living, really living, and being held in love

Since coming to Stanford, my life has gotten smaller. I live in a small apartment with my brother instead of 7 girls in a fellowship home, have a smaller community, a smaller group of friends, meet with far less people, and spend more time staring at my ceiling talking to God than I used to. I sit with my small grad community at church each week and allow them to serve me, to break off the lies I believe about myself. Even my outfits have gotten more basic. I literally wear the same turtleneck tucked into a pair of jeans every single day.

It’s the weirdest thing ever. You make it to Stanford, and everyone is excited for the bigger, better things you’re going to do afterwards. I’m here, so I’m supposed to be doing bigger, better things. I told my high school students I went to Stanford when I took over teaching my class and they gasped and exclaimed, “WOW YOU MUST BE SO SMART!” They said this right as I colored aluminum, which is definitely a metal, as a metalloid on their periodic table. I would have to print 32 new ones for them now to fix this mistake.

My program has been tearing down my preconceived notions of meritocracy. My instructors have swept down with me in the lowest of my lows and celebrated my highs. They have pushed me to find what is sustainable and restful for me, to pursue my own spiritual and emotional healing. My supervisor still finds joy in coming to observe me teach, though most of these days I’m just messing up over and over again. My director still believes in me and has tried to help me see my shortcomings in relationships as a growing factor rather than a sign I can’t teach. I’m not used to being held by so much grace.

There is nothing bigger, really. Nothing better than my old life. There’s nothing big about working through conflict, nothing shiny about trying to figure out where working out and cooking fits into such a rigid schedule. I don’t want bigger, and although I can’t wait until the day I am an expert at teaching, “better” is not “problem free.” In these last few weeks so much has attempted to sabotage my peace.

But I am falling in love with my unique life, and deeper in love with God as my Heavenly Father.

I still feel like a failure and a disappointment at times, though I am confident this is a lie. I am also realizing there is grace for when I do believe these lies, and the God I love is not mad at me for not trusting him.

And I am still uncertain about my future, dreaming about it constantly, wondering what God has for me next.

I am learning to use the word “and” more than the word “but” to affirm that so many complex emotions can coexist together.

And being here has not been the answer to life, as many believe. One day I’ll be able to write more weighty letters of rec for everyone I care about and use this title to uplift others. This is something I would’ve never dreamed possible when 3rd year of undergrad Lea decided she was going to stop chasing who she thought she had to be and take her time discovering what God had in store. Stanford has been in many ways a dream come true.

I will say that attending Stanford is still nothing in comparison to knowing the love of God. To still my heart quiet enough to sit with it, to ask Him my questions, to allow it to hold me.

And through the slew of complex everything, I begin to process through writing. My mentor teacher Sarah told our students, “Sometimes it’s nice to create something rather than just consume all the time.” So here I am creating something from the giant slew of thoughts in my head. I hope when you read them, you feel so held, so fought for, and so loved.

~

The reset

I’ve been doing well. They told us January would be one of the hardest months. December for me was my hard month. From getting sick to conflict and sheer emotional exhaustion, I did not think I was cut out to go into teaching. I was overwhelmed and struggling to feel like myself, and this translated into my teaching. But in the beginning of January I took over my class period as teacher. I spent my break freaking out about this, questioning if I was truly ready.

And then the day before having to go back my mentor teacher sent me a text to check in. We had worked through a lot together in December and she knew my fears about choosing this field. I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I was not just wondering how I was going to do this, but that she was also thinking about how to best support me in doing this. It wasn’t all on me.

On day 1 I reintroduced myself to my class, explained what it meant for me to take over, and shared with my class a lot of my journey with anxiety, EMT stuff, and how I fell in love with teaching initially. I told them about my former students, that I taught so that younger versions of them would not make it to college and feel like a teacher never believed in them or advocated for their mental health. I was terrified of sharing vulnerably in a way I hadn’t since my college job. But doing this was the first step for me embracing myself as a teacher and it was well received.

