Heather Riggleman

Living Bold Truths through Raw Faith.

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When you’re a hot mess and need just a little help

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If you’ve been following me on Facebook, you know why I’ve been a bit absent on my blog. In the last two years, I changed careers, moved to a new home, learned to do life with a globe-trotting husband and fought through another round of depression. As if that isn’t enough, we had a big scare earlier this year. We were camping when I found myself driving 120 MPH to the emergency room in Ord, Nebraska. We thought my husband was having a heart attack. Three different hospitals later we found out he has Wolfe Parkinson’s White Syndrome. And we are currently waiting to find out when his heart surgery will be scheduled in December which means I can lay my Danica Patrick skills to rest. 

In the midst of all of the stress, I landed in the hospital with a brain infection. I found out my body is attacking itself and we’re going through autoimmune tests. YAY ME. My adrenal glands are not happy campers at the moment. 

You guys 2018 has NOT been my year. Because of the stress, I found myself spiraling into around season of depression on top of insomnia. Something needed to change. The main priority was sleep in order not to walk through life like a drunk skating down a sidewalk.

I was talking to my friend Jenny about the lack of sleep because God knows a woman with mental health issues (health issues in general) needs sleep. She became the SLEEP WHISPERER when she suggested Fit Formula Wellness – FitFormula’s Blueberry-Flavored Sleep Formula.

You guys, it’s been a game changer! Fit Formula Wellness is just…it’s awesome!  I’ve consistently gotten eight to nine hours of good deep sleep. It’s made with Melatonin and GABA (GAMMA-AMINOBUTYRIC ACID) – something my brain doesn’t produce. Hence insomnia, depression, etc. Gaba is an amino acid produced naturally in the brain which functions as a neurotransmitter, facilitating communication among brain cells. GABA’s big role in the body is to reduce the activity of neurons in the brain and central nervous system, which in turn has a broad range of effects on the body and mind, including increased relaxation, reduced stress, a more calm, and most importantly a boost to sleep.

Because of this lovely little gem, I’ve reduced my sleep medications by half and my doctor encourages that I continue to use it. YAY me, less medications with side effects. It has been a godsend. And the best part, my can give it to my kids and husband too. The best part: this little powerhouse can be dissolved in your favorite drink or in my kids case right on the tongue. Our evening routine consists of a round of “Cheers.” We grab a packet, open our mouths wide and dump it on our tongues because the blueberry flavor is their favorite.

As for me, I usually dissolve mine in a cup of tea. And the BOOM – the magic happens—a good night’s rest to tackle the day.

So after drinking the kool-aid, I am officially an influencer for them because I LOVE it, my family loves it and we are all much healthier because of my new obsession. Because I post all over social media, I had the opportunity to try their Calcium + Vitamin D supplement. Once again, another powerhouse. It has 1,000 IU of Vitamin D and 1,000 mg of Calcium. Both play a vital role in your health but also for your mental health. The best part, it dissolves in my coffee, breakfast shakes or I can toss it into my mashed potatoes. Either way, I’m getting the vitamins my body NEEDS.

 

So here’s the deal because I love it so much, FitForumla is giving my readers a deep discount! A coupon for 50 percent off ANY full-priced item. It cannot be combined with other coupons or offers.

Visit their site and use the coupon code: riggs 

Check out their supplements: FitFormula’s Classic Calcium + Vitamin D
FitFormula’s Blueberry-Flavored Calcium + Vitamin D
FitFormula’s Blueberry-Flavored Sleep Formula

But seriously try the Fitforumla’s Blueberry-Flavored Sleep Formula and tell me what you think!!!

936 Pennies…Years of missing socks, running out of time and a journey well spent

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It hit my heart like a hammer the day I previewed Cheyenne’s senior pictures, knowing full well she would start college sooner than later. Somewhere between missing socks, homework, and sports, my baby grew up.

Before I ever read Eryn Lynum’s new book 936 Pennies- Discovering the Joy of Intentional Parenting,  I was already out of time. My jar for my oldest sits empty and I wonder if I invested well into the time I had with her.

