Let's call these: Moderate-Amounts-Of-Sugar Added Apple Streusel Muffins

Good morning and Happy Friday to you all :) I should be studying right now, but I had to make something for breakfast, and I'm getting a bit tired of eggs with toast or cereal, and I happen to have a ton of apples in my house at the moment.

After last night's battle with fried apples, I decided I needed to lower the sugar content in whatever I was going to make. But I knew it would be next to impossible to make an apple streusel muffin with no sugar...so I decided on trying to add a lesser amount. Which ended up making the recipe a more moist than normal sugar would have done, so I'm basically a winner.

Let's begin, shall we? I have about eight more muffins to consume before track practice at 2:30.

Start by peeling, coring, and slicing/dicing apples. I chose to make very very small pieces so I had a ton of apples in every bite! This also helps to prevent the cake from pulling away during baking because of the moisture in a larger apple chunk. I used two small gala apples today, but any kind of apple will work. I ended up with about a cup or so after chopping.

Then, combine the wet ingredients in a small bowl, and the dry ones in a bigger bowl.

Wet: 2 tbs. honey, 2 tbs. no sugar added applesauce, 1/2 cup milk, 1/4 cup vegetable oil, a dash of vanilla, and 1 egg. (Whisk together until all of the various textures make a nice pale yellow color)

Dry: 1 1/2 cups flour, 2 tsp. baking powder, 1/2 tsp. cinnamon, 1/4 tsp. salt (whisk together until airy)

Then, fold the apples into the dry ingredients. This will coat the apples to lower their moisture content before adding the wet ingredients.

Pour in all of the wet ingredients and fold until just combined. The consistency should be slightly on the wet-paste side. Next, pour half of the batter into 12 muffin tins. And here comes the fun part.

Combine 1/3 cup brown sugar, 2 tbs. butter, 2 tbs. flour, and as much cinnamon as you desire. Crumble the mixture on top of the batter, reserving about 3 tbs.

Then, pour the remaining batter on top. Finish by topping your muffin tins with a bit more streusel. (Yes, I'm still working on getting the streusel recipe to be slightly healthier, but you could probably substitute the brown sugar for sugar in the raw, just don't use Splenda!! It will boil and bubble and end up causing your muffins to sink!)

Pop 'em into a 400 degree oven for about 17 minutes. I took mine out at 15 minutes after thinking the poor little tops looked too brown, but some of the centers are too moist.

Enjoy with a hot cup of coffee or your favorite morning beverage. If you're not overly concerned with the sugar content, spread a little apple butter on top while still warm....DEEE-VINE.

I'm very very pleased with this recipe and I encourage you to make it for yourself. Every bite I took I had cinnamon, streusel bits, and of course about three or four apple chunks. If you want to crank up the nutritional value more-- add a few of your favorite nuts. I can imagine almonds or walnuts would be great mixed into the streusel center and topping.

Have a healthy dose of happiness on this gorgeous Friday.

Peace, love, and sexy muffin tops,
Mlle Phipps

Ramblings from a rookie.

I think it's time that I write something about my newest adventure. It may not take me out the country, or even to the other side of the city...but for now I think I'm okay traveling less than a mile to the high school up the street. About two weeks ago I was offered an amazing opportunity, one I thought I had been passed by for months ago, to coach the girls' track and field team at South Miami Senior High School. As a second semester senior at UM the opportunity for a 'real job' took me by immediate surprise. The pay is slightly higher than my current part-time job and the hours are less flexible, but a little less demanding. And of course the job itself comes with many perks and a few greater difficulties.

1. There is no track at South Miami Senior High. Problem? Not really, actually. Luckily for us there is a gigantic football/soccer field that happens to be pretty oval in shape, which makes for a lovely (yet short) impromptu track. Oh, and Tropical Park is only about a mile or two away. Which makes those practices a 2 for 1 deal.

2. There is no budget for uniforms. A few years ago the team fell into some bad luck and had most of their uniforms stolen. So that means what we do have is outdated and won't cover the entire team. Luckily for me though is I spent most of my high school career trying to fundraise for marching band, JV cheerleading, Varsity cheerleading, and even sometimes for track. So I will be using a few of those tricks I have hidden up my sleeves.

3. Age difference. I was mortified to think that some of my new athletes would be barely three years younger than I am. But again, luckily for me, most of my athletes are freshmen or sophomores and the few that are seniors-- have hardly figured out just how close in age we are.

4. Experience. I've never coached a track team before. Sure I know how to put together a running program for myself or another person, but I've never truly run a track program from start to finish while trying to accommodate at least ten people. But here's where my somewhat-annoying habit of keeping everything falls into place. Not only did I write down the majority of my running workouts from high school track, but I also wrote down the majority of my lifting, running, and jumping workouts from UM. Can you say, cha-ching? 'Cause I just did. So far the pre-season workouts have been a breeze. The real task will come when I get all the basketball girls around February. But by then I should have found my stride.

So now my desk has three piles of scattered yet organized stuff. Schoolwork, baking, and track magazines. And I guess you can count the looming stack of bills as a separate, not-so-exciting, pile. Twenty-one years old and getting a taste of Part I of three dream jobs. And did I mention the pay was pretty sweet? Too bad I don't get it until the end of the season...I guess that just makes it an extra sweet graduation gift.

Enough about me and how excited I am to mold this young bunch of athletes. I want to talk about my kids now. Sorry, my young ladies and gentlemen as Coach Reinisch used to call us. I've taken a lot of his advice over the years and am trying to model his coaching style when it comes to handling the athletes...though I would hope I have a better time communicating with the ladies about their lady-questions. No offense if you're reading this, Coach!

Every team is made up of the following types of athletes: the good ones, the newbies, the attitudes, and the question marks. The good ones pay attention, try their hardest and never say never. The newbies are just as excited to be out here, but have little to no experience in what we're doing. Sometimes they can be even better than the good ones with a little time and a little more patience. The attitudes are the ones that could be great, but refuse to accept it. There are constant scowls, the 'I don't wanna do this' face, and an overall look of disgust when the coach speaks. The question marks are the ones that come in with no experience, very little obvious interest in track, yet they are the ones who probably try the hardest at every single task placed in front of them.

I will be upfront and say that I will not be using names, unless it comes to their successes at track meets. I will not allude details to any individual athlete of mine, and I will not degrade their hard work. I will however, attempt to use their successes and failures to contemplate my coaching styles, approach to practice, and overall personal attitude.

So far the practices have consisted of a lot of learning. For both them and myself. New warm-up, new drills, new way of running. New lifts, new stretches, new core work. Some of the kids have never heard of the things I throw at them, but they do it anyway. And some of the things they tell me about past practices I have never heard of. So we meet somewhere in the middle, with my say getting just a little bit more pull than theirs.

The season officially starts on Tuesday, with a thirty-minute study hall period before practice commences. I've been trying to come up with a few goals for the season, aside from making it through the entire season and not having the entire team quit on me...Maybe by Tuesday I'll have something a little more optimistic.

For now, as long as I reach them in some positive way and maybe get them a few PRs, I'll be happy.

From my running shoes to yours,
Coach Phipps

Just an old soul.

Every once in a while I find myself thinking about the possibility of having a past life. More often than that I picture myself being born in a different decade...which may be because I haven't quite found my place in my generation. But either way, I think about it more often than not. And usually the whole "past life" question comes to mind when I'm reading Vonnegut or Hemingway, something harsh and modern...usually tearing mankind a new one. But today it struck me in the middle of a Philosophy class...which may sound like just another place for ripping mankind a new one. But today was different. I just faded out of our conversation about Moral Luck and into a new world of possibility. Maybe the whole reason I feel estranged from my generation is not because I should have been born in a different time, but maybe it's because I was in fact born in another time.

There are so many things that I don't agree with in this world: war, vengeance, and the general disapproval of carbohydrate-loaded foods. I know that if I had been born in some other time I would have found something to be upset about, something to disagree with. That's human nature in a nutshell. We all want to be right even if it means disagreeing with someone who holds our same opinion with a twist.

But how did I get here? Obviously I understand how the whole process works, but how was my existence chosen for this place, at this point in time? I was born into a wealthy and free society. Bur what about everyone else in the world who was not as fortunate? Was it written in the stars millions of years ago that my ancestry would work down to my birth? Do I have that "twin" soul people believe in, who walks on the Earth but never finds a match? Or was I really somebody else before this time, sent to do something more for this world?

Sometimes it is so overwhelming to think that I have thoughts in my head that are entirely different from the person sitting next to me. And to add to that, I will never fully understand why or how they think differently. I often wonder if there is another person out there with my exact same history, my exact same present, and my exact same manner of thinking. I wonder if there is someone out there (dead or alive) who shares my exact feelings.

And to take this crazy train of thought even further, I wonder if I will one day become somebody else too. I wish I could make a time-capsule that my future self will one day find and understand that they too are an old soul. Maybe I'll find a time-capsule with my name on it. And if I do, I guarantee a heart-attack will follow.

Okay, enough craziness for one day.
Peace, love, and cheers to being an old soul in a 21 year old's body...

"Community is where humility and glory touch."

Henri Nouwen said that quote. I'm not entirely sure what his impact on the world was outside of writing and the Catholic Church, but this quote rings in my ears as I pack for Vietnam. Stuffing every last possibly supply into my bag, I have to stop and wonder what my intentions for this trip are. Of course I want to work with children and to begin my journey as a coach and teacher. But what experiences do I intend to have? And am I really leaving the States behind and going to a third-world country while carrying along an electrical converter and bottles of bug-spray? I can't help but stop and ask myself if I will truly be able to immerse myself into this culture. Last summer was easy....I speak French. So naturally, while there I spoke French. And it worked out fine. I made a few cultural faux-pas along the way, but in the end I could honestly say I wanted to move to France. Will this summer be the same? Or will I only be an outsider stepping in to help out for a few short weeks, only to move on to bigger and better things back in the Western World? At one point am I no longer helping them, but only helping myself?

I have carpet. I have an alarm system. I even have a washing machine. I may find it exciting and eye-opening to wash my clothes in a sink full of river water for three weeks. I may even find it exciting to try snake wine, or eel noodle soup...but what am I really giving back to them? If I am to become a part of their community, I have to step out of my comfort zone and into the wild (no put-down intended). There will be spiders as big as my palm living in my dorm room. There may or may not be bits of animals I've sworn to never eat in my soup. But what I'm really going to try to experience is much more than third-world living and Asian cuisine. What I'm going to try to experience is a unique perspective from the people themselves. I tried to learn a few words of Vietnamese, but have yet to really memorize anything solid. It's not just the language I am working towards understanding, but the everyday living of the people themselves. And I supposed one goal of mine is to somehow improve their daily living in the smallest way, whether that be through an activity the whole family can do at the end of a meal, or even to inspire just one child to continue going to school or continue playing sports. My goal isn't to change who I am, though I'm sure I've been pretending that is it. My goal is to change the lives of people who truly need it.

One more question I must ask...I already know it's going to rain cats and dogs the whole time I'm there, but do I really need a camping towel?

from instant pudding to homemade requests.

People ask me almost everyday where I learned to bake, or rather, why I seem to be so passionate about baking. The response I usually give is short and sweet, in a classic drawn-out kind of way. It sounds something like, "Well, from a very young age, both my grandmothers taught me how to bake. And it kind of stuck with me." And it's all true, just not complete.

After my parents split up, I found myself spending afternoons with my maternal grandmother. Everyday after school I would ride the bus to her house and wait for my mother to pick up my sister and I after she got off work. Sometimes we had a knitting lesson, learning to make washcloths or potholders (basically anything Grandma needed to replace around the house), but more often than not, I had a baking lesson. It started off simple, learning how to make peanut-butter crackers. I know what you're thinking, 'Peanut butter crackers are easy to make, who needs a lesson in that?' I didn't need a lesson,, per se, but my Grandma was determined to teach me how to become more independent, as I'm sure my daily water works when my mom left in her car were starting to grow old. So we started simple. Learning how to spread peanut butter. And soon after that we moved onto instant Jello Pudding from a package. And man oh man I thought that was just Top Chef material.

Every few days I would climb up on the counter and sit down next to the sink and dump this huge package of brown powder into a gigantic bowl. Then I would get to carefully pour milk into a cup (over a larger cup to catch my inevitable spillage) and then we'd set a timer and I'd whisk away for five minutes straight. I'm sure my whisking skills were comparable to every other five year old at the time-- uneven and messy. Maybe that's why we always baked by the sink?

Probably what I loved most about the pudding mix was getting to pour the batter into these delicate little glasses my Grandma only used for our afternoons together. We would separate the pudding into fours and then place the china into the fridge to let it set. And I could never wait for the pudding to get cold, we'd always eat one right away. Everyday after that I'd check back to see if we needed to make more pudding, hoping I'd get to use the big whisk.

At Christmas time, my Grandma would have my sister and I over for a baking session. We'd get out our cutest little aprons to protect our Christmas dresses, and she would let us destroy her kitchen for the entire afternoon. The scent of the cookies would overtake the house and even lure my grandfather from his den every once in a while. We made sugar cookies, cutout cookies, chocolate chip, butterscotch crunchies, almond cookies, and everything in between. The day was not over until every tin was filled. At the time, my sister was old enough to handle the mixer and the smaller measurements, so I was in charge of measuring everything light and easy to see.

I will never forget my very first lesson in measuring flour. I was handed a giant spoon, and a one cup measure. Next to me sat the big ceramic container of flour. My grandma took my hand and told me to scoop the flour into the cup. So I did what any child would do, I scooped until it was full and then started smashing it down with the back of the spoon to make room for more. Oh no, precious, don't pack the flour down. That will make the batter too dense. Flour has to be handled gently, explained my grandma. She took my hands in hers and showed me the proper way.

1. Scoop flour into the cup
2. Take a knife and chop the top lightly.
3. Use the knife (back side, not serrated!) to slide off the excess flour

And from that moment on, I knew my baking had to be precise. But my grandmother being the amazing woman she is, made baking look effortless. Actually, both my grandmothers make cooking and baking look flawless. But who wouldn't be able to when you're this beautiful?


Maternal Grandmother Sexton



Paternal Grandmother Phipps


I give them full-credit for my tree-climbing abilities and somewhat frequent public displays of half-nudity.

Anyhow, my paternal Grandmother has been an inspiration when it comes to baking as well. Her kitchen was constantly going when I was younger, and to this day it mostly still is. She either had hot dogs boiling for kids, or a pork tenderloin tenderizing in the oven. When it came to our afternoon visits, we always had apple slices and popcorn waiting for our movie, and when it ended, it was time to bake cupcakes to take home to my Mom. I still don't know how she got her icing to be so fluffy and light, even after having the recipe for a few years, but I was always impressed with her ability to make light and fluffy cupcakes and cookies with very little effort. She didn't wear an apron. She usually had on a blouse, her gold egg-shaped jewelry (rings, earrings and necklace) along with her perfectly polished nails and Chanel Number Five perfume sprayed on lightly. I couldn't leave her house without at least two lipstick prints on my face, a Bounce sheet in my pants pocket to ward off mosquitoes, and a container filled with her baked goods....and of course the occasional Coca-Cola for the road.

Her cookies were loaded with butter, rich sweet cream butter, and they just broke off and melted in your mouth. Snack time soon became a two or three times per day affair, and left us always wondering what would be on the menu later that day. My grandma could also make a semi-homemade dessert look and taste fully homemade. One of my favorite creations that she made was my Dad's Boston Cream Birthday Pie, and I believe about half of it was typically from store-bought materials. But she didn't look up how to make it home-made, she just created. She understood the consistency of every ingredient involved and knew what the final would need to be like, and from that point on she just dove right in.

Many afternoons were spent with my Grandparents, and that alone makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. Not only did I have the opportunity to live in the same city as both sets of grandparents, but I had ample opportunity of spending time with them and learning about their lives, while they shaped mine. I've probably adopted my maternal grandmother's perception and understanding of baking, but I adopted my paternal grandmother's ability to take this science to a new level. My passion for baking didn't just come from my Grandmothers, it came from some internal feeling I've learned to love about baking. Some days I bake because I'm sad. I bake because my world is crumbling around me, with no sense of direction, and all I want is for something to make sense. And baking makes sense. Plus, it's a great way to sort things out in my head, especially when there's no chance to go out for an hour long run!

I also bake because I like to make people happy. The first time they bite into something incredible, their face lights up. And that face is simply priceless. It's like watching a child open their first gift on Christmas morning. Nothing can compare. I may have moved on from boxed pudding and mis-measuring ingredients, but I cherish every step I've taken along the way. And now I find myself dreaming about new recipes, creating them while I'm at work without a task to complete. I even dream of opening my own bakery one day, maybe a non-profit organization designed to give back to the community in one way or another. Bring on the smiles. And the butter too, of course.

So there you have it...my story, in a very expanded nutshell. And yes, I do take baking requests.

Sunday night inspiration?

Two sangria malts down. I repeat: two sangria malts down. And I'm wondering where the inspiration is. Ten months ago, I found myself typing away furiously after a night out with my Parisian friends. Actually, it didn't even have to really be a "night out" per se, but maybe just an apératif-afternoon. Tucked inside my fourth floor chambre I would type away, sometimes for hours, writing blog entries, intricate emails, longing letters, and everything in between. I chatted with friends, skyped with loved ones, and found myself utterly inspired by the world around me. And tonight I find myself oddly uninspired...not in a bad, depressing way though, just in a very confusing, oddly uninspired mood. What strikes me as so odd is my lack of inspiration. I live in an incredible world where everyday life usually inspires me. There's usually at least one part of my day that muddles my mind, intrigues me into deep thought, or challenges what I've always believed in. But today, I find myself very, yes I will say it again, oddly at ease. It's a content feeling I'm not acquainted with. For some people, this may be an exceptionally comforting feeling to have, but for me...I just feel like a waste of space. A waste of perfectly capable, perfectly thoughtful, space. My life is interesting enough, isn't it?

Maybe it wasn't my own life that intrigued me so much while I stayed in Paris, but rather, the lives of the Parisians that intrigued me so. But Miami, Florida is such a unique place to live. I should feel inspired by something everyday, and yet I just feel--content. Ugh, the sound of that word is giving me a headache. No one should be content. It's both mundane and tragic at the same time. (Yet the word itself does not mean either!) My need for adventure and experience has both blessed and cursed the very ground I walk on.

Two questions come to mind: (1) Is the world I live in too comfortable? Or, (2) is it just so blatantly structured there is little time for either adventure or experience?

I'm not unhappy. I'm really not. At least, I don't think I am the majority of the time. And I think that's how it should be. There is no room for total happiness, just like there is no need for complete unhappiness. But somehow I don't think my lack of inspiration lands me anywhere productive on either end of that spectrum. So now I'm left with wondering where to go from here. With only Monday's sobering agenda nearing me each passing moment.

Growing up, in need of a clue.

Less than four months remain until my twenty-first birthday and only recently have I found myself utterly confused about my current path in life. I may be cliché in thinking that this birthday should be some kind of paramount event in my life, but how I envision my twenty-one year old self is someone who is about to begin their final year of school, either preparing to take certain exams to move onto Graduate School, or editing resumé samples to create the perfect one for each employer. But all I see is a scared little girl, afraid to move out of this seemingly new comfort-zone. And it's not that I'm not excited about the future and I'm certainly not going to try to keep it from coming, but I have this eerie feeling that I am misplaced.

At seven years old, I took pride in telling people that, "When I grow up I want to be a teacher. And maybe a coach."

At ten years old, I took pride in saying, "I'm going to be a teacher and a gymnastics coach one day."

At sixteen years old, I took pride in saying, "I'm going to the University of Miami because the School of Education there is awesome. And I'm going to be on the track team."

And finally at eighteen years old, my mother was able to take her turn in gloating. "My daughter attends the University of Miami, studying French and Secondary Education."

Up until the eighteen year old point, I think people always thought my dream to one day become a teacher who could change the world of teaching was...cute. Or maybe just valorous. But now it seems like everyone who asks, stops, tilts their head and slowly begins to say, "Sooo, you're thinking of becoming a teacher who coaches French people?" And then comes the chuckle. And I never took it to heart because they simply did not understand. And to a certain degree I still don't take it to heart. What bothers me is that I now find myself questioning what I will do with my French degree, and if Education will be enough.