Week by week my mentality changed from seeing every little thing as a sign that I can’t do this to focusing on all the small ways that I am growing. I don’t have to be a revolutionary teacher to make an impact. I just have to be myself. I told my students class might be awkward sometimes. I will mess up in front of them. It is part of learning. I’m not going to be perfect the first time I’m trying to learn so many new skills, and I do not expect them to be either. Teaching high school is a million times more difficult than teaching college students. There’s so much more you need to think about.

And I’ve been getting better at management in ways that I am starting to feel. I feel like I’m becoming more and more like myself. I am enjoying the freedom of being able to stylistically try new things and figure out what works for me in the classroom. Not everything works. I tried to make a force of attraction analogy with gummy bears, but it failed when my student said they weren’t attracted to my bears because they were organic. I don’t know what is resonating with people and what isn’t, but at least my supervisor writes in my observation comments the jokes she thought were funny.

Small progress is progress and the feedback people are giving me is helping me. It is getting less awkward. I am slowly feeling more and more equipped to time/pace my lessons, while still building the relationships I desire to build. Today, in my 4th week in I taught a lesson that felt really good and well structured. I am learning that some structures are really needed for freedom.

I am learning to separate my identity from things that have nothing to do with me. Awkward classroom management isn’t necessarily a sign that I’m not cut out to teach more than it is a sign that I’m a normal student teacher. Tiredness isn’t necessarily a sign that I’m failing more than it is a sign that I’m a human being learning a lot of new things. And not only do I need to focus more on being who God created me to be over some revolutionary teacher for the sake of being unique, my life is no less meaningful when I do. I do not have to wait until I’m famous to be happy, nor do I need everyone’s approval ever in order to be content. Sometimes the big things are the little things.

There are many little things that have been bringing me joy in my small, Stanford life:

Esther and I were going to get groceries, but on our way to TJ’s she said she needed to show me something. She proceeded to pull over to the side of the road. We got out and she led me to several giant glass windows of a ginormous doggy day care. I had never seen so many dogs in one place at one time.

I got an app called Routinely to help me make a functional morning routine, and ever since then I enjoy getting ready and my morning isn’t as hectic anymore. I have 15 minutes every morning devoted to stillness, reading the word, and meeting with God. I genuinely look forward to this every day and need it to center what matters to me most before going into the classroom.

When I have a little bit more time between teaching and Stanford classes, I can fit in a bike ride to a nature preserve 15 minutes from my apartment.

Sitting in my friend Kat’s apartment casually hanging out to do work. Texting Kelly, a former prof from Davis who is now just a huge mentor of mine. Grad student dinners at my spiritual mentors’ home. Cooking food. I could go on and on and on.

And every day I am told:

Today you are loved. Today I want you to love well.

And I always reply: What if I don’t know how to?

And he says: You don’t need to. I am love.

~

While I was eating lunch with my teaching team, a student of mine came busting through the doors of my classroom. She was breathing heavily and had a rush to her step. I am using a pseudonym for her in this post.

“Hi Leilani!” I exclaimed, in my typical enthusiastic voice whenever I’d see her come to my class.

“Ms. Faith! Can I talk to you?” A sense of urgency swept through the air.

“Of course!”

“Can we go back there?”

“Yes!” I followed her speed walking into the prep room that connected the rooms of all the teachers I worked with. She leaned against a cabinet full of supplies and began venting. She was talking at the speed of light, was very angry, and was clearly very hurt. On the outside, I held the space for her. On the inside, I was thinking about how since August I have hoped one day I would build enough trust with her that she’d open up to me. And I was also thinking about how many times I have run to mentors, friends, and teachers in my largest moments of panic and emotional dysregulation. Bless Polly, my supervisor.

I asked her some questions, re-voiced what she shared with me, and asked her what she needed. She had just needed someone to talk to. A lot of the other adults and teachers in her life have broken her trust or are helping other people she has conflict with. I affirmed her needs and her emotion. She opened up even more. I sat there with her.

After a bit, I asked if she wanted to take a few deep breaths before heading to lunch, as we both needed to eat. I stretched out my right hand which she clasped with her left. We both sat there on the floor in the stock room taking big, deep, breaths. Then I asked her if I could give her a hug, held her tightly, and then walked her out. Afterwards I went back to lunch with my teammates. My mentor teacher asked me if she was okay, and if I was okay.

As a human being, teacher, and just normal friend, holding that space for others is something I feel honored to do. I am lucky to have people that do it for me, that process with me and continue to love me despite how messy my emotions can be. I am lucky to have friends and mentors who declare truth over me when I don’t believe it or am actively choosing to succumb. My biggest hope is that students feel safe with me to tell me things.

And her words hit me on a personal level in a different way than any other person I’ve gotten to hold space for in my life. It was the weight of uncertainty, the weight of not being sure what to do with what she told me. I was concerned for her safety. I consulted my teaching team and my supervisor, and then decided to step away from it. I needed space and time to process, and so did she. I’d check in with her tomorrow and proceed from there.

On my drive home I remembered 14 year old Lea holding her tears, wondering if people would notice, wondering if people would care, thinking she was weak, judging herself for feeling, wondering how she would carry on after doing so. She had told me the very same thing, that she was trying so hard to get through school without falling apart, that teachers didn’t who kept getting upset at her for not doing work did not understand.

God: You were never broken. I was right there.

Me: But where?

I didn’t have an answer. I took a long bike ride. I sat with the emotions. And I prayed for her to know she was seen and loved.

After our chemistry team meeting the next morning I ran across our school campus to Leilani’s directed studies class during my prep. I asked her if she’d like to take a walk with me. She said yes.

“I’m feeling a lot better,” she told me after I asked her how she was doing. I thanked her for coming to see me the previous day.

After talking for a bit, I asked, “What do you envision for your life?”

She shrugged her shoulders as she walked, paused in a way that made it look like she’d either never been asked that before or didn’t feel like it mattered.

“One day, do you see yourself loving every aspect of who you are and being confident in that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

I took a deep breath.

“First, I want you to know how grateful I am you came and talked to me. I myself have panic attacks. I myself still have to step out of my grad school classes sometimes to cry or whatever. I reach out to people screaming sometimes. Knowing when you need space is really good and healthy for you.”

She chuckled a bit as I elaborated on many more of messes my mentors have had to deal with me because of me.

“I also want you to know that being on this side of things, it’s a completely different perspective. I can see how every time I had ever reached out to a mentor of mine, it was a moment of strength even if it felt like the biggest moment of weakness.”

“You might have felt like that was one of your worst moments when you came to me yesterday.”

She nodded.

“But it wasn’t. When you came to me yesterday, I didn’t see it as one of your worst moments. What I saw was that you were capable of really deep empathy. What I saw was a girl who knew how she deserved to be treated, a girl who wouldn’t settle, a girl who understands things that nobody else sees. If you are capable of feeling pain this deeply, you are capable of feeling joy just as deeply. You are capable of feeling loved just as deeply.”

“And I know you might feel like this is never going to end because you’ve been feeling it for so long.”

“Yeah. My mom and I have been dealing with this since I was in 6th grade,” she replied.

“I hear you. And that still doesn’t mean you will feel like this forever.”

She nodded slowly.

“Leilani,” I said, “I used to think I was so broken. But today I’m here. And everything that I thought made me broken makes me a better teacher. I’m excited to see the leader you will become.”

“Thanks Ms. Faith,” she said. We made it back to her room where I dropped her off. She verbally told me all the answers to her half blank chemistry test, which were all right despite her not wanting to actually write her answers. So I put in her exam score as 100% because she understood the material, as that is supposed to be what I’m assessing as a teacher rather than her mental state to focus on an exam with everything else going on in her life.

~

When I was in high school and especially when I was in college, I took every failure personally. Every point I got docked on an assignment, every test that was not near perfect, every person that I let down, was a reason why I was broken. Why is nobody else struggling? How come everybody else is getting all these opportunities? How are my friends who I’m teaching the material on these exams doing so much better than me every time? Why don’t I belong anywhere? These were the questions and the lies that flooded my mind to the point of numbness, to the point of wondering what the point was in living if I was never going to be as “good” as I wanted to be.

A month ago, I applied for a very prestigious teaching fellowship. After a normal day of teaching and debriefing with my mentor teacher, I opened my email and laughed out loud.

Rejection is painful. Waiting for your grade compared to a curve on an ochem midterm is painful. Seeing you failed or got rejected from something is painful.

But when I read this rejection letter, something was different. I texted my former writing professor now huge teaching mentor of mine, Kelly, who had helped me with one of my letters of rec.

“I didn’t make it to the first round of interviews for Knowles! Thank you so, sooo much still for doing one of my letters,” I texted her.

“Lea!! I can’t believe this!” She replied.

She held the space for me to process. This was freedom. I would not be beholden to anyone. I could go to Mauritius with my family this summer. I was a free dog. The freest doggo ever.

“Tbh I don’t know why I’m not upset,” I texted her.

“I think you have such a strong sense of what REALLY matters, Lea. The road ahead remains wide open ❤️,” Kelly texted back. I could feel her grace through her words.

I sat in my car for a bit, processing, reflecting, smiling with joy.

“Yeah I think it’s a sign that I finally know rejection has nothing to do with my self worth. When looking for opportunities, I’m looking for the best fit for me, not to win everybody’s approval.”

“You’re decades ahead of me. I love this.”

I originally didn’t want to apply for this teaching fellowship. They took only 35 people a year, was a pretty homogenous community, and was a large time commitment. But they gave a lot of money that I would need as a teacher. In my car rides to placement I felt God asking me, “Why are you afraid of getting rejected? Would you not trust that I have something better for you if you did?” So I figured why not.

Later that day I knew for sure it was a blessing that I had been rejected. I was given the gift of being able to be present with my life. The gift of knowing I did not change myself to end up somewhere I did not belong at this time. I got the gift of learning from and being seen by Kelly who supported me so greatly in this.

And my hands were wide open because I knew the Lord must have something so much better for me in store.

Thank you Jesus, I said. I thought about all the times I had been rejected from a job or opportunity. Now I was at Stanford. The new doors were always better than anything I could’ve ever dreamed.

~

On my way to class last week I got a call from the worship leader in my old faith community. She never calls me. Her voicemail said she had some sad news. I called her back immediately.

One of my friends had passed away that I graduated with. Reasons unknown, but I assumed the worst given how young she was. I remember asking her to be one of my learning assistants because she was pre-health and would eventually need a solid letter. I had graduation pictures with her standing front and center.

I went to class as normal. I went to dinner with my cohort afterwards. I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything.

But the next morning, I opened my Bible and sat in the presence of God. And then I started crying. I brought the Lord my questions, my anger, my confusion. I drove to school to teach, and magically as I stepped out of my car the tears disappeared.

This happened for a few days in a row. But one of the days I was sobbing so hard I called my spiritual mentor, Paula. She held the space for me, and then again as I left my car to go teach I was normal again.

After church on Sunday I was so angry at God, so confused, so annoyed with cliché truths about God being in control. I questioned everything I knew about God being good. But I knew the God I served was a God of love. And I couldn’t reconcile this with what happened to my friend.

A week later when I was no longer avoiding talking about it, I found myself in a cozy private office on the third floor of a Stanford building with Paula. She sat on a normal swively chair, I sat on a floor mattress and looked up to make eye contact. These days, the floor is just where it’s at. I was over crying, but she shed the tears with me I was too exhausted to keep shedding. She told me she contacted the leaders of my old community right after the first time I called and assured me my friends who were even closer to the person were being cared for. My eyes stung. I wished I could’ve been there with them. I showed her my graduation pictures with her, and we sat there in the space.

Somewhere after a long time of processing and holding space, it came out that I, after all these years, had a really skewed view of God. Given some of the questions I had been asking, I clearly didn’t believe he was a loving father all the time.

Paula paused and nodded. She looked up from her chair, gaze slightly out the window.

“I’ve noticed you’ve used the words failure and disappointment a lot in the time we’ve spent together. Do you want to try a listening activity?” She asked me.

I listened to the voice of God all the time, and was still terrified.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Okay,” she said, gently.

“Think about the first time you’ve ever felt like you were a failure or a disappointment. You can tell me what it is, or just tell me when you have it.”

I took several deep breaths and closed my eyes.

Many things came to mind but I judged whether or not they were “correct.”

