“Where’d You Go?!” AKA, “The Case of the Missing Body”

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

I’m going to start this blog out by making a statement I never thought I’d make & am terrified to state publicly: I have lost over 100 pounds.

“Where’d you GO?!?” is the question I am most commonly asked, and I generally respond, “I’m right here.” I’m still me. I’m still a giant jerk…still a giant nerd…still a flawed bonehead that loves Jesus & fails every day. I’m just….lighter.

I’m still a “big girl,” & I’m cool with that (even though I look like Shrek in family photos–why is everyone so SHORT?!?). I’ll never be petite–I’ve got hips that could birth a Hereford–& I’m 5’7.” I have feet like Sasquatch (my sister calls me “Casquatch” & I embrace it), so don’t get it twisted–I’m solidly built. I’m as my college “friend” called me, “healthy.”

Body confidence has NEVER been my forte. I dealt with so much body shaming growing up; when you grow up in the Church & you develop early, you’re punished for it. It’s crap. I was 14 and a DD, & my tiny, little Christian school couldn’t handle it. I got dress coded on a regular basis (like I asked for it?!?); my mom always reminded me to “suck it in,” as I had a belly even before I had my babies. I look back at pictures of myself, & I looked AMAZING at 17, but felt like a total freak show. I was taller, curvier, & louder than everyone I knew, and none of those things fit in well with a culture that wants you to be “meek.”

I felt hideous. I was “too much” for society, for church, & even for my family. I was different–I acted differently, and “different” was “bad,” so I tried to be what people wanted. I tried to dress in a way that covered everything up, but that’s hard to do when you’re top-heavy (& I only got more top-heavy as I went through college, leading to some horrific nicknames that I am still embarrassed by). If I could have taken a knife and cut off various parts of my body to relieve how ugly I felt, I would have. Every family picture showed how I didn’t fit in (several of those pictures are still on the walls in my parents’ house). Every group picture in the church youth group with the tiny, petite blue-eyed girls with straight hair, every picture of my vocal group in college where I’m trying to hide beneath suit jackets & scarves, every picture of me from my wedding where there’s industrial-strength tailoring holding me into my dress–every picture has a flaw I can’t help but to see.

These flaws are compounded by Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, which is a common thing for people with ADHD to struggle with.

I didn’t know I had ADHD until a few years ago. I just thought I was a weirdo, an outcast, the one “odd” personality type in a family that all tested one way while I tested another (side note: Personality tests were not designed for the neurodivergent. Throw them in the trash). I don’t fit in now, and I didn’t fit in then. Being told I was “different” added to the RSD. I looked different. I acted different. I was Built Different.

And therefore, I was BAD.

This voice that tells me I’m a “terrible, awful, horrible, wacky weirdo” has whispered in my ear for decades. It’s robbed me of being at peace with this “strange” mind, this “odd” body…it’s taken away the joy of being “fearfully and wonderfully made” that I should have celebrated, that I should BE celebrating. It’s sent me through cycles of self-harm & suicidal ideations that even though I recognize, I still encounter (sometimes through reasons I can’t control, i.e., medication changes–thank you, family & friends, for loving me through these processes!!!!!). Being weird or different, regardless of the fact that society is trying to preach inclusivity, isn’t welcomed, so I should just check out, right?

WRONG.

We just don’t realize how body image issues carry over into mental health…how it’s a spiritual issue that’s complicated by neurological and hormonal issues. Weight is NEVER the true problem. It’s ALWAYS a symptom, yet our healthcare system is only just starting to realize how true that is. Ask a fat person–we’ll tell you….but because we’re fat, we’re intrinsically stupid, right, doctors? And therefore, our opinion is void….and we pile on the mental health issues.

I’m 47 years old. It wasn’t until my ADHD was diagnosed and properly treated that I started looking over life experiences with a fresh filter & learned just how toxic and damaging my body image issues were. Losing weight has further complicated this retrospect, as I can see how many times health care providers dismissed major problems in the light of my weight. I have carried decades of guilt over my weight, like it defined my worth as a Child of God. I have gaslit myself & ignored root issues that played out in binge-eating & self-harm. I have looked at family pictures and privately sobbed (sometimes not privately) at how disgusting I looked & how I brought shame on our family with my size. I have shed oceans of tears over the combined issues that I now know were rooted in anxiety, depression, neurodiversity, rejection sensitive dysphoria, PTSD, and abandonment issues.

Shame is a heavy, heavy burden to carry. When it’s combined with RSD, it’s soul-crushing. When the burden of untreated ADHD finally began to be lifted, the lies of RSD began to untangle, & I began to get clarity on this skin that I am in, on this body (amongst other things). The ability to focus allowed me to silence the inner static that had me snacking constantly. Getting my ADHD treated led to a healthcare provider that got my diabetes under control through a semiglutide (which is also something I never thought I’d say publicly, but whatever, we’re all friends). I overhauled my healthcare team in 2021 & began the process of what would ultimately lead to losing 110 pounds.

But now what happens? I get shamed for using a semiglutide? That’s the only part of the journey people focus on?!?!? The shot gets all of the credit?!?!?!?!? Um, no–you can shove that. Today, I am refusing to take shame or blame for using an injection to first-&-foremost, get my T2D under control. Did it help me lose weight? Absolutely. Was it the only thing? NO. It’s taken multiple medication changes, getting my ADHD treated, therapy, better food choices, family support, and most importantly, remaining focused on listening to the Holy Spirit to carry the shame & to help me identify triggers. When you brain starts to work properly–when the synapses fire & connect– you can hear the truth of God so much more clearly. My ADHD meds have turned down the static in my brain, & have turned up how I tune in to Him!

There’s more of me to give, even as there’s technically less of me. Life is more….LIFE. That’s not saying things are easy; in fact, if you check my last blog, you’ll find our life has become intensely complicated in the last few months, & it’s been ROUGH. I see God working even in the storms…He is still in control.

And by His grace, so am I, at least, when it comes to my mental health support and my weight loss journey.

Physically, “don’t you feel better since you’ve lost the weight?!” is a misnomer. Losing weight can sometimes a.) Remove being fat as the cause of the problem and b.) Exacerbate the problem. As we speak, I’m in the process of ruling out yet-more autoimmune issues related to my legs & feet (did you know there’s a medical level above a neurologist?? Yep–I now see a “neuroscientist,” & it’s a trip). Testing for another issue means I’m off of my primary ADHD medicine for a couple of weeks, & IT’S NOT FUN. I’ve had a frightening decline in my energy levels (aren’t those supposed to be BETTER once you’ve lost weight?!?) that specialists are trying to identify, but that fatigue has been a cyclical issue that’s followed me for a decade. Now we at least know I’m exhausted not because I’m fat, but because I’m…me. That’s fun.

I’d like to throw up a face-palm for every doctor that missed signs of major issues because I was heavier. YOU. ARE. JERKS. 🙂 Jesus still loves you; I think you can go climb a cactus, for real.

Weight loss is hard, even in the face of perceived successes. I have anxiety every single time I clean out my closet (so bad!!!!!) or go into a store. I STRUGGLE with body image issues. The picture I’m posting below is what set off this blog post…I feel like I should LIKE this picture. I’m like, genuinely laughing in this picture, yet all I can see is the fact that because it was taken by someone who is shorter than I am, my neck looks fat. And fat, in my crazy-wired brain, is BAD. Therefore, even though I’ve lost weight, I’m still fat and ugly and this picture is terrible, right?