Eryn writes, “There are 936 weeks between your child’s birth and age 18. How are you spending them?”  Her pastor had given her a jar full of shiny pennies, 936 to be exact. This prodded her to write a blog post that went viral which gave way to the concept of the time we have with our babies. I was one such mama who read that post, since then I’ve been counting down the weeks that I have with my kids, especially my oldest. 

The day she turned 18, I marveled at the woman she is becoming and yet I look at her face and still see the baby girl who made me a mama. As I looked at her, memories of her curly hair, chubby cheeks and recognizing this child had an old soul, full of wisdom and a different outlook on life. 

 

I look at the jars representing the time I have with all three of my kids and question if I’ve invested my time well.

I’m out of time with my oldest but we are beginning a new journey with her; it’s opened my eyes how little time we really do have with our babies. Cheyenne’s birthday and Eryn’s book reminds me that I have a chance to invest in my younger two–to spend the pennies and make them count.  

The words woven into the pages of her book soothed the ache of my nest becoming a bit more empty. I remember all the fun moments, the exciting moments and memories that make me smile. I love that Eyrn gets that. “Time doesn’t fly when you’re having fun—rather it slows, widens, breathes and imprints itself on your history.”

I didn’t think her book would apply to me—afterall I have a child attending college and I have two pre-teens at home but her book most certainly does. It pushed me to re-prioritize my schedule. It whispered to my heart to hug my kids a little deeper and to embrace the everyday moments.

Amplifying Time

No matter what stage you are in parenting, we can stretch those moments into memories. We can be mindful of the memories we’re making. We can celebrate how we are helping them become God-honoring adults.

And with my realization and thoughts on parenting, I’ll leave you with Eryn’s wise words, “Parents face this overwhelming pressure to make every moment matter, to cherish every second of the journey. But, I don’t believe that this idea correctly portrays our calling. I don’t think our job is to make every moment memorable. Rather, I believe that our job is to open our eyes wide and sink our feet deep down into those moments when we spot them.

 

Comment below if you’d like to win a copy of Lynum’s new book 936 Pennies-Discovering the Joy of Intentional Parenting!

One winner will be chosen on February 16, 2018. US residents only, please.

Staying bitter or moving forward is a choice

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The journey back toward a stronger faith comes in flashes of moments and pain. Lately, its been on an arrow slicing through the air.

For me, the past reveals the wreckage of a war-torn heart from broken promises, dreams and who I’d thought I’d be and what reality is now.

In order to find a healthier self, it’s best to scrape up the good found in the wreckage and keep moving forward. At least that’s what I tried to do until a friend pointed out the wreckage as we dug through her garage looking for a red metal candlestick she swore was in there.

She pointed out the wreckage that I didn’t want to see for fear I’d trip over the bitterness.

“You can keep looking back and let the anger of what they said or acted or did fill you with bitterness, or you can walk forward. It’s a choice. And believe me, I’ve been the latter and have seen how it’s blinded lives,” she said straining to move a huge tote.

My thoughts mirrored hers. It’s best to face the day, eyes forward, not looking back.

Part of not looking back took us on a road trip to Idaho Springs, Colo. Here, I was able to forget work and home and the wounds. Here I was able to undress the bandages and let the wounds breathe as I inhaled deep the mountain air.

I could focus on the moment and look forward to what was ahead. This included a quaint jewelry shop Chris assured me was just a gimmick tourist shop, but in we went. We looked at the trinkets, river rock and fool’s gold. Bracelets and necklaces made of silver were framed under glass until one piece of silver caught my eye.

The store owner saw it, too.

“You’re ready to leave the past and face forward, I know it,” he said.

He measured my thumb before sliding on the silver ring. It wrapped around, its tip pointing one direction, the engraved feathers pointing the opposite.

Then he said something that made my heart freeze.

“Arrows are shot from the past. They’re pulled from they past, and then they launch moving forward with agility and precision into the future. There’s no looking back,” he said as he gently held my hand and looked me in the eye.

Startled, I wondered if he could see my secrets, my regrets and hurts. I whispered some sort of thank you as my husband paid for the ring and ushered us out of this little shop on the corner of a street in Idaho Springs.

The shop owner’s words stayed with me and rolled around in my head that night. How could he say something that hit the inner recesses of my heart? Call it a sales ploy, but it worked for me.