“I don’t know,” I said after several minutes of waiting. I opened my eyes.

Paula gave me a side look. “You don’t know if it’s good enough or nothing actually came to mind?”

“I don’t know the first.”

“Just go for a moment then. Doesn’t have to be the first.”

She eyed me again. “You definitely thought of something.” I smiled and erupted in laughter. She started laughing too. I slurped the caprisun she gave me walking in.

“Dang. You’re too good,” I said. The spirit of truth cannot lie.

“Yeah. Obviously like I’m watching your body language!”

I took a deep breath. “What came to mind was my mom yelling at me after drawing all over my wall with crayons when I was little. Seems dumb.”

“Mmm,” she nodded. I took another deep breath.

“What did that feel like?” She asked gently. I closed my eyes again and did my best to let the thoughts flow without judging them.

After a few more moments I said, “Shame is the best way I can describe it.”

“Mmm,” Paula affirmed.

“Because I mean like I had no idea I was doing anything wrong. I was just happily drawing on the wall like a kid.”

We paused there for a bit. I closed my eyes again.

“What did God say about your artwork?” She asked.

I sat in the space for a lot longer. I wasn’t sure if I’d hear anything I didn’t know already, but then I saw God smiling. And then I started smiling. I felt him beaming down at his crazy girl with pride knowing he created her with all of her intricacies.

“He was proud of it,” I said in a slight whisper.

“Mmm. And what does he say about your artwork now?”

He showed me everything that encompassed me. All the relationships I have loved. All of my students. All of my girls. All of my mentors and crazy encounters. The dogs I’ve pet. Stanford. Community. The miracles I’ve experienced and witnessed, and the ones I’ve gotten to be a part of. The love of the father was standing over me with pride, not focused on where I fell short daily, but all the ways in which I added to the kingdom of Heaven.

“It’s nothing like He’s ever seen,” I said.

“Mmm.” I was nothing like He’s ever seen. And He has seen so much. I was in awe.

“And what would he tell people who cannot appreciate your artwork?” She asked me.

I smiled. You always wonder if you’re too much or too little to belong somewhere, and not everyone in the environments I was supposed to feel the most loved and accepted in did. I had a lot of wisdom. A lot of humility. A lot of love to give. I would not be able to please everyone. Most people would not know or see or love the intricacies of my life like he did.

“He’d tell them I have a lot that they don’t.”

We sat in there in that truth for a minute until Paula asked me one final question.

“Where was God when you were drawing on that wall after you were scolded for doing so?”

By then my view had shifted. I saw God holding me, saying he understood my intentions, that it wasn’t fair. And I saw God with the friend I had lost, holding her, finally able to dry the tears from her eyes. Both images stayed in my mind, and my heart softened.

“He did not take the pain away. But he was there. Next to me. Holding me.”

~

I do not get to take away the pain of others. That’s not my job. That’s God’s. He may not take away the pain in the people and places I wished he would. I will never know why. Knowing why is not helpful and/or my job either. He is God. He is outside of time. He’s been a father for a long time. Would I not trust that He is good and just?

And God has been so good to me. My teaching placement, my housing, not having to worry about my Stanford tuition, my friends, my mentors, the jobs I’ve had, everything I have comes from him and him alone. I’m in over my head about how any of this makes sense simply when I see a dog or look up at the stars in the sky.

In these last few weeks, my perspective has changed on my life. With the amount of loss, sickness, random unexpected events, and especially now as I finish this post fighting off COVID coughing in ways that makes my whole body hurt, I know that life is worth living. It is not worth living for many of the reasons I’ve been told to live for, but it is worth living in His presence. I close my eyes and sing “What do I have but Jesus,” because He is my hope, my strength, and my firm foundation.

There is so much coming. I don’t exactly need all the answers sometimes more than I need to be seen and to be loved. My heart rests in peace knowing that a more intentional life is actually not smaller because feeling the arms of the father holding me through every day is enough. When in doubt that anything good can come out of something, the Lord says, “Come and see.”

I want to live, really live. I want to be held in love. I don’t need to always feel like seeing, but I hope I always choose to see. I hope I choose to live held, and see the world through the eyes of His radical love.

~Lea