I sent this picture to someone who has been on a similar weight-loss journey & said, “I want to like this picture but I don’t.” She told me it was gorgeous (and considering she’s stone-cold STUNNING, I should take her word for it, but I don’t). She understands how I still feel like a heifer even after losing the weight; she struggles with the body image issues as well, even though she’s always had the figure I wish I had. The conversations I’ve had with her on our body image issues validates how I’m feeling, and how I know it’s messed up but can’t fix it.

I have to forcefully remind myself that losing weight does not define me. I’m terrified to gain it back, but if I do, gaining weight does not define me. This body is the shell for Who I Am, and although Who I Am is a definite weirdo, Jesus says I’m frickin’ SPECTACULAR. Whatever it takes for me to embrace that I am Who He Says I Am, that’s the journey I am committing to take, here on out.

My son is inspiring me to make this commitment. He’s on the shorter side of the kids in his class, & was recently tapped to play Napoleon in the school play (he didn’t really want a speaking role; he says that’s why he was cast in the role & I’m taking his word for it, even though a lil’ heathen said it was because he was short. I see her…duly noted, child, with a healthy dose of parental side-eye.)

My son’s body image issues started in the first-or-second grade, when the more athletic boys in the class were comparing muscles. What first grader has defined muscles?!?! Um, not mine–sorry, child, it’s not in the genetic cards. Since then, I try to stay aware of realistic comments like, “yeah, Mom, basketball’s not really my thing, hello?!?” verses shaming comments like, “I’m just fat, Mom.”

No, son, you’re not fat. I hate that you know that word and I hate that I’m the reason why. I’m sorry that your genetics predispose you to being on the thicker side but I also know that you’re on the cusp of a growth spurt & that you’ll lean out. I’m sorrier that he’s picked up on my own issues & struggles, and that being ADHD himself, he has some of the same eating habits that I developed to try & quiet my brain. “Bored eating” is a thing, & all of us fight it. I don’t know that the body image issues will resonate as deeply with him as it did with me at that age…but I also don’t think that body image issues are relegated to gender. Body dysmorphia is more impactful amongst the neurodivergent, so I suspect my son & I will be having this conversation a few times in the coming years. I am praying that he will come to me with these discussions to avoid the decades of pain this has caused me…

It’s very, very strange to see someone I haven’t seen in a long time & have them comment on my weight first-thing. Frankly, it’s rude–don’t do that. Don’t ask the people close to me how I’ve lost weight either–I’m an open book & if you were my friend, you’d know to ask me directly. If you don’t know, we’re not friends. We’re social media acquaintances in good standing. I don’t really want to discuss my weight, and part of the reason for this blog post is to hopefully put an end to the questions. I don’t like talking about weight–what woman does?!?–and if you like to talk about weight, good for you. Do it with someone else. It’s not a topic worth discussing.

Now, if you want to talk about Type 2 Diabetes, ADHD, RSD, or about how Jesus has changed my life, I will have these discussions All. Day. Long. The numbers on the scale, though? NO.

I am still the same person I was at +250 pounds. I am not, however, the same person I was 4 years ago…I look back at that person & I see a wholllllle lot of hurt that’s in the process of being identified and healed by a God Who has NEVER looked at me like anything but a beloved child.

I am listening to Him point out the pain in His gentle way, & love me to His wholeness.

This body will die some day. It will be fertilizer in the ground, or ash, or whatever…it isn’t eternal, so why have I put so much worth into to what people think of it? Why have I allowed it to have so much power over me when I look at it in the mirror? I can dress it up, slim it down, work it out–I can do everything within my power to build a body that doesn’t scream, “YUCK” when I look at it, but none of that will ever do anything more than build a shell for a divine creation of the Most High.

I’m worth dying for–He said so, & He lived-&-died for me. He rose again, & He is still working miracles through people today. All of our pain–all of my pain–& all of our struggles are things He is longing to hold in His hands, not to wipe away, but to walk us through. Weight loss is often seen by the world as a kind of salvation; I can tell you first-hand it is NOT. It’s a tool, however, & it can be used to harm or to help. I’m choosing to use it as a tool to point out what areas are still raw & that need to be given over to Jesus…where my insecurities show that I can further lay things down for Him, & where I realize the idols I’ve put in front of Him…I’m choosing to lose the weight but gain dependence on Jesus to a greater extent, to gain transparency with Him & to stop masking to such a degree that I convince myself that I’m fine. I’m not. I need Him, & I need His work in my mind, body, and soul.
He’s doing new things, and for that, more than anything–ADHD treatment, weight loss, etc.–I am so thankful.

Now you know. Let’s put this topic to bed, ‘k? 🙂 Unless you want me to flip it into a full sermon, because…I will. 🙂

Dementia, Legacies, & the Hope that Remains…

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

I found this picture in my Facebook memories today, & it resonated with me once again.

You see, in the midst of everything that’s gone on in the past 6-8 months (job changes, job losses, losses of family members, etc.), my husband & I have also been walking through dementia with his mother.

I think the trauma responses have finally quieted enough that the reality of my mother-in-law’s condition is finally hitting me.

I married The Golden Child—I married The Baby of the family, & those who attended my wedding may remember that when my stepdad got to the whole, “if there’s anyone who has anything to say about why these two should not be married,” etc (which I begged him NOT to say, but he said he had to), I physically turned my body & stared down my Mother-In-Law, because if anyone was going to say anything, it was her. 😊Everyone laughed…except us…😊

 I knew what I was doing and where I was marrying into, & I knew I had my work cut out for me…but she also knew I loved her son, & that he loved me. It has to be a hard thing, to marry your son off…Lord knows, someday, the shoe will be on the other foot, & I will have a young bride staring down at me, LOL! Oh, honey, I AM NOT THE ONE!!! 

That being said, my MIL & I had some transitions to walk through. We learned, though—after all, at the bottom of everything, was the fact that we both love David ferociously. I began to learn about being a wife and eventually, a mother; she began to learn that no, I’m not a great cook, but I can bake, I can stain a deck, & I can wheel her through a mall like nobody’s business. 😊

My MIL could try someone, but she could also teach a thing or two. When doctors told her she’d never hold her knitting needles again, she’d crochet blankets for days. She’d make the most creative jewelry, & she’d proudly show me all of her pieces every time we came over. She’d make beautiful beaded ornaments, & she’d share her handicrafts with everyone that visited. She constantly made things & shared them, and talked about how much people liked her colorful designs. I love creative people, & I loved to see what she’d made…I have so many things she’s made, & I’m grateful. I shared things I made with her as well, & I have so many fun memories of family get-togethers with everyone at her house…

As time has gone on, though, dementia pulled my father-in-law away from us & made family events a bit more challenging. My MIL became basically confined to bed, and is now in a nursing home facility where her dementia has taken over…The loss of who I knew Vinita to be, with the behaviors & outbursts she’s been prone to having, have made me advocate for her even more strongly with the hospice and nursing home teams, & she is now, thanks to hospice, getting her medications more consistently. This means she has more stable days, and has less bouts of tears and anxious behavior.

This doesn’t mean her dementia is resolved, though; yesterday, the social worker said she thought she was a child. What is that like, to think you’re a child, but to be in the body of someone in their late 70’s? How confusing that must be…to sit & think about it from her perspective, really hit me emotionally this week.

At some point, my mother-in-law will not know who my husband is.

This realization breaks my heart. I find my faith challenged in this situation—I mean, why? Why does she have to walk this walk? Why wouldn’t Jesus just take her home and give her rest?!? I don’t understand, & I’m trying to take the deepest of breaths to ask Him even though I know He’s under no obligation to divulge his plans.

The social worker said when she came in yesterday, that my MIL thought she was a child, & that she went on-&-on about the goodness of God. “Ms. Vinita had a good day.”

On the bad days, she cries & asks Jesus to heal her body….

On the lucid days, she asks Jesus to take her Home…

The picture that came up in my Facebook memories speaks to how I find encouragement with “Ms. Vinita” even now…on the good days, we remember His goodness. On the bad days, we cry out to Him. Every day, we thank Him and we focus on Him, regardless of how we feel or what our minds tell us…

I know we’re saying goodbye to someone who is still here…I still don’t have that reconciled in my brain. What I have burned into my spirit, though, is that Ms. Vinita’s legacy will always be that no matter what we’re enduring, we take it to the Lord in ways that defy understanding & expectation. I find myself encouraged in my faith even as I’m struggling to make things make sense, by her example. We call on Jesus…in the good, in the bad, and in the in-between.

I hope when my time comes, that even a small part of that is in my legacy to leave.

We love you, Mom Cooley…we’re thankful to Jesus for how He holds you in His hands…

“You Are Loved.”

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

I woke up this morning to this note on the bathroom sink:

“Hey, Mom, Jericho here. Just wanted you to know, take care of yourself and that you are loved. Love, Jericho.”

This note has now been permanently scanned into my online drive and tacked to the corkboard in my office where it shall remain in perpetuity.

This note may wind up eventually tattooed somewhere that remains to be seen.

This note both undoes me & revives me simultaneously, in the best & worst ways…

My son was 2 years old when I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Thyroid cancer is the “good kind” of cancer, they say–it’s the kind where they remove the issue, supplement you with Thyroid Replacement Hormones, and send you on your merry way. Those that know me well, know this has not been my journey; I’ve had clinically-detectable thyroid cancer for almost 10 years now. “Clinically detectable” means that it’s still there (“residual activity in thyroid bed”), but not in so many levels that they can go in and physically remove it. I liken it to having a time-bomb in your neck, just waiting for it to either die or explode. It can be a mental process, for lack of a better word, to ignore it. On the plus side, thyroid cancer is notoriously slowwwwww, so although my tumor markers have gone up-&-down over the years, I’ve never gone so high that I’ve had to have a second surgery (there are plenty of times where I’ve begged them to just take out the remaining lymph nodes in my neck so that there wouldn’t be anywhere else for those booger cells to hide!!!).

It’s not uncommon for me to say the removal of my thyroid ruined my life. Getting my medicine titrated correctly has been a process, especially with the weight loss; the initial determination to figure out what medicine would work for me, darn near killed me. The thought is to keep my TSH levels so suppressed, that it makes an unfriendly environment for the tumor markers, & they’ll eventually, hopefully, just DIE (can we get on with it already?!?) Issues with diabetes, sleep apnea, & my legs/feet have been ongoing since my thyroid was removed…but the worst thing that’s happened since my thyroidectomy has been, hands down, the FATIGUE.

This is not like, “ohmygosh, I’m TIRED.” This is not like, “I’ve been up all night with a crying baby & now I have to go to work,” tired. This is not even like, “it’s finals’ week & I have 4 papers, 3 tests, and a volcano to make,” tired. This is literally like some evil being sneaks up behind you, cuts off your ankles & throws a lead cloak over you as you fall to the ground, dead in the water, can’t move/think/function, TIRED, & it hits out of nowhere. I usually say, “oh, look, someone’s unplugged me,” & down I go…

I’m truckin’ along yesterday, got home from church, started working on the laundry (I normally do this on Saturday, but we went to an art show on Saturday, so please don’t judge me for doing chores on a Sunday), hung up a few things in the sunroom, & stopped to admire my work….BOOM. I’m on the couch. “Just give me a few minutes.”

My son brought me a blanket & a pillow. David made some dinner. I laid there & took my few minutes. They both know how this goes–they know once it hits, I’m dead weight. I think they hate it as much as I do, because it’s not a good look to see your mom/wife deflate like a sad balloon.

It affects them as well, & I truly hate that.

I hate that I’ve had to cancel plans, or that I have to be so strict about weeknight activities (I can’t really do them, or there’s hell to pay the next day). I don’t like going to bed at 8:00pm. I have to stay disciplined about what I commit to, because there’s just no gas in the tank & I need to stay employed. Now that I’m back in an office full-time, I have to prioritize how much I do in my non-working hours, because otherwise, things get skewed. I have to be selfish with my time & protect it in ways I’ve never really committed to, before.

I now know that when I don’t establish & protect boundaries related to how I spend my time & energy, that fatigue leads to major issues—brain fog, sickness, impulse-control problems. My mental health swiftly declines, & I wind up in crisis mode, along with my family. It’s not just about my health–it’s about theirs, too–which is fuel for the need to protect myself and them. After what I went through last year, I realized that I had my priorities out-of-whack & I am grateful for the learning experience, even though it was painful. I will fiercely protect what I’ve learned, & I am trying to do what I need to so that I don’t have to repeat the process.

My son hasn’t had the experience of knowing me pre-thyroidectomy, & there’s a certain sadness that comes with that. He’s seen the fallout–the mental & physical struggle–& he’s learned compassion. Understanding is hard for him–he’s an only child, & he gets all of the attention & assistance he needs, so he doesn’t have a true understanding of what it’s like to have to figure things out on his own–but he’s learning sympathy (& that note just UNDID me–what a sweet kid he is!!!!!!!!!). My husband has been along for one heck of a ride; half of our marriage has been taken over in many ways by the collateral damage my thyroid cancer has caused. I’m not on this journey alone, & he’s been by my side. Our little household has rallied around me. It’s messier than I’d like for it to be, but it’s so full of love–that note from my son this morning was a huge, gigantic hug that reminded me that even when Monday morning slaps me in the face, I’m coming back home to people that love me, & it makes it all worth it.

I feel like a burden to my household, but I know that’s the enemy talking. God reminds me that I am loved, that I’m His, & that the sun is continuing to rise. He reminds me there is tremendous peace & hope with Him, & that He is using this journey to teach me new ways of relying on Him. He reminds me to hold onto my gratitude, & not to let the enemy twist my focus onto the things that frustrate me–that’s a waste of my energy, & that’s too precious to lose on something like that. Gratitude revives our spirits–it ‘s like in Monsters, Inc., where they find out that laughter is a better fuel than screaming.

We really get much farther in thinking about what we’re grateful for, than in what’s weighing us down.

In my last blog, I mentioned a few things that I’ve struggled with in the last 6 months or so, mostly related to some bitterness associated with a former friend. My therapist this week encouraged me to begin to focus on gratitude, & while I at first felt like I was being shamed for grieving all of the losses & relationship issues, I then realized she was correct: It is time to begin a season of gratitude. I am thankful for a great many things that had to do with that former friend. She led me to a time of employment that made a huge impact on my career & my self-esteem. Without that season, I wouldn’t have developed my personal mission statement. Without that season, I wouldn’t have befriended Jen, Jacque, & Stephen, three people who have changed my life. Without that season, I wouldn’t have been exposed to such a beautiful, diverse culture that I was privileged to be around in that place of employment.

Without that season & without those relationships, I wouldn’t have realized that I am worthy of so much–I am worthy of boundaries. I am worthy of standing up for myself. I am worthy, through Christ, of being fought for. That former friend led me to those three friends, who gave me the gift of solidarity. They teach me every day, along with my other friends, along with my husband and my son, that I Am Not Alone, & that life is GOOD, even when it’s hard.

When I am out of gas, when I can’t lift my head, I have a team of family & friends who point me to gratitude & that takes me to Jesus…and we can make it one more trip around the sun.

We got this.

He’s got me.

And I. Am. Loved.

Hi.

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

In the words of the Blessed Backstreet Boys (paraphrased), “OhmyGosh, I’m back again….”

I realized I hadn’t written or published anything since March of 2023—that’s a really, really long time to lay something down, and there’s a lot behind the whys-&-the-hows, but let’s just say that my priorities got out of line…my spiritual walk got a little loopy…and life got really, really busy. Between wrestling with theology, work commitments, and having former friends stab me in the back, twist the knife, laugh while I bled, and kick me off of the bridge (nah, I’m not bitter), it’s been a minute. 😊

I had a management position that I loved…I had the best boss of my life…I had a team of employees that I worked hard to build rapport & transparency with…and then I didn’t. After my manager was unceremoniously disposed of by an institution he worked for over 20 years, a former friend of mine became my manager. In full transparency, it was a trainwreck, & I fell apart from a mixture of straight-up bullying/gaslighting, a lack of support, an overload of work, and my own lack of respect for the position this person had attained. Combine this with an employee who valued her own emotional preening over the truth, & you have an untenable situation that I gladly walked away from (truthfully, I would have gone on in that toxic situation until the stress killed me. I don’t have a lot of “quit” in me. However, I found myself facing a choice that didn’t really leave me much of an option, along with a son who point-blank asked me “why are you doing this to yourself?!?” He was right). The anxiety absolutely crushed me; the loss of the position crushed me. And as I have so often done in my life, I found myself face-down on the couch, crying out to God: “Where else can I go?” (You can read the previous blog post for more on this quote that I may as well get tattooed on my face.)

Once the decision was made, I felt like a huge weight that I hadn’t even realized was there, lifted off of my shoulders. “This isn’t punitive,” said the Lord. “It’s deliverance.” And He was right—my theology, particularly in the absence of attending church regularly, had begun to get muddled. Loving people out of one’s own resources rather than out of an abundance of the Holy Spirit meant that I was trying to pour out of an empty cup. I was trying to sustain the mental & spiritual energy it takes to guard my heart while reaching out to others. When you don’t strengthen your armor through prayer & support, it gets weak, and “hath God not said,” gets pretty strong in your mind…

Thus began my #AdventuresInUnemployment this fall.

David & I have had random periods of unemployment throughout our almost-20 years of marriage, but honestly, I’d not been out of work since 2008, & the world has CHANGED in regard to finding a position. I struggled with an identity crisis—did I still want to be in management? Nope, not for a minute. PTSD can be defined as a persistent, anxiety-inducing issue that lasts more than 45 days, & believe me, I had work-related PTSD. This position was not my first management position, but it was in education, & I just didn’t have the foundation I needed to do what I wanted & needed to do. I didn’t have the support to manage well or to understand the expectations, & I spent more time caring about my employees than pushing them beyond what they wanted to do. I have no regrets about leaving my own comfort zone in healthcare & transitioning to education, but I do have regrets about not voicing real issues over voicing the emotions those issues elicited. I have regrets about not setting personal boundaries…about all of the nights & the weekends I spent supporting departments & programs and cleaning up messes…about spending half of my vacation answering emails, & about the anxiety I let build up that suffocated my joy. I have regrets about not protecting myself, and ultimately, about not protecting my family from the burnt-out mess I became.

In a beautiful, glorious tapestry that only looked messy to us at the time, David lost his job last spring. He found another one just before school started, & then I lost my job in the fall. The next few months would change our lives…

In August, we received a phone call that my mother-in-law went on hospice. My brother-in-law & my sister-in-law gave up everything to move in with my in-laws to take care of her, along with my father-in-law (who had dementia, as did my MIL).

In November, my brother-in-law died unexpectedly, & we were devastated. My husband lost his best friend; we lost the most giving, kind man we’d ever known. And on top of that, we lost my mother-in-law’s caregiver, who understandably needed to take time to mourn the shock of losing her spouse of close to 40 years.

We utilized a hospice benefit so we could hold Eugene’s funeral & temporarily placed my MIL into a nursing home…where she broke her femur. We began the process of finding a place for her to recover, even as she continued to struggle with hallucinations & the delusions of dementia.

In December, I received a call from my biological dad’s caregiver & friend, Tammy: “Your dad’s in the hospital, okay?” Me: “Well, really, what’s new? I’ll come up and see him in the morning.” I had a huge interview that day…the kind of interview where you go Business Formal, you suit up, you psych yourself up. The position was thiiiiiiiis close, and this was my last step to a salary & a position that could restore so much to my family & put me back in community service….I finished the interview and drove out to the county hospital…where I discovered my father was in the ICU & was dying of congestive heart failure, COPD, and cirrhosis of the liver.

I wasn’t ready.

I used to say that whenever my biological father died, I’d not shed a tear. This, as it turns out, is a lie. I was devastated.

I was devastated at the loss of a potential relationship. I was devastated at the loss of a terrible relationship. I was devastated at the time that was wasted to abandonment, addiction & abuse. I was devastated by his own admission that he was a terrible man—which we all knew–& I was devastated to be the one to call my sister to come & say goodbye.

Two years ago, God called me to reach out to him & to try to restore communication. It was HARD—I was angry, & I had to hand all of that over to God even as I unpacked it all & processed it with therapy & prayer. I loved my phone calls with Dad—neither one of us likes to talk on the phone—they were short-&-sweet, & he always ended with, “I love you, baby.” “I love you too, Daddy.”

Even typing this, I can feel the tears fall. I won’t get to hear that again this side of Heaven…but I know my Dad knew Jesus. Broken, ornery, abusive, & straight-up wretched—he made his confession of faith, & Jesus welcomed him Home. For those that Fred hurt, they may not be happy to hear that, but I sure am, because we’re all the same in the eyes of God.

I got to see my sister say goodbye…I got to see my dad lay eyes on the daughter he hadn’t seen in 13 years, & I will never, ever forget what that looked like. My son got to say goodbye to a grandfather he’d gotten to meet (which I had once said would never happen). Even my husband got to say goodbye, & my best friend, Vinita, supported us through the entire journey (as did her husband, Casey—he took care of Jericho during our last day with Dad, & I will never forget that).

My dad died without pain, surrounded by his kids (& Vinita, who’s a bonus sister), 90’s country music, prayer, & knowing he was loved. He didn’t die alone—that was so important to me, as I’ve lost 2 uncles who died alone in their home, & I didn’t want that for my father. Does anyone deserve the dedication of people who surround them in their going-home, as long as it takes?

Yes. Yes, we do—NO ONE deserves to die alone. Everyone deserves a human presence next to them, praying them into eternity. That’s a gift, & I am so, so thankful my sister, my best friend, & I got to give that to my Dad.

I wound up getting a different job than the one I’d had the “big” interview with, & I’m back in healthcare again. I may wind up going back into management after I learn the business part of this new organization; I love that I get to combine education & healthcare, & that I’m doing something I’m marginally familiar with while learning alllllllllll kinds of new things. I’m realizing that the stress of my previous position literally short-circuited my brain & affected my health to the point that I was starting to wonder if I had a neurological condition.

News flash: I don’t, at least, where my brain is affected. 😊 I was just overworked & unsupported. It matters.

Having those weeks of unemployment allowed me time to get my thoughts in order…to focus on healing, on what I did wrong, where I could improve, what I needed to do in regards to my career….I focused on organizing the house, learning new recipes, and FINALLY, on how to cook the perfect chicken breast. I feel like even as I was dealing with trauma on multiple levels, the time I had gave me an outlet to rediscover my joy in everyday life. I LIKE organizing things. I LIKE cooking new recipes. I LIKE having my house in order, building shelves, and getting things sorted out. I like my solitude, and my time to cry/laugh/talk to God.

We went back to church. We found a small congregation close to home that keeps us in the community, has denominational support & accountability, and has solid leadership. We’re still working on introducing ourselves (we got waylaid with the flu that took us out for 3 weeks in February), but I think there’s a lot of potential there. It’s healing to be in a body of people that worship together…

But we weren’t done with trauma, it seems….

In January, we received a phone call that my father-in-law was left unattended in his home & fell down the stairs. He passed away, & our family was devastated. Three major losses in three months, on top of David’s mother being on hospice & my starting a new job…then the flu…fighting Medicare for coverage in the nursing home & dealing with taking over administrative tasking for my in-laws…issues in my family stemming from my father’s death that I don’t even understand & still have me reeling…There’s a repeated theme in my life of abandonment & silence when behaviors are not what is expected, & being on the receiving end of it so many times, is excruciating…but seeing my child on the receiving end of it, is so much more than infuriating.

I’m struggling with loss, with anger & sadness & grief. I’m frustrated, worried about my husband, & fighting the urge to wrap my arms around my son & protect him from everyone-&-everything to an extreme.

I’m working my way out of the wilderness & I suspect it will be a very long time until I feel the branches part….but the beautiful thing in the mess is that I know, even if I die in this wilderness, I’m not alone. I’m “leaning on my Beloved,” per Song of Solomon 8:5.

So, where do things stand? I’ve just written over 2,000 words about the utter s—show our lives have been for the last few months, but here I sit, grinning like a Cheshire cat as I type this line.

THERE IS STILL JOY. We’re still laughing, and every chuckle is a giant flip-off to the demons that circle to steal the peace God has poured over us. We are drowning, but we’re laughing at the hair in our eyes as we cling to the life raft of God’s love. We don’t know when or how we’re going to get our feet back under us, but we’ll hold each other’s hand & fall down together. We got into an argument last night that lasted all of 10 minutes & ended with a hug—we’re broken, loud, ridiculous, & we’re basically walking disasters, but We Belong to Jesus, & we know He has us in His hands.

“The human world—it’s a mess.” Sebastian is RIGHT. It’s messy. Our son is 12—he’s almost a teenager—and he actually keeps us grounded when we’re extra-ridiculous. He keeps our sense of humor rolling at the most inappropriate times, & sometimes it’s hard for me to reprimand the sass when I’m snorting back a roar. It’s hard to bawl when you’ve been Rick-Rolled for the 75th time that week, I mean, c’mon….

We’re in The Waiting as to how we heal, what happens next, and how we put one foot in front of another. We’re leaning on our Beloved. We’re (generally) laughing with each other and occasionally foraying into Trash TV because it’s mind-numbingly pacifying. We’re getting ready for Baseball Season (woohoo) & I am so, so grateful to be employed, especially with it being something I enjoy & with management that is supportive and patient.

We’re resting in the Lord as much as we can. We’ll move forward; we’ll occasionally take a step backwards. We’ll mourn & laugh, & we’ll look at each other a few years from now and say, “how in the world did we get here?!?” (We do that now, in all honesty).

And most of all, we’ll continue to be thankful for the support of friends and family, physical and spiritual, who give us the “grace to grieve” & the space to process…

We’re grateful.

We miss you every day, Dads and Eugene. Hold Hannah for us, give my Grandma a hug,  & save us a seat…

Nashville (Where Else Can I Go?)

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / 1 Comment

I am shaken to my core.


Sandy Hook broke my heart and put a fear in me that I have never truly gotten over. I was pregnant with Jericho at the time, days away from being hospitalized, and was absolutely terrified to bring my child into this world. I remember sitting in my office, bawling my eyes out, typing messages back-&-forth to a coworker that “this is yet another reason why I’m determined to put my kid into a Christian school.”


I haven’t said anything about Nashville because I have to process that yet another protective bubble I’ve put around my child has been shattered.


I’ve Googled bulletproof backpacks. I’ve thought about quitting my job to homeschool more times than I can count. I’ve questioned God, gun laws, gender identity, and why the hell people are so distracted from the truth of these tragedies…I honestly don’t know what to do, or how to protect my child in any other way but to daily fall on my face and beg God to take care of him…to trust Him to watch over his school, his classmates, his teachers and leadership….

When I was pregnant with my son, I knew every day that I was carrying a miracle. I knew that I could keep him safe…I could eat and drink the best things (sorry about the Taco Bell); I could cut way down on my coffee, eliminate the occasional glass of wine, watch the salt, and take my medicine. I took shots every day with a smile on my face, knowing that if this is what I needed to do to bring this child safely into the world, I’d do it. I’d do anything. 30 days of bed rest and twice-daily injections? Absolutely. Daily lab draws and internal ultrasounds? You got it. Lights off, no reading, and no visitors? Sure thing, Doc–you name it. Whatever it took to keep my baby safe, that’s what I’d do.

When he was born, I remember the fear I had on the drive home from the hospital…no nurses? The outside world seemed so big and scary, and everyone was a potential threat. Even David’s driving was under a microscope; every car on the highway was the enemy. I didn’t take my hand off of the car seat until we carried him inside of the house.

I learned to carry him in a Moby wrap, and he’d nestle into my chest, safe and sound. I held him as closely as I could, & I continued wearing him in some kind of carrier until he was 5 years old. I know that sounds ridiculous to some, but when your kiddo is a runner and you’re not, it sure makes it much less panic-inducing to have him in a crowd of people. I remember the last time he was in the carrier; we were at a huge Blues festival, and I knew where he was the entire time. I could have fun, and so could he, and he was safe because he was right with me. Who is possibly safer than an slightly-psychotic mother?!?