The ring still circles on my finger, and so far I fiddle with it when I’m writing or scribbling new ideas for HT Living or when I get nervous, or most often, when I’m left out. I find my fingers turning the ring in circles.

Strangely enough, it reminds me to keep going forward.

“No looking back” it says. I think each arrow of mine needs to make its mark.

One recent evening as the sun set, I took my compound bow to the archery range where my family and I were taking turns with our bows. Of the dozens of neon pink and green arrows in my quiver, many missed the mark because of tremblings hands from trembling thoughts.

My husband came up behind because he knows about the swirling storm of thoughts in my head and whispered, “Breathe in, out and let go.”

Finally, with one breath out, my pink arrow sliced through the air and made its mark at dead center 50 yards away. Over and over I made the same shot until the stars came out.

It taught me this: When I pull the arrow back, it reminds me of challenges, negative feelings and life that drags me back. But once I release an arrow, it launches itself straight ahead toward something new, a better version of whatever that may be.

Miscarriage Moments – What Might Have Been

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Just like becoming a widow or countless other heartaches, infertility or having a miscarriage grants a person instant admission into a secret club. It is a club, of course, that no one wants to join, and it’s one with a lifetime membership.

Every year, April 10 looms on the calendar, and I try to avoid it. It would have been Alex’s 6th birthday and like clockwork, my cousin-in-law sends me something every year on that day. She’s willing to go there with me and reminiscence about what might have been because we both were expected to have babies on that day.

I found out about Alex one hot July evening, but something was different about this pregnancy. I knew it.

I felt different — life felt different. The moment the stick showed positive, it felt like the clock was ticking and I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was scared — too scared to really be happy about anything.

Finally, the impact happened, sucking the breath right out of me. Loud and forceful, it reeled my thoughts from “Is it possible to hope too much?” And then — “I caused this.” Before I could even grasp the situation, I was taken to the hospital for an emergency D and C. 

Memories of past and present swirl together as I watch Tori Grace play. 

As my youngest entertains herself with a restlessness that only a 9-year-old can when her mama is distant, I think about what might have been in our crazy, messy home, fully overrun with all things of motherhood attending to life with three girls and one boy. 

I think back to the moment when I was 15 and my doctor diagnosed me with PCOS, a titled uterus, and endometriosis. My reproductive organs were a train wreck. I would “Likely never have kids on your own,” my doctor said. 

But then two years later after being put on meds for my cycles and cysts, I found myself staring at two positive pink lines. Eight years later, we found out we were pregnant with our son. Four months after his birth, we knew our family wasn’t complete. That meant cycle after cycle of fertility treatments. Months passed before we got pregnant. Even then, the HCG numbers ominous and foreboding. Then they couldn’t find her heartbeat and told me to prepare for a miscarriage. But then a week later, much to my doctor’s surprise, I was still pregnant; she looked for a heartbeat again and there Tori Grace in her thunderous heart-beating glory. 

I snap back to the present and watch Tori Grace wreck the fort she built as she took over the living room. I wonder if Alex would be playing with her or annoying big sis.  I wonder if Alex would have been chubby-cheeked and stubborn like both her sisters. I wonder if my feet would still be bare and dishes still in the sink. And I wonder if any other mother has moments like this.

Is it still OK to have moments of grief over a miscarriage? Can a person compare a four-week miscarriage to one at 20 weeks? Is it OK to feel as if someone is missing?

My mind fills with all my friends who’ve lost babies, those who were born asleep, those who never met their child, and those who had precious few moments outside the womb. 

[Tweet “But then I think, no one is stronger than a mother who lost a child and is able to exhale, no one is stronger than a mother who carries that grief in her heart and is still standing.”]

