myself to you; it’s my body.” My surgeon didn’t ask me about my decision for “health reasons.” After all, no matter what surgical procedure was performed, both would accomplish the same goal: to remove the cancerous tumor.

No, my surgeon wanted to know because it didn’t align itself with medical expectation, meaning, the surgeon would tell me the medical opinion of what was best… and I’d follow that decision, without question.

And no, that didn’t happen.

“No was a complete sentence to a Lumpectomy; “Yes,” however, was my complete sentence to removing my breasts.”

Done. I decided. And I would not change my mind.

What do you feel you need to justify to others? What you choose as a profession? Who you love? Being a non-conformist, in any way? Do you feel you need to justify your entire existence?

Be on the lookout for interactions which want to shove you into a “not good enough” corner. Pay attention to the “J” of JADE.

Argue:

This word is another connected element to the J.A.D.E. principle. It can function as a synonym to the previously discussed, “Justify.” I say that because, like “Justify,” the word “Argue” seems to come to the forefront in some interactions which can involve another person’s inability or willingness to deal with our “no” response.

Once I made my decision about my bilateral mastectomy, my surgeon next assumed I would jump on the reconstruction bandwagon. I would get new breasts now. After all, leaving my deformed chest like that simply was unheard of.

That is, it was unheard of until my surgeon heard of my answer.

I was adamant about not undergoing further surgeries. No reconstruction for me, thank you. I was at peace with being breast-less, which appeared to mortify my surgeon.

There was a bit of argument over my decisions; reconstruction was just the tip of the iceberg.

And I say that as a caution concerning other peoples’ agendas. I cannot say for certain, what were my surgeon’s motivations. But I did have my gut reaction and my conversations with other women about their experiences to go on.

And I got an abundance of intel, in my research and conversations with other women. Through both, I discovered some surgeons tried to pressure their patients to get reconstructive breast surgery because they make more money that way. I heard experiences of some women who were coerced into not only getting reconstruction, but also getting a breast size they didn’t want, all because the surgeon wanted that size for them.

As I held my ground and “argued” my choices with my surgeon, I still wasn’t heard.

Okay, then. Let’s try something else.

How about involving the hospital charge nurse and patient advocate about my frustrations? Yep, that did the trick.

I no longer wanted to engage in the back and forth with my surgeon. I was an informed woman; I made thoughtful choices that were best for me. I would no longer argue about that.

Arguing can be quite pointless, especially if the other party is neither willing, nor able, to hear you and I out. Pressure, coercion, name calling, insults and dismissive attitudes can all surface. These mechanisms exist because it is about agenda from the other party. Whatever he/she wants, perhaps, in their minds, is more important than what you and I want.

Pay attention if your gut check is screaming that to you. Major breast surgery and arguing with my surgeon may appear to be an extreme example, but, in your own circumstances, do you see any similarities?

Are you feeling pressured? Coerced? Dismissed? Is someone telling you that what they want for you is more important than what you want?

How much arguing are you having to do right now about a certain issue? Do you feel the force of someone else’s agenda?

Defend:

“Defend” can quickly surface with “Justify and “Argue.”

How many of us are put on the defense, simply for asserting our position or rights?

Again, check for agenda and coercion. See any?

How does someone react when you disagree with them? Do you desire to go in another direction? Do you get pushback? Are you on the defense?

Concerning my surgeon, “Defend” often popped up in my interactions with this person. There was a constant battle of wills, even though it was my body and life that were directly affected. So, naturally, one would think, it would be me then, to decide, what choices I made concerning my body and life.

But it, of course, wasn’t that simple.

Upon recovering from my surgery, I was on the defense, again. I quickly encountered the “God complex” from my surgeon, feeling like I was little more than Dr. Frankenstein’s creature to be molded according to the great doctor’s vision.

Not helpful.

Again, it calls into question the matter of agenda. What was my surgeon’s? To get me on the expensive cancer conveyor belt of procedures, treatments and tests? There certainly wasn’t any “bedside manner” or interest in me as a human being.

At my most vulnerable, perhaps, I was still having to fight, not even the cancer, but the people who claimed to treat the cancer.

Actions speak louder than words.

So, again, check the action. Are you having to take action to defend yourself?

Simple question: yes or no.

Answer it and act accordingly.

Explain:

And lastly, there is this word in the acronym.

This is, perhaps, the final complexity we bump against when you and I find ourselves “stuck in a moment.”

This might be the final attempt to pressure us when we say “no” to an otherwise, wanted “yes.”

Long after my surgery, I encountered more people, who, upon finding out about my diagnosis and choices since, asked me if I underwent reconstruction and when, exactly, I would get breasts, already.

Cue the temptation to explain my decision. Just add it to Justify. Argue. Defend.

However, “explain” is a bit more involved. It requires a detailed accounting of our actions…to people for whom it was none of their business.

I still remember the awkward silences, wide eyes and the restless fidgeting as people awaited my explanation as to why I didn’t get breasts. I’m getting better at just quietly staring away these incidents. I don’t need to explain myself, especially about something so personal.

But some people still, somehow, believe they are owed an explanation.

How about you?

How many times have you felt the need to explain your right to be yourself and make your choices? How many times have you been punished for doing otherwise?

JADE. A tidy little acronym, with so much hidden power held within it. When we think of Jade, typically, we often envision the gorgeous green gemstone. Something precious, something beautiful and of great value.

Perhaps we need to view the acronym in the same manner. Perhaps, we need to see it as the precious gem in the way we conduct our lives and have dignity in them.

We deserve to be respected for who we are and what choices we make, even if others disagree with them. Coercion from another person and manipulation to get us to fall in line, is not acceptable. It never has been; it never will be.

Live your life as this polished gem then. As you make your choices and live your life, be brilliant and unapologetic as you face a question, an interrogation and an abusive instance with the definitive statement:

“No is a complete sentence.”

You have nothing to prove to anyone else. Be yourself, instead.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse