Good morning you,

I’m writing to you from my favorite spot, today: a raw wood deck in my backyard, hand-built by a favorite friend. I’m sipping my favorite coffee from my favorite mug with a familiar crack on the lip. It’s sunny out, and the breeze has the blades of grass dancing to the bird songs. I smile at the goings-on, thinking about my Thursday evening in the same spot, sipping tequila with another beloved friend. What a sweet time spring is.

I just finished a run where I followed my own feet through the streets of my funky, artistic neighborhood into the tree-lined path of the adjacent historic one. I ran past my favorite coffee shop to Myriad Gardens - one of OKC’s most iconic springtime spots - and into Scissortail Park where the wildflowers are in full bloom and the farmers market is dizzying with gorgeous, locally grown produce and homemade soaps. It’s just the sort of thing that gives inspiration for my own experimental container garden tucked into the corner of my backyard.

This thing that I built while recovering from my vaccine - this thing that was once nothing more than an enclosed pile of top soil - is now full of kale and arugula and dill and zucchini, along with several mystery plants. I failed to mark everything, but I’m enjoying the anticipation of the surprises to come. It has become a playground for the robins and a hiding spot for the squirrels, but I’m happy to share the space with them. After all, is it really fair to take rigid ownership of things that don’t ultimately belong to us?

As soon as I sign off, I will leave to teach a mental health workshop at one of our local yoga studios. May is Mental Health Month - a cause that has become increasingly important as we continue to move through this pandemic - and these conversations are important to have. De-stigmatization is necessary, and accessible tools to manage mental health should be a right. If you’re curious about correlation between yoga and mental health, you might give this article a read.

I do wish that I'd made this discovery much earlier in life. Let me tell you why...

In the past year, I’ve grown more vulnerable in my storytelling, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever done anything more than imply this: my mother suffered from mental health issues. To be more direct, she had bipolar disorder. To be more specific, she had unmanaged bipolar disorder. The unfortunate truth is that we all suffered from her bipolar disorder. The more unfortunate truth is that we could have all suffered less if access to care was more easily available and conversations weren’t shameful; and she could have lived until she died, rather than just survived.

In this, I am not special. The collective “we” in this isn’t special. It is a very human act to present ourselves as perfectly composed in a great pretense of verisimilitude while suffering silently. And sometimes, not so silently. When I say I’m not special, what I mean is this: my guess is that many, if not most, of you can relate to this experience in some way.

I’ll say one final thing, bringing me to my point, before I pack up my work bag: My mother and I had no relationship, and I bear some responsibility in that. It has taken her death and a considerable amount of energy to process my upbringing, and the work is so far from finished. My mother and I had no relationship, but I now realize that she was doing the best she could with what she had, and as I write to you from my favorite spot on this Mother’s Day weekend, I’m choosing to honor and celebrate her by having the conversations she never could.

With love always,

Adi

p.s. Happy Mother’s Day to all of those who are, have, or have had a mother. Treat yourself. Take care of yourself. You, my dear, are worth it.