The next moment, my phone chirps, and I’m tempted to tell a friend, “Today, Alex would have been 6.” But I don’t. I’m not sure if she would get it — if anyone would get it. And even then, do I want to bother her with this heavy thought? And then I look back over the years, six years and not one pregnancy, not even a hint of faint lines when I think maybe this time… 

I sip my coffee and sift through memories of when my cousin drove three hours one day to tell me a secret. She wanted to tell me first before anyone else found out. Despite having an ectopic pregnancy that nearly killed her, she looked at me and whispered words that pierced my heart. She was pregnant again. She and I, we were pregnant at the same time for three of our pregnancies. We had memories of comparing our bellies, betting whether we would have boys or girls. But this time, she was expecting and I wasn’t.  I sat in her suburban and cried. I cried tears of joy for her mixed with bitterness for me. I cried for what might have been for me. 

Then I remember going through a friend’s recent miscarriage. We laughed and cried over the gourmet pizza and other reinforcements I brought to her as soon I heard the news.

I told it her it was OK. She didn’t need to be strong. We ignored the hopeful words of the doctor, “Don’t worry, you can get pregnant again soon.” Instead, we stayed in her moment, grieving this pregnancy, this could-have-been.

So I question you with this: Could you be that friend? The one who grieves right along with me, the one who doesn’t say, “You should be thankful for the kids you have. It’s God’s way saying you have enough.”

Could you be that friend who brings a meal, sends a card of encouragement several months later or sends flowers on the baby’s would-have-been birthday? Could you be the friend who understands a miscarriage is a forever loss?

Forever into the future, little moments such as Alex’s would-have-been birthday will remind me what might have been and maybe, just maybe, you could be that friend who hugs us on days like today and says, “What might have been …”

She had the audacity to tell me I have it all together…if she only knew

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I wrestle my hair into the straightener cussing after the hot iron brands my neck like a middle-schooler slinking into gym class with a hickey on her neck. I decide it’s too tender to put makeup on it and rush to get dressed, tripping over my own feet because apparently I still haven’t learned one should really put her pants on one leg at a time. 

I run downstairs to usher my kids out the door with less than 20 minutes to get them to school and myself to work, not to mention my morning coffee run. MUST. HAVE. COFFEE. Otherwise I stumble around like a drunk on an ice skating rink for the morning. 

I get to the office just in time to greet my co-workers and boss. Before I know it, I’m checking emails before one makes me catch my breath. It’s long and loud, painful and humbling. 

“You seem to always have it together.” I get this a lot.  That’s like saying I’m Miss Universe with perfect teeth tackling world peace. My instinct is to tell them “thank you,” and back away slowly as if they were a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. 

I want to invite them into my crazy morning which includes missing keys, melt downs, and snarky attitudes with yesterday’s school issue on my mind. Tori decided to tell her classroom how babies are made. I sigh, wondering where the heck I screwed up on that issue. 

I think it’s time to set the record straight like a public declaration of a crazy man on the corner with a sign saying the world is coming to an end. I want to say something because it’s been several months of riding a roller coaster. Marriage, career, new home, leadership responsibilities and writing. 

I DON’T HAVE IT TOGETHER. I’ve battled rejection, anxiety and a mood disorder most of my adult life. 

I have checks and balances that keeps me hanging onto my sanity. I take medication to keep my mood stablized because otherwise every emotion or stresser feels more intense like Armageddon. I have to make sure I get least 9 hours of sleep every night. I have to be careful about eating too much gluten, sugar and dairy. I have to make sure I exercise daily in order to increase serotonin levels otherwise my anxiety and depression start beating down my door like unwanted door knockers selling a new religion, plants, cookies, or vacuums.  I have to make sure I get quiet time to decompress from the day’s events otherwise I’m a bird running into walls, anxiously trying to find a way out as I battle three of the biggest enemies of my life. 

Guilt 

Perfectionism 

Fear

On days like this, they rumble in my head battering my soul as I smile and converse with whomever it may be.

Guilt screams, “You’re never gonna get it together.”

Perfectionism snarls, “If you kept a better list, you could be that person; better yet, change everything, your calories, your clothes, your entire to do list,

Fear insists on being the loudest, “Look at all the bridges you’ve burned, you’re out of chances. They’re going to find out who you really are.” 

When life gets this way, I try to silence the voices by organizing every room in the house. Towels folded perfectly, kids rooms clean, the counters bleached. Or I take the edge off with a big heaping glass of wine paired with cubes of cheese and french bread. Neither works and later I feel guiltier for not sticking to my diet plan. 

Eventