The Motivation to Get Things Done

6 weeks ago, I embarked on a new journey toward the life I envision several years down the road. The challenge hit me right when I was experiencing a slump between recovering from a broken ankle, and looking for a new job.  While I still had my startup business to develop on the side, I had no particular plans for it to be my main career anytime soon. I panicked at the thought of it being my only source of income when it wasn’t where it needed to be in order for that to happen yet.

I really was at a low, low point where even thinking about what I enjoy most about my own business wasn’t helping me move forward. I sought video after video on better understanding myself, job searching tips, and I was applying to jobs and getting discouraged from never getting anywhere with them. In the midst of my video bingeing, I finally came across THE ONE. It spoke to me in a way that broke down achievable results until the bigger picture was achieved, and it reminded me of the few years I followed something similar for productivity unlike anything I had done before, which ultimately turned me into a goal-oriented powerhouse and published author. Every year since I have tried to keep that process going, but I definitely had noticed a shift in my thinking towards it over the course of the last 3 years. I think a lot of THAT had to do with my schedule, where I thought my life was heading at the time, and family circumstances that eventually led to the passing of my father as well as our beloved cat of 14 years.

In short, fresh motivation was critical! I loved the idea of doing what I wanted to do for a long time now, but it scared me not knowing what comes next in vivid detail. I had written out a short term business plan that got me out of the gate in a hurry earlier in the year, but then stalled because I didn’t have an even bigger picture of it, and I became literally and figuratively stuck. There were financial hurdles. My mobility issues. Our kid going to college. A dog to finish potty training. I was alone in the house with the dog (the cause of my broken ankle!) and my rampant thoughts, and all I wanted to do was to feel normal again.

And then the video. Like so many other times I’d heard ad-nauseam, it spoke about planning as being intentional about where I ended up. But what stuck out for me this time was the process described, and as I followed along in real time to first see my dream and what it feels like as a day in the life, I realized for the first time ever what truly was important to me, and what was not. And it made me also see why so much of what my life had consisted of for so long was a series of frustrations and misunderstandings and exhaustion.

To say that what I envisioned was peaceful would imply I would be living life at a slower pace, but that wasn’t necessarily so. I had peace because I was focused on what was important, by spending my time with the people and work that fulfilled me. Yes, I had the freedom to do what I wanted, but I was also doing more, and enjoying it. Why? How? Because they served a greater purpose. And I rose to that level because of the decisions it took to get me there.

Switching back to the present was somewhat jarring. As much as I wanted to be in that future I saw, I knew I needed to work hard for that day. That was how I’d start having peace. So I dug in to learn more about this new process I could easily incorporate into my waking hours on a daily and weekly basis, to get myself on a plan that would cover a period of 3 total months. After that, I would need to start again, based on where I ended, and keep at it until I am able to look back a year, 5 years, and even 10 or more years down the road until the dream I saw for my life comes to be.

With frenetic energy, I turned to my one weapon in my arsenal that kept me organized unlike any other method I’d used to record my steps before - my reusable Rocketbook and pens. I quickly converted it into what I now needed it to become as I mapped out more of what I wanted my days to look like, and how to keep myself accountable for them. 

The process itself is a system of taking one overall goal that can be achieved in part by 3 main goals for the quarter, further broken down into 3 smaller tasks for the week, and then 3 tasks for each day.  The planning for these goals is done at an hour 5 days a week, giving myself the weekends to unwind.  And since I was already making sure to avoid lazing around in my pajamas, it was easy enough to make notes while sipping coffee, then get ready for the day, walk the dog, and start on my goals.

I’m now six weeks in and have to celebrate the halfway mark with some awe. As of today, I accomplished my 3 big goals for the quarter! But rather than feeling like it’s a stopping point, I actually have a lot of other tasks to keep my momentum going. And now it really does seem like I’m working toward my dream! I really do think this system has been just the motivation needed to break out of my rut to rebuild my focus. I can’t wait to see how this quarter ends!