Before I could read I started building up this wall of security, unconsciously reassuring myself that no matter what happened in life, I knew I could become a teacher. And a big part of me really senses that wall of security is crumbling down. Surely everyone has a childhood dream of becoming something special one day; NFL star, firefighter, doctor, etc. For me, the something special was becoming a teacher. So for years I closed my eyes to various professions. Sure, I dabbled with the thought of studying Math, becoming a doctor of some kind (but I can't say I love seeing needles or sharp objects), and even a crime-scene investigator or psychologist at one point in time. But I always staggered back to teaching. I told myself I was born to be a teacher and a mother. But now I ask, why have I limited myself to these roles?

I'm twenty years old and I haven't got a clue what to do. Almost three years into a degree and two specialties, I find myself altogether questioning what I will be when I supposedly "grow up". Yes, age is just a number and I'm a firm believer that no one ever truly has to grow up. But let's be honest, bills and car payments and career decisions are kind of a grown-up thing to handle. And it seems as though I have about a year to square everything away.

Twenty years old; with a fifteen year old false sense of security; without a clue.

-3 Degrees Celsius.

9:15 on a winter Monday morning. I wonder what the Parisians are doing right now. I'm sure the city is mostly desolate, as many of its inhabitants have headed to the mountains for their winter ski trips. But I'm sure the natural sparkle of the city goes on. Family-owned shops are still opened, and sidewalks must be swept up so that les propriétaires des brasseries can begin a new week. And while the weather may be drastically different from the 95 degree sweltering heat I grew accustomed to, and while the clouds may never part during a winters' day, I'm sure that the radiance of the city's wonder will shine on nonetheless.

Madame Dru must still be sleeping, or either sitting in her kitchen smoking while enjoying a cup of steaming hot black English tea. A piece of toast will suffice until she heads off to work, grabbing a bit of quiche or salade on her way. I wonder what free-spirited ring she has selected for herself today. Perhaps the clear ring with all the rhinestones to compliment her black sarong, or maybe a swirled design to jazz up her simple yet purposeful Birkenstock sandals.


«Les Bagues des Rêves», Chez Rosine, 2010

Then again, this is Rosine we're talking about. Two days after Christmas, she probably hasn't seen her children much this fall, and she doesn't really enjoy working. So she's probably traveling, or sleeping in late-- enjoying a good existential piece of literature, sipping tea and/or Diet Coke.

And here I am, restless and neurotic in my home-home, at 2:15 in the morning. My mind wanders from street to street, trying to relive all the life-changing moments of my Parisian escapades. As frustrating and confusing the city was on a day-to-day basis, I couldn't help but fall in love with the wave of emotions. For such a seemingly reserved culture, French folks really wear their emotions on their sleeve. When they're mad, they show you...in hand gestures, in words, and in eyebrow scrunching. And when they're happy, they attempt to smile and usually kiss your cheeks like they've just seen a long-lost friend. But one thing you can count on with any strong emotion is the repetitiveness of their words. Usually in threesomes.

Très très trèèèès bien.

But why do these peculiar details intrigue me so? Why do I weep for the strange friends I made on the streets, in cafés, in dark bars and late-night streets? Why do I crave the scent of foreign second-hand smoke wafting through the streets accompanied by the distinct scent of freshly baked croissants and quiches? And why is it that I'd rather sit on a dirty metro for 30 minutes than in my own air-conditioned car during a traffic jam?

I of course have an answer for all of these questions, but am not brave enough to face it. So I lay awake sometimes for hours each night, thinking about my life in Paris this past summer, the friends I made out of complete strangers, and the odd sense of welcome I felt each night at la fontaine Saint Michel. And despite the fountain being a tourist hot-spot, I never felt like a tourist. I always received a warm greeting from the performers who recognized me, who understood that I could not pay them each night I watched their routines, but saw how much I valued their passion and talent.

So I lie here awake, feeling guilty for wishing to go back so soon in life. Guilty for not wishing to visit my own country in greater depth, fearing that if I don't go back now, I never will. Or worse, my friends and French family will have forgotten me by the time I manage to "get my act together" and return.