In-home daycare and preschools were tolerated because they sent daily photos & I knew I could check on him any time. We loved the people who cared for Jericho, not only because they were so good to him, but because they were so understanding of my anxiety & they responded to me with love and patience (and prayer). We interviewed potential schools for almost 2 years, and finally chose a local Christian school. For me, it was never a question: My child would be in a private Christian school. They put Jesus first, and he would be safe & surrounded by people of faith who would love him.

Kindergarten started, and we had a principal that I’d grown to love…but then he retired. I had to learn to trust new people, which hasn’t been easy, but as Jericho has grown, so has my ability to let others lead him in his life (not without behind-the-scenes questioning and some minimal trouble-making when I’ve been irked). I’ve had lots of questions, and I’m sure at times the school has dreaded seeing my e-mails come through; overall, though, we know he’s in a place where he’s loved and that teaches him the truth of Jesus in love.

School safety is an issue, even for a small Christian school, and I had to get used to seeing security on my child’s campus. Nothing is more heartbreaking than hearing your child say they’ve had to endure active shooter training. What kind of world do we live in, where that’s done on a regular basis? What kind of mentally unstable maniac goes after children?!? In a school? I just don’t understand….I had a very difficult time when I as an adult had to undergo campus shooting safety training; I struggled with panic attacks in the aftermath of my first training (I’m not going to say I’m ashamed to admit that. I think if someone feels like this kind of training is natural, they’re the ones that are crazy, not me). Now that I work on a different campus where there doesn’t seem to be any active shooter training, I almost find that more frightening.

I am struggling today, people. I’d like to say that I sat down to write this blog thinking that I’d end it with some pithy, spiritual, give-it-all-to-Jesus solution, but I don’t have it. My former pastor used to repeatedly sing the phrase, “where else can I go?” Where else can I take this? Where else can I lay my fear, my urge to wrap my kid in packing materials and never let him leave my house? His school sent out a mass e-mail today stating they were re-evaluating security measures, & I had to fight the urge to grab my keys & to go get my son. I can’t live in fear, and I can’t let my kid see that I’m afraid; kids DESERVE to live a life free of this kind of anxiety, and as parents, we can’t show them how deep it runs.

I have no choice but to say on repeat, “where else can I go? ‘For You have been my refuge, a tower of strength against the enemy’.” (Ps. 61:3). I’m going to claim this verse repeatedly until the panic in my spirit settles down. I’m going to trust that God is in control, and that the fear that is plaguing me will not take over my thoughts and actions today. I’m going to do my job, do the laundry, take care of the dog and on the outside, present as a normal suburban mother….I’m going to pray until the panic stops, and crank up the worship music to change the atmosphere in my house.

What I will not do, is:

  • Politicize gun control (although I have MUCH to say on this issue)
  • Comment on how I feel like weaponizing sexual identity is a terrible approach to any issue (although I have MUCH to say on this issue)
  • Focus more on what I have to say than on the spiritual conditions of this nation and the fact that we’re at this level of daily violence (although I have MUCH to say on this issue)
  • Embrace the rhetoric that fuels violence and hatred on all sides of any issue these days (although I have MUCH to say on this issue)
  • Get caught up on social media comments and the keyboard commandos who can’t seem to filter themselves or to present with any kind of kindness or love in their words (although I have MUCH to say on the issue)
  • Tell everyone all of the things I have to say on these issues, as if my words are anything that have an effect on these seemingly never-ending attacks and topics

I think we all have a lot to say on the topics of school shootings, gun control, identity, and violence. Words do nothing. Actions > words. Votes > words. Love > words. “They will know we are Christians by our _________” Um, comments on Facebook? Nope, that’s not it….Tweets? Nope, that’s not it……Protests? Nope….By screaming at people? Wait….um, nope.

“They will know we are Christians by our LOVE,” John 13:35. I John 4:18, “Perfect love casts out fear.”

Today, I am afraid.

Today, I am angry.

Today, I am ready to snatch up my boy and hold him as tightly as I can hold his little 10 year-old self, & never let him go.

Today, I didn’t want to see him leave the house.

Today, I remember that I had to stop myself from going into his room at 3:00am to kiss his head and make sure everything was okay, because I’m still dealing with PTSD that it’s hard to admit I have.

Today, I am finding it difficult to focus, because my spirit is sick at the condition of the world and how it’s creeping in from the East and West Coasts, and is in my so-called safety zone of the Midwest.

Today, I am claiming the mercies of God to breathe.

I’m not having a mental breakdown. I’m just putting all of my feelings as a mother into words, as someone who struggles with anxiety on days where there hasn’t been a mass act of violence against children. I normally function quite well with my mental issues. Things like Nashville can derail me, but I do find that I’m now armed with the things I need to do to stay on track and to not let my anxiety be visible to my child (thank you, therapy and Celebrate Recovery). To be honest, I wrote this blog because the comments on Facebook were causing me to have so much anxiety that I ripped what’s left of my fingernails down to the quick–that’s me being very real. The fighting and politicizing have got me so on edge that I can’t think straight, and I’m about to get rid of Facebook all together. I sat down to blog it out just so I could process and refocus on the grace of God–where else can I go? If you Google that phrase, you’ll find it’s in the Bible multiple times. It’s foundational, especially when the fear is so overwhelming. I know I’m saying it again, but it’s true, and it’s how I’m ending this. We so often think of Psalm 139 for the passage on being “fearfully and wonderfully made,” which is true, but there’s another part of the chapter I am choosing to focus on today:

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea,

even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” (Ps. 139: 8-11)

Please join me today in praying for the overwhelming fear, panic, and hatred that has this nation so firmly in its grip. Pray for the mental health of parents and children who struggle with the understanding of the headlines; pray for Nashville and other cities that are triggered by yet another mass shooting. Pray for the people who fund lobbyists that focus more on bottom lines and money, rather than the lives of children. Pray that we all focus on how to love better, and how to love louder than the fear.

Restoration in the Face of Deconstruction

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

I’ve probably started to write 15 blogs about the concept of Deconstruction. It’s a pervasive, sneaky, deceptive line of philosophy that breaks down Christianity into four words: “Hath God Not Said?” If you remember who spoke those four words, you’ll understand where I’m going with this. “Hath God Not Said?” in the King James vernacular, are the four words Satan, disguised as the Snake, said to Eve in the Garden of Eden just before she made her eternally-impacting bite of the forbidden fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good & Evil. With those four words, Eve decided she needed to know more than the Lord wanted her to know. She decided that her thirst for knowledge was more important than the spiritual consequences, and so began the downfall of humanity (please note that I am in no way, shape, or form blaming Eve for the Fall of Man. I believe Adam & Eve hold the responsibility evenly & that humanity has used Eve’s arrogance to subjugate and discriminate against women since that singular moment, but that’s another blog. 🙂 ).

So, Deconstruction began in the very infancy of earth…Satan came in, made Eve question the truth she’d known since Creation, & that line of “wait a minute, is THAT what God said? Is THAT what He intended?!?” has been used & abused ever since…it’s nothing new.