If I were to give anyone else advice in life, it would be this: if you have a passion for something, do it. It may never make you money, but just because it doesn’t, doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing. It can open up doors you never thought possible, which can very well lead to where the money is, but you’ll never know if you don’t first start where you are. Your greatest gifts are who you are for a reason. Don’t deprive yourself and others of what brings you joy, or you will ultimately spend your days bitter and unfulfilled. Even if you can only spare a total of one hour a week on that meaningful thing or things you do, your days will start to look less weary, and your stress-levels will start to even out too. Life is too short to live for someone else’s ideals and not your own. The dreams you dream are for you alone to discover. What will you do today to make them happen?

#lifegoals #happiness #dreamsintoreality #goalsetting 

Writing From Within

 

When I first started writing, fiction was all I knew.  I was actually intimidated by non-fiction, because I didn't think I had lived an interesting life enough to be "in the know" with anything but my hobby of consuming fiction novels as fast as I could read them and respond with plot ideas of my own.  Poetry was my segue into a more introspective form of writing, and it took being challenged by my youth group leader at church to submit an essay about my Christian experience at school to change my thinking.  Not only did my essay get picked up as what became my first article in-print for a magazine (Insight Magazine, 1999), but it led to a whole slew of devotional content which I wrote for several of the magazine's sister publications, all housed under the umbrella of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church.  

Shortly thereafter, I landed my first online gig ghost-writing for a website, and went on to do a couple more, with the most prominent being for Petopia, now Petco.com.  With the online realm a notch in my belt, I became a viable candidate for a whole new world of clients needing website content.  Some paid well, others merely pennies on the dollar.  I also had my share of freebies in which I wrote small blocks of content for newsletters, fliers, and office files on an as-needed basis.  

But as the Internet gained in popularity, so did the nature of companies needing content.  And thus, I branched out to become a contributing writer for several organizations' websites, many of which for whom I still write. Collectively, they all served to my benefit, in that a few readers from those sites contacted me for projects.  

Over the years, one thing led to another, and I was asked to return to fiction - at which point I hadn't been in the habit of practicing in years!  Never did I dream that I'd have the problem of being rusty at it, either!  In what took a painful two years to write, I dared myself and completed the groundwork for my first published novel, and aimed a whole new level of understanding of the craft that is my gift as much as it is my curse.

I've learned that to be any sort of writer, you often have to be miserable, isolated, and yet at the same time, surrounded by life and current events, in order to formulate the right words and put those thoughts to paper (or computer).  I've made a lot of interesting new friends, and developed new hobbies and passions along the way.  Working from both sides of the writing spectrum, I finally realized how much they go hand-in-hand, and the stories I write are interconnected with my blogs and articles.  

I challenge anyone who calls himself or herself a writer to dig deep and write.  You've got it in you if you take the time to practice!  Honestly, the first few things I ever wrote were not spectacular.  And even today, if working with a new project, I can say that my work improves through the experience.  I've had to push myself, yet remain patient; I've freaked out, but regained my sense of calm amidst the busiest of days.  It's all a juggling act, as no two days are ever the same.  But that's life, and when I don't know what to do about imbalances or injustices to my day, I write about them!  Not a bad way to make a living, when I know how to take the circumstances and turn them into a vast learning ground where the sky's the limit.  How's that for lemons?

The Joy of Empty

There’s a reason why decluttering has a tendency to make people happy - it frees up mental energy that was blocked or was just as cluttered as the physical environment surrounding you.  And for that same reason, some people put up stubborn resistance to decluttering because what they really are is resistant to change.