But somehow, the mere image of crowded outdoor cafés steaming with guests and their daily gossip brings me right back into the wave of French culture I dreamed about before even embarking on my adventure. My heart aches for so many things. And right now it aches most for my humble yet dark and twisty hippie of a host mother, the reassuring feeling of solitude, Centre Pompidou, a quietly messy salon, the shuffle of the metro, and a 4 euro bottle of Champagne to be shared among friends at sunrise for no particular reason other than the sheer factor of being young.

My heart aches, and it's an ache that hasn't faded. An ache that won't fade.


«The Best Chicken on a Stick Ever», Chez Rosine, 2010

A little help from a wise woman.

"Ultimately, we have just one moral duty: to reclaim large areas of peace in ourselves, more and more peace, and to reflect it toward others. And the more peace there is in us, the more peace there will also be in our troubled world." --Etty Hillesum

Helping others find peace does not find me peace. And it doesn't find peace for the people I interact with on a daily basis. Instead of looking to fix everyone else's problems, why can't I just stop and look at the situations I'm creating? Why can't I look at the people I'm hurting, instead of the strangers who are hurting themselves and begging for help? I'm a troubled, reckless little girl with only a few vague directions in life. And I guess that's how most twenty-year olds are, but for some reason I find myself in this extreme version of that lifestyle. And I'm not at all sure how I ended up in this place, hurting the people I love the most and only feeling bitter and alone at the end of the day.

"It gets more confusing everyday. Sometimes it's heaven sent, then we head back to hell again." --John Legend

someone once said that scars are the roadmap to the soul...

Every scar tells a story, reveals a past adventure, a past heartache, and a past memory. Some people scar more easily than others, but one thing thing remains true about scars, no matter how big or small. They're there forever.

I used to be ashamed of my scars. I used to try to hide them, or make up stories about why they're all over my arm, my ankles, my hips. And I guess now people only see the ones that line my arms, not the burns on my leg, my hand, or the scars I have from picking old wounds. I may not directly lie about where my scars come from anymore...no more story about a burn from the bakery I worked at, or some cat scratching me. I mean, come on, was that every really believable? Do cats really have 6 claws that are parallel to each other? No.

Now when someone asks, I just look down at them, cover them up a bit, as if to hide the person from the bitter truth for one more instant, and then glance up at them for a moment and say, "They're really old scars." And then I change the subject. Okay, so that's not really telling the truth, but it's better than directly lying to their face, right? Every scar may tell a story, and since I wear mine very visibly, I guess I can't knock the people who demand to know the story. But why is it I'm so afraid to tell them? Why am I afraid to tell my best friends, my teammates, my family members, what I've done to myself?

Sure, there's only a handful of people who know exactly what I've been through, who were witnesses to what I suffered growing up. But there have also been people I've met that don't care what I've been through, who see it in my eyes that I've been hurt, and who probably only wish to hear the truth about where I've come from and what's brought me here. Yet I still run away from them. I try to run from my own story, one I have written for years, memorized it down to the very last facial detail and muttered last words. It's a story I don't like to tell very often, one that wipes the smile from my face each time. One that turns my eyes glassy as I turn away to conceal the tears. It's not all bad, of course, but most of it explains why I've become the person I am-- why I'm freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional. A lot of it also explains my attachment to people, my fear of them betraying me, leaving me, or just plain physically hurting me. And parts of the story reveal my peaceful side, my need for human love and devotion, and my heartfelt wish to make everyone around me as happy as can be.

But why can't I just make myself happy? I go through these phases every once in a while. Phases of feeling self-worth, pure happiness with the world around me, and this hop in my step that can't be overturned. And then, darkness falls. A feeling of anxiety rushes in that can't be stopped. It attacks my body from the inside out. First, it devours my stomach, leaving me feeling sick and curled in a ball. Then my breathing rate rises and won't be lowered for anything. Tears start to burn my eyes and the smile fades away into a grey frown. And that physical state stays in place until someone, or something can shake me out of it. And I must say, as the years add up, it has become harder and harder for people and things to get me out of this state.

One thing I can always reflect on in that state of mind is my arm, or my leg, or my hip. A constant reminder of where I've been, and where I don't want to end up again. A few strokes of those tale-telling scars and I'm ready to try to smile once more.