In 2020, I started studying the Torah with a small group of people–my home church at the time–and as the pandemic began, we took a pretty deep dive. It was fascinating; I found myself going back to the Garden & the original plan God had for His people. As we studied things in the original Hebrew, I really found myself getting more & more frustrated at the differences between the Hebrew intentions & the English translations. This wasn’t anything new to me, but it was the first time I REALLY took a deep dive, & it came with some very frustrating side effects. I’m still struggling with some things. I’m struggling with how God laid out His word very clearly, yet His people even in those early days started off on such a wrong foot. The precedent that was set even by patriarchs such as Abraham, Moses, Isaac–these are deeply flawed people who were responsible for creating the foundations of the children of God–how do we reconcile this? How do we trust a murderer to accurately transcribe the words of God? How do we trust a man who openly deceived kings, to raise up an anointed people?

And then I REALLY got into my head about language, which has always been a struggle for me, even in the New Testament. There are Hebrew words that we CAN’T translate into English–we don’t have the words for it–and there are words the translators were actively influenced into mistranslating by those that funded the work (the King James Version is a great example, particularly in regards to baptism).

I’m still struggling with these issues. If I had the time to do the deep dive into Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek, I’d like to say that I would; in all honesty, I’m probably too lazy to do the work myself. I know that’s kind of pathetic to admit. Do I still believe the Bible is the word of God. Yes, I do. Do I believe that our English translation has some work to do? Absolutely…but for now, it’s the best we have. Am I willing to bank my salvation, my lifestyle, and my eternity on “the best we have?”

Yes, I am.

I have almost 37 years of reading/studying/singing this Book under my belt (sometimes barely, sometimes voraciously), & it’s never steered me wrong. It’s always drawn me closer to a God Who understands and welcomes my questions. There are things I do NOT understand (imprecatory Psalms? Those seem harsh…although I understand the sentiments, particularly when I am stuck in traffic.:) ), & I firmly believe that’s okay. Where we do not understand, we trust. That’s faith.

That’s a hard lesson I learned a long time ago. I’m reminded of it a LOT as I go through this journey of processing issues with translations.

Most of the time, when I compare the Hebrew information I’m given (my husband is really, really great about studying this stuff beyond what I can begin to process) I get aggravated as to why it’s not broken down more accurately in the English version. It always, ALWAYS puts a new light on the very character of God & His intentions for His people. In fact, the more you look at the Hebrew words in the Old Testament, the more you get the picture of a loving God Who wants a people that are truly set apart & dedicated to His goodness. Most of us that are raised in the church see an Old Testament God Who has His finger on the “smite” button…but it’s not the case, so in reviewing the original languages of the Old Testament, it causes you to realize just how much He truly adores His kids!

This disconnect with the Old Testament–seeing it as the book of the Smite-Happy God–verses the Jesus-Died-For-Our-Sins happy-lovey God of the New Testament–has created this whole, “well, the OT is all of the rules and harshness, but the NT FREES us to do whatever we want!” kind of mentality. It’s not the truth.

The New Testament is the restoration of the separation caused in the beginning of the Old Testament–The sin we started with, the gap between us & the very throne of God, is erased and reconciled with Jesus’ sacrifice in the Gospels. It’s a beautiful, circular coming to salvation that God planned thousands of years ago.

Yesterday during worship, “restoration” was a word I couldn’t get away from. There are times where we feel so stripped down; I’ve really struggled lately with feelings of worthlessness & of being ignored, gaslit, & dismissed. It’s actually a lifelong issue. I guess I’m finally able to put words to the feeling, and in doing so, am finally able to identify and process how to get through it (maybe). I think when we talk about restoration, we look at physical and material things. Have you ever thought about it in regards to our mental and spiritual health?

What would life look like if we were mentally and spiritually restored and refreshed?

We sang the song, “Homecoming” by Cory Asbury, & it hit me like a brick in the head. What does it mean, to be restored?!? Is it a restoration of mental health? Peace…feeling acknowledged and valued…feeling like I matter? Is it a restoration of family? What would it be like, to hold hands with both of my kids? What would it be like, to see my Grandma again? To feel her kiss my cheek or call me “spider monkey?”

What will it feel like, to be whole?

We’re going to know–we’re GOING TO KNOW. We have that promise. Amos 9:14 says, “and I will bring my people Israel back from exile. ‘They will rebuild the ruined cities & live in them. They will plant vineyards & drink their wine; they will make gardens & eat their fruit’.” The Bible is full of verses about restoration.

Do you know how deconstruction ties in here?

Deconstruction seeks to actively undermine the authority of Scripture and in doing so, it steals every promise in the Word.

I don’t want to live like that.

Deconstruction puts the intellectualization of the Bible above the spiritual intention of the written love letter we have from Jesus.

I don’t want to live like that.

Deconstruction steals the restoration of what this world steals from us, and replaces it with the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil.

I know what’s good. I know what’s evil.

And I choose the restoration that Love gives.

I choose the promise of our Homecoming.

I choose the promise of Jesus.

And when I don’t understand, I seek clarity. When I don’t get clarity, I seek peace. And when peace is evasive, I still trust in Him, because through it all, His Spirit still loves without fail.

Deconstruction will only serve to decimate the spiritual, but restoration will heal your soul & deliver the promises of eternal life…so that’s what I pick. I hope you do, too.

Radioactive fallout? AKA, When it’s not cancer, but….

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, but sometimes updates require more than a Facebook blurb (and let’s face it–Facebook is a bit of a cesspool. Sometimes it’s amazing, but more times than not, I find myself reading statuses & struggling with anger/jealousy/politics/etc. Totally mentally unhealthy).

A few months ago, I started to notice issues with my voice. Maybe they would seem normal to a person who doesn’t sing all of the time (in my car, you know. Not like I’m singing anywhere right now, and I haven’t in a long time); I don’t know. I talk a lot more in my current position than I’m used to, so I chalked it up to that, until April, when I clearly felt the Lord say, “Hey, kid, that’s not normal. Call the doctor.” So, I called “Dr. Doogie,” as my husband calls him–the otolarynologist at Barnes/WashU that I had seen after my thyroidectomy–and scheduled an appointment for today.

Meanwhile, back in February, I hurt my neck. I had an MRI earlier this month that revealed two things: #1, I have a couple of bulging disc issues that I’ll be tackling with my chiropractor. #2, my lymph nodes in my neck were super-enlarged, & needed to be addressed. Clinically, my labs were good, so I wasn’t concerned about my cancer returning. However, after dealing with these lymph nodes for 7 years now, I decided I was going to tell Dr. Doogie that I wanted them out of my body–I was pretty set on it. And then I had my appointment today.

It turns out that my lymph nodes haven’t changed in the last few years. They’re just weirdly large, and as long as they don’t change and my labs look good, they’re staying put. Obnoxious, but solid–sounds like me, amirite?!? 🙂 What HAS changed, is what brought me into his office in the first place: My formerly-partially paralyzed left vocal cord is now completely paralyzed. I have no idea how that’s possible, but the next steps are to see a speech/occupational therapist at WashU that specializes in vocal cord paralysis. Those people exist?!?!? I find that amazing, as I find just about any specialist. Who decides that’s what they’re going to do?!? I wish I had known years ago that those kinds of careers existed! Evidently, they can help restore some movement with both injections (yikes!) and physical therapy.

So, the “radioactive fallout” from my thyroid cancer continues–I’m so, so thankful that it’s not back, but I’m slightly bummed that I’m dealing with side effect issues. I’m hopeful that they’ll be able to help–I mean, I’ll never be where I used to be, when I was singing 7-8 hours a day; I don’t expect that. I just want to be able to yell at David at full volume, you know? 🙂 I can still get pretty loud, but still….bwahahahahahahaha!

And that’s the update–I could write a small novel if I had the time, but that’s a BIG if, as time seems to be my most precious commodity these days. Time to have some summer fun & to enjoy & soak up every minute with my kiddo…..Blessings on you! And if you have any insights on vocal therapy, send them my way!

Cut Off These Hands–the Beat Goes On.

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

I was listening to Bethel this morning (it’s my go-to, especially when I’m struggling with my mental/spiritual health), & the lyrics, “with every breath that I am able, I will sing of the goodness of God,” resonated with me. Breathing seems so ordinary until you can’t do it, right? Like, we just expect lungs to inflate & deflate. We expect the transition of oxygen to our cells to be seamless, to be subconscious, until it’s not.

When you’re aware of every breath, it’s stressful–>which can contribute to anxiety–>which also makes it hard to breathe…But singers gotta sang, right?!?

Worshippers HAVE to worship. It’s how we’re wired–it’s what God made us to do, even those of us that may only sound mediocre to others. When He makes you to do something, He shuts that fire up in your bones and it HAS to come out, even when you don’t think you’re able.

If you cut the hands off of a drummer, they will rig a set and keep a rhythm with their feet (just ask Rick Allen). They literally have cadence running through their veins–try sitting next to my sister during ANY kind of musical performance. She will tap on whatever is handy, impulsively. I think she probably taps rhythms out while she sleeps–it’s who she is. She. Is. A. Drummer. It’s who God made her to be, regardless of the job that pays the bills. When God creates you to worship Him in a certain way, it consumes your entire being.

I have always been surrounded by music. I remember singing Gatlin Brothers songs while washing the dishes, or The Oak Ridge Boys, or even Madonna, Skynyrd, or Cash. Church hymns line the wrinkles of my brain–“The Old Rugged Cross,” or “In the Garden.” My mom’s harmony laid the path for my own, & the Baptist church I was raised in taught me deep lyrics & rich melodies, & how they all worked together to worship Jesus. For my sister, it was the rhythms and the guitars. For me, it was the voices, and since I can remember, I have sang my lungs out whenever possible…

But sometimes, I can’t.

Asthma is a jerk–I’ve made it no secret just how I feel about the contemptable beast. Most of the time, I go on uninterrupted. No one would know I actually have a partially-paralyzed vocal chord from my cancer surgery. I sound almost normal, and God knows I haven’t lost a lot of volume (in short bursts). Vocally (when I can breathe), although I’ve lost a lot of power and duration, things sound almost the same, which had originally stressed me out the most about the surgery. I don’t even think about that, most of the time. Breathing, however, is another story. Vocal chords work based on how air moves between them. Asthma likes to rear its ugly head this time of the year, & this time it’s BAD–like, ER, steroids, and more steroids bad. Nothing really seems to be touching it, & I’m struggling with worrying about it (amongst the stress of everything else). “With every breath that I am able?” Oh, Jesus, what if I’m not?!?

Then we praise Him in the silence.

We praise Him with our voices, and when those run out, we find other ways to give Him glory, whether it’s a blog or a note to a friend, or a silent prayer, or even just a hug to someone who needs it. We praise Him with whatever we can do or find, because regardless of the method or ability, IT’S WHO HE MADE US TO BE.

So, “with every breath that I am able, I WILL sing of the goodness of God,” even when I can’t breathe, even when I’m stressed, even when I’m run-down, and even when I don’t think I can function. He still is, and I am still who He created me to be. I’m going to push aside the emotional aspects of this, and focus on that.

https://www.aafa.org/

Wallpaper Christianity…

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

I’ve been so focused on the new job that I’ve felt like my brain has left me zero room to process emotions–does that make sense? I’ve been struggling with feeling like God is near (is He? I mean, of course He is, but He’s hard to hear when the world is so loud & obnoxious), in the middle of trying to get thru the day-to-day…
But He finds ways & places to capture our hearts, sometimes when we least expect it, & emotions, like water, WILL make their way thru.
Sitting at Hannah’s grave hurt today… it hurt in a way that it hasn’t in a long time. 💔 

Maybe it’s the season–after all, her birthday was October 30th, & November 28th is the date of her death. Maybe it’s the fact that this time of the year, I feel pulled in more directions than are humanly possible to reach. Maybe it’s that time is flying by, & I get this “hitch” in the center of my chest every time my son outgrows another piece of clothing…

I sat at her grave, putting up her Christmas tree, & as I was making things “just so,” I felt God say, “Wait. Take a breath–you need to process this.” David & Jericho were in the car–they could wait. I sat there & looked at the beautiful hills…15 years. 15 years of memories, of decorations come and gone…15 years of tears, of occasional stoicism or anger, many years of finding, losing, and re-finding peace in the unknowing….even peace in the non-understanding…and still, 15 years of unanswered questions…

I still find myself asking if it will ever make sense…and I still find myself leaning back on Him, knowing that He is still there to catch me. He is in the unknowing, even when He is all we know.

You know, people have gotten really crazy with what I call “wallpaper Christianity.” I can’t do the whole, “live, laugh, love” thing on my wall…I have a Cricut, & I’m pretty sure David’s biggest concern when he bought it was that I’d plaster the house with all of that, “this is us” crap, LOL, but he needn’t worry…usually….But the other day, I saw a sign on Facebook that I’m going to have to duplicate. It said, “I still remember the days I prayed for what I have, now.”

Oooooh, that got me.

I still remember the letter 14-year old me wrote to her future husband, & all of the prayers poured into this man that steals my heart & my bath towel, or forgets to change the toilet paper roll. I still remember the prayers poured into finding joy again, or into recovery. I remember the prayers poured into learning to trust God all over again, into finding who I was again….and I remember on a daily basis, the prayers poured into the crazy-pants, static, loud, lovable, kind, adorable, occasionally obnoxious, and always-amazing now 8-year old miracle that I get to call, “Son.”

Even on the days where I have utterly failed at wife-ing or parenting, I remember those prayers, & I am endlessly grateful.

I’m thankful for this journey. Above all, I am thankful for a God Who loves & sustains us thru the the business & chaos, & Who lovingly calls us to selah, or “pause” & to listen to His voice….Who created us as emotional beings & Who never tells us to “stifle it” or to “suck it up.” He understands our processes because He created us in His image, & He IS an emotional Being–He loves, He grieves, & He celebrates. He doesn’t expect or want us to pretend; He wants our reality & our actuality.

We may want to focus on “live, laugh, love, ” but He is also in those commas & spaces between,,,in the parts no one wants to paper their walls with. He is calling us to pause in the chaos, and to allow ourselves to feel…to feel all of it, and to share it with Him.

So, I got a little….well, I almost said, “wrecked,” but it was more like an emotional flat tire: easily fixed, but not to be ignored. And that’s okay. There is peace after the processing.

I hope that you get to take the time through the next few weeks to breathe, to feel, and to fall into His arms. He will always be there.

Happy Thanksgiving, and if you don’t hear from me, Merry Christmas, beloveds. May you find your selah in this season.