While change is often tied to a fear of the unknown, it’s part of the cycle of life, and no matter how much we delay the inevitable, it happens anyway.  So why not embrace it?  Anything bought, made, or sold is only as good as their frequency and effectiveness.  The more we have, the less effort we put into getting the most out of each thing individually.  On the surface, having more anything seems satisfying until you take a closer look at what you don’t need or can no longer use.  Chances are, if you were to open your refrigerator, a closet, or a drawer, you’ll immediately spot several things that can either be recycled, donated, or discarded.

 

Looking at, sorting through, or thinking about what we own is as physically and mentally draining as changing too much too fast or avoiding change altogether.  For years, my life was literally and figuratively messy.  I thought it made me more creative, but without healthy habits to nurture my potential, any bursts of inspiration I acted upon made me shut out everything else, until there came a point where that’s ALL I did…I had no time for cleaning, people I cared about, or goals.  I spent money on whatever I fancied, even if it meant poor quality at a low cost, making me buy more, more often.

 

Being intentional about what products I own so they get used up or can be repurposed is something I am currently striving for, to avoid throwing any more of my money down the drain.  I shop for deals on high-quality products that are also sustainable.  And while I still don’t have much time (or motivation) to clean and straighten my house, I’ve come to appreciate owning less, which makes it easier to keep things tidy and organized without the hassle, with more time to devote to my faith, family, friends, and goals.

 

My life is by no means any less busy than it used to be, but I’ve learned how to do fewer tasks with better and longer-lasting results, all because I find joy in being “empty!”

When Stars Grow Dim (Part 2)

 

“It’s difficult to put into words how much I feel like I’ve already lost dad when he’s still here. So much of who he was has been replaced by a new reality that keeps changing, making the spark that once defined who he was seem only a flicker now. I know it’s also not easy to go through changes in one’s body and not have control over what happens next. All the things we take for granted can be taken away just like that, no preparation, no consolation, either. In the end, we are only left,  sometimes cruelly, with memories of what life once was, and no way to go back. Change is the only thing to look forward to, if only to improve our outlook through difficult days. Things get worse before they get better. Ultimately, people leave voids in our lives, and only time makes it easier to bear their loss. That is the only consolation we can ever hope to have as our ”better.” 

Walking in the the dark makes us appreciate the dawning of a new day

In dad’s final weeks, I didn’t know they were his last days - yet, there was that possibility. All year, I grieved him in different ways, and I stumbled upon the phrase “anticipatory grief” which fully explained what I couldn’t put into words until I wrote the above statement in January of 2020.  Diagnosed in 2018 with advanced diabetes type 2, and then cirrhosis caused by chronic hepatitis B, along with neuropathy and retinopathy, doctors still assured us dad was only minimally affected and could live for many more years, yet I wasn’t convinced.  I went through a cycle of doubt, then hope, then guilt at thinking the worst, and back to concern.  Then, it was when dad was finally hospitalized as his body started shutting down in November 2020 that I knew we were at a crossroads. Was this the beginning of a new setback season or was this the end? At first, I wasn’t ready to let dad go, and I told God that. But I also didn’t want to see him continually suffer because the doctors were trying to find any medical cure they could to explain his symptoms because at the time they didn’t know he was in end stage of organ failure from the neuropathy. I’m grateful that they were optimistic for his recovery, because dad kept fighting. That gave us time to be with him, at least in the beginning. Knowing that I’m somewhat repeating myself in my previous blog, but while that was a summary of what we went through, it gave me the push I needed to continue talking about our journey.

I have so many thoughts about what it was like to live through the pandemic year. And with all local restrictions in place in our city to keep patients and visitors and staff from outside germs, so spouses weren’t allowed overnight stays, and only one visitor per entire day was allowed. For over a week, mom went daily to be with him. The hospital wanted to make him stronger for transfer to a rehab facility, and when they called mom one morning, they let her know no visitors would be allowed the following day. She wasn’t feeling well, so she sent me instead. And I spend a whole afternoon with dad. It was truly a gift! 

After that, we could only talk via text, phone, or video chats. And then he coded and died for 6 minutes before they revived him and remained in a coma for a week, during which time they said he was slightly responsive and critical but stable. Which meant we still couldn’t visit him (unless they felt he wouldn’t make it). During that agonizing time, I had to give dad up to God, as much as I wasn’t ready to let dad go. He tested positive for COVID 19, was asymptomatic, but got put in isolation and given plasma and medication for treatment. When he had finished his quarantine and was still so weak, that’s when the hospital let us see him so we could meet with the palliative care team and start thinking about ending life support on a gradual basis. Only...dad woke up and was alert in response to our presence! It gave all of us some hope and kept us waiting on how much more he’d improve and if rehab would be the next step. He wanted us to visit again, but because he was doing so well compared to just days earlier, he was back to no visitors again.  In some ways, that part of his hospital stay was even more agonizing because he was in and out of sanity, wanting to talk to us whenever possible, but not always fully grasping where he was and had lots of hallucinations. And because hospital staff was stretched so thin, they weren’t always willing to help him call us, even though mom spent literally every minute of every night with the phone beside her, waiting on when he’d call. During that time, she started waking up in the middle of the night hearing him call out to her, and we know for sure he was in fact at least for some of that time awake and asking the nurses to dial mom but they would say to wait until morning.  But that entire last week of his life, she would wake up at 3 a.m. hearing him, except on the day he died. The only good in any of that week at all was that the nurses did let us schedule video chats in the evenings so that we talked to him at dinner time, including the night before his death. He had so many ups and downs, and doctors couldn’t decide if he would turn the corner and get strong enough to be transferred to a rehab facility, but finally in the last few days of his life, they said all they could do was keep him comfortable and they said that if he coded again it would be even more damaging on his body, so we let them take him out of ICU into a general room.  We still couldn’t see him because they wanted to see first if his kidneys would improve with dialysis.  He couldn’t really talk at that point, only nod and look at us from his phone screen.  He tried to speak, but because of being intubated twice and extubated twice, and unable to eat because of the risk of aspiration, he was weak and kept wanting to go back to sleep. 

That last conversation we had with him left me restless all night, so that first thing in the morning just as soon as I went to work, I called to set up my next chat only to find out he was barely hanging on and that we could go see him. They didn’t say “come now,” but they were allowing us to arrive when we could, saying he could go within the next day or so. But when we got there a few hours later, the hospital check-in nurses downstairs were grilling us with questions and asking me to put the doctor on the phone to confirm we were allowed to visit, when at that exact moment the doctor was calling me to say dad was coding and to hurry up, he only had a few minutes left.  We got ushered through and ran to the elevator to await the doctor who would escort mom, my daughter, and I to his room, and it was just the worst thing ever not knowing what to expect in those final minutes, and when we got to the door of the room, dad had already passed.  On my husband’s birthday, of all days.

Nothing could have prepared me for how haunting it was to stand there, looking at dad but never able to have him respond to us again.  To witness mom throw herself onto his chest, sobbing in agony.  To see my daughter kiss him on the forehead. And all I could do was briefly touch his arm, fumbling with saying “Oh Daddy, we love you” because I didn’t know what else to do I was so numb by everything.  Then I had to quickly make calls and send texts, including one to my husband who was outside parking the car, and my aunt and her husband who had been making their way to the hospital already.

Because of the pandemic, there was nowhere we could sit to privately grieve, so there we were outside dad’s room in chairs the doctor and chaplain brought to us for what seemed like hours when in reality it was maybe 45 minutes, during which time everyone took turns going to stand at his bedside, but I couldn’t bring myself to until finally mom insisted.  

The remainder of the day was spent making calls to everyone as we gathered at my parents’ house, and I realized it was only mom’s house now, and an emptiness pervaded my entire being that stayed with me for a long time. And my mind kept going back to what dad looked like, over and over.  I wanted to so much to be with all of our family and friends, but hardly anyone was able to be with us. Even when we planned out the funeral the next day, and chose to hold it where up to 50 people could attend over a week later, a total of 15 people showed up that date some staying, and some only there to pay their respects.  Had things been “normal” I know dad would have had a full room, and my heart ached at the injustice of it all.  How it felt like dad had been short-changed throughout his hospital stay and death, and beyond. But, oh, did we send him off well!  Dressed him in his best suit with his world’s best grandpa shirt hidden underneath and a beautiful casket with flowers he would have appreciated.  Played songs I know he would have wanted me to share. Conveyed stories of him that he would have wanted others to know.  His death shocked so many, including my mom, but for me, there was a certain peace and calmness that came over me the day of the funeral that helped me make it then and in the days since.  I wasn’t bitter about it, I didn’t blame anyone, and there was nothing but to appreciate the years I enjoyed with dad.  

What I didn’t expect after losing dad was to have an aversion to watching or seeing any images or video of hospitals, elevators, and music that he liked.  And because I look so much like dad, I even have had an aversion to seeing my own face in the mirror, and haven’t wanted to really be in any photos in months, because when I do, all I see is dad struggling to breathe in our last video chat, and dad on his death bed. It was music that first broke through my grief, though, and eventually I could use elevators again without feeling nauseated.  I’m still working through being able to not get triggered by medical settings and of not avoiding my reflection and mannerisms I have in common with dad.  I’ve had a few doctor appointments since, which were scary to go to at first, but I can’t yet watch forensic or crime shows or jump at the chance at visiting people in the hospital like I used to.  My zest for life came back within a month after dad died, and it wasn’t all that bad to visit his grave the few times I have so far.  But now that his headstone is just about ready for us to see, I have the comfort I have been seeking. I take joy in the glimpses of dad I catch in me, in my daughter, and my dad’s family. I even finally dreamed of dad this week, which I totally don’t think was a coincidence. He was a teen, receiving a hug from his baby sister, and in my dream, I was there, like a bystander, as if watching it play as a memory of his.  And maybe that’s what it was, as another gift to me that he’s ok, and as he remains at rest from this life, he is in his most carefree state, back to when he had first known mom and was surrounded by his family.  
The only other time I started to dream of dad was months ago, and just as he had started to enter a room and looked at me, he backed away and left and I woke up before I could fully see his face. I knew then that I wasn’t ready to experience his presence.  Maybe it is crazy of me to think that way, but I’m not prone to dreaming about people I miss, but I AM known for dreaming specific things with a point or things that turn out prophetic and I’ve had premonitions and waking visions before.  I don’t choose them - they choose me.  It’s why I never have dreamed of my grandparents or friends except my grandma Daphne the time I was about to go through a health struggle, and was given a day vision in which I was at a friend’s beside seeing her with her family when I needed closure after struggling with her death months after the fact.  So to have these dreams and visions is a gift I’d been waiting for.  My daughter had two dreams, both that held so much meaning and closure for right when she needed them - right when she was missing him, and then after we unexpectedly lost our cat.  Mom had a dream of dad too, but it was a bittersweet experience for her. I did have what seemed to be a day vision of dad…right before he died, as if he was searching the room - but I don’t know if he was looking for us, was seeing visions himself, or was finally telling God, “You win.” If anything, that vision was as haunting as my triggers.  But now that I’ve finally had my “gift,” I’ve had inexplicable joy, and I just know it was both a God and dad thing, because all last week I was miserable in thinking about how for the first time in my life my birth month was going to be void of any happiness for me. I’m happy to say I can claim that happiness back and be excited!  I know every experience from now on will be different, but I know that I won’t ever be alone, no matter where I go or who I’m with or not with. And that’s a beautiful thing! The stars aren’t as dim, and on this Mother’s Day I pray for all who are celebrating with their families or reliving memories of happier times.

In faith and love,

Natasha

When Stars Grow Dim (Part 1)

There are a lot of things I can say about 2020, but I never knew how much it would cost my family. Not only did the pandemic prevent us from seeing one another as much, but it also kept us from doing activities we had been looking forward to. Then there was my dad’s health, which usually necessitated doctor visits on a more regular basis, but suddenly he wasn’t deemed crucial so his appointments were postponed. Tragically, he spent the entire year on a sharp decline until finally we had to take him for a check up only to find he needed to be admitted in the hospital. Hours turned into days, and within that short space of time, he was faced with the last few weeks of his life without the doctors even realizing that that was the problem until it was too late. With the pandemic worsening, we lost the ability to visit him in person after his first week in the hospital. Then, his kidneys were shutting down and he tested positive for asymptomatic COVID-19, and then coded. When he was revived, he was in isolation in and out of a coma, and we still weren’t allowed to visit because doctors had high hopes that by dialysis his kidneys would improve and he could get strong enough to move to rehab. This thought changed daily, because then we were asked to come see him with the intention of taking him off life support, only to have him come to and be more like himself when we were there.

For the next two weeks, we were filled with hopes that he would slowly improve...but then he had another bad moment where he couldn’t breathe on his own again, and was weaker by the hour. At least at that point we could video chat with him, and he was out of his quarantine period, but it wasn’t the same. He wanted to come home, was confused, and asked about us when he could talk. And just when we had started getting into a video chat schedule and I had called to set up my next one, that’s when I was told we should come to the hospital. Only, when we did, we got held up my a million questions at the check in until the doctor called me and we had to put him on speaker phone to urge the check in nurses to let us meet him at the elevator. We made a mad dash through the halls, out of the elevator, and into Dad’s room...only to find he had just passed. There were a myriad of regrets, what-ifs, and heartaches on that day. It was also my husband’s birthday, one that none of us knew what to do about. In all, it was a sad set of circumstances that led us into a miserable few months of grief, shock, and confusion that only intensified when we suddenly had to put our cat to sleep in the bargain.  And now, recently, things have gotten better.

While I'm behind in getting my bearings again with writing goals, I have nevertheless persisted! And in between my day job, I’ve steadily made progress toward what I know Dad would want me to do next: finish my new book! And so I shall.

Until the next blog,

Natasha

Crossing the Racial Divide

What is it about non-whiteness that gets the most attention? Is it standing out against a vanilla sea? Doing things others aren’t comfortable doing or don’t understand because they can’t relate to? 

NO ONE likes a bully. And yet...

Every day, people get judged for what they look like - not just by their skin color, but also by what they wear.

In every classroom, is at least one person who doesn’t feel like he or she fits in with the rest.

All across the world, organizations may employ workers from all racial backgrounds, and still never really know much if anything about what life is like for their cultures, nor do they necessarily ask.

Assumptions run rampant, as do moods. People are quick to feel threatened or afraid. We come to expect certain things out of people - individuals or groups - sometimes without even realizing it altogether. Such stereotyping can be deadly because it minimizes a person’s individual worth and lumps them in with what we associate with bad outcomes. It’s not a new problem by any means - people from the Bible itself were quick to shun outsiders, and saw nothing wrong with employing them or even lower classes of their own people as servants. 

I’m a minority WITHIN a minority, and if that sounds confusing, welcome to my world. I’m not fully Southeast Asian Indian, but I check it off on all those annoying forms I constantly have to fill out at doctor’s offices and for my child’s schools anyway, along with White (even though I don’t look it) because otherwise I’d be checking almost every box.

And quite honestly, I detest those forms because they automatically discount the amazing blend of cultures I have within me. In some ways, it’s made it worse for my daughter, because at least both of my parents have similar ethnic ancestry between them, whereas my girl has only a fraction of those traits, what with my having married into “the average white family.” On the surface, she looks white to me, but feels far from that herself, and actually the older she gets, the more she is asked if she is partly Southeast Asian or some other non-white race, and she is torn with what to identity with.

The thing is, when I look at my beautiful daughter, I see the best parts of her dad and I, along with traits from other relatives down the line, all melded together. But anything “White” is assumed by outsiders to be from her dad. For example, her thick, dark hair with reddish highlights can be attributed not just to being a mix of my Indian hair to match my husband’s Scottish ancestors, but my own Scottish ancestors, along with help from my German, Italian, and even Portuguese roots, too!

I really wish our ancestors of each ethnicity had passed down their culture and not just their physical features, so I could understand the people they come from. Only a few of them passed down their stories, some even with photos, but so many questions yet remain. To clear up some of those mysteries and find clues on where to find records of my ancestors’ existence so I can keep working on my family tree, I took one of those DNA analysis tests and discovered so much more than I would have ever imagined I would. Just listen to these statistics:

According to 23andMe, 56% of my relatives are likely to have red hair (further proving the fact about my daughter’s locks!).

Also, 99% of my relatives are likely to have British or Irish ancestry. 99%!

64.6% of me is classified as Central and South Asian, broken down further into 1-20% from various parts of India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka.

28% of me is European. No surprise, of course, considering my maiden name is German, after all. What WAS surprising was how little German I actually have - only 0.7% mixed in with French. Overall, my British and Irish ties are the majority of my European ancestry, followed by Northwestern European, and to a lesser extent, some Southern and Eastern European.

Some final twists - I have 3.5% East Asian and Native American, including Chinese, plus 1.1% West Asian and North African, with yet 2.8% left to identify, but that last number shrinks a little every time my results get updated. So, you could say, I am linked to pretty much all nations in one way or another! 

I mention all this to make another valid point. All my DNA is loosely split 50/50 between my parents, with some variance depending on whose side had more of certain ethnicities than the other. But right off the bat, my 64% Asian is really only 20-30% in my parents, and only 20-10% in my grandparents, until we get to the generation where the Indian married the Anglican, and had children. This plays out in different areas of my tree, some of which are still not fully known. What I do know is, all four of my grandparents and their parents were light-skinned, and I have some cousins who are pale enough to look white to an average observer. But, then, how can I justify calling myself “East Indian” or “Indian,” or “Asian,” even “White?” Yet that is what people expect me to do.

When you live in the same country or region for all or a good part of your life, as I have, you identify with it as a national, with habits and behaviors to match the locals. Eventually, you lose sight of where you come from, until you identify it solely in terms of color. And just as White can mean more than one nationality, so can Asian, Black, and Hispanic. Thus, you begin to lose a part of who you are for the sake of fitting in somewhere, unless your family has passed down specific culture practices and mindsets down to you to live out. What I’ve come to realize in recent years, and definitely from reading the book White Awake, is that I’ve been primarily raised White - White American, to be exact. And it’s ironic how that happened, too, considering my parents were both immigrants from India who definitely didn’t fully adapt in that exact same way. They still posses traces of British English, both from their land of birth and from the years we spent living in New England. I usually tend to forget I’m a minority, especially in a room with Caucasians, until someone reminds me. Until recent years, I thought that was a good thing, because it just meant I was finally comfortable with who I was.

I have found that picking up habits from other cultures is not particularly hard to do or learn, if you really want to - I did it twice in going with my parents to India as a child and as a teen. I had embraced what my parents and their families refer to as their Anglo-Indian culture, and had to work hard to become “American” again each time that we returned. And to me, that meant being White, not Anglo-Indian. Also switching our location from East Coast to Midwest changed me further over the years, so that now, most people never would guess I was ever born in Boston. Plus, I’ve also been exposed to a whole gamut of nationalities and other cultures I didn’t initially grow up around, which today has constantly shaped and reshaped my awareness and appreciation for them. The common denominator for such assimilation is my relationships with people outside of my culture (White, Indian, and Anglo-Indian) which is why I’m not uncomfortable around any of them now, and I continue to take strides to that end so I don’t let myself hold back in fear or ignorance just because people are different. As a minority, I know what it feels like to be singled out, told to be with "my own kind" (whatever THAT was?!), and having to endure being talked to in languages I don't even speak because it was assumed I would know what was being said, and I don’t want to do that to anyone else.

That’s why I appreciate that White Awake deals with the topic of diversity with such honesty and sensitivity needed that everyone ought to read and put into practice if they want to truly make a positive impact in this world. Going to church helps. Being part of a diverse work culture is important. Having neighbors and school contacts from all walks of life is the essence of community. 

If we don’t know the people around us, how well can we ever truly serve them in their time of need?

Join the discussion for White Awake by Daniel Hill!

Tackling a Controversial Topic in the Church: A.D. Britten’s A Soul Unbroken, the Interview

A.D. Britten is a gay Christian author whose writings are aimed at establishing awareness of the LGBT+ community for acceptance among the church. For many who are raised with traditional views, homosexuality is taboo to discuss and considered inherently bad. What’s worse is that countless people of the church who come out to their loved ones as gay in hopes of finding unconditional love, often are ostracized by them and as well as within their place of worship, so they have no choice but to leave the church entirely.

N: What was the inspiration behind your book (A Soul Unbroken)?

AB: This story had an unusual beginning. The story takes place in central Indiana which is where I am from.  Awhile back, there were some demographic changes going on at the time and some people voiced concerns that some things that were outside of local culture were going on such as male prostitution.  Around this same time, there was a news story about a local guy who did engage in that profession.  I just thought it was ironic that some people were saying that new was coming into the community, when that thing was actually already there.  Besides, that the book was also a way to deal with issues. 

N: Which character do you identify with personally? If not, have you ever known someone like any of the characters you portrayed?

AB: I identify with the main character mostly, although I have not been in the profession that he spends a good deal of this young adult life in, but certain aspects of his life I can identify with in certain ways. 

N: When did you first become a Christian?

AB: I became a Christian in two stages. The first was when I attending a small Christian school when I was a kid. I initially accepted Christ then when I was 7. But I did not have a strong concept of what it meant to be a Christian. So when we eventually stopped going to that school and started going to public school I stopped praying, because I thought prayer was like homework and only mattered when going to a religious school.  I know that sounds silly, but there it is.

The second time was when I was in college, and I went to a church and accepted Christ and really had a better understanding of what it meant to be a Christian.

N: Do you consider yourself more of an optimist or pessimist?

AB: I am an optimist.  I think I’d have to be to write what I do.

N: When do you find the time to write?

AB: That can be difficult, but I tend to find time usually on the weekend.

N: What’s something you like about going to church?

AB: I enjoy the sermons, the music, and meeting with friends. I'm not really an extroverted person. So church has been a place to easily make friends and find activities to get involved in.

N: Favorite city?

AB: London

N: If you had three wishes, what would they be?

AB: The same old wish for world peace, but also, a life partner and inner peace.

N: Who inspires you the most (in real-life or a fictional character)?

AB: That’s a tough question; I’d have to get back with you on that one.

N: Where do you see yourself in the next ten years?

AB: Living abroad, married, writing a lot more, and fulfilling my life goals.

N: What was your favorite book as a kid?

AB: I really don’t remember.

N: Name some hobbies you enjoy.

AB: Music, reading, watching movies.

N: What are you working on next?

AB: I recently completed a short story and posted it online on Booksie. The next writing project would be probably be another short story, but I’m not certain which idea to work on first.

N: Do you have a favorite quote or saying?

AB: Take care of yourself.

A.D. Britten is an author of various short stories, poems, and articles, among other writings.  A Soul Unbroken: A Journey the author's second book. 

Find more about A.D. Britten at:

https://tinyurl.com/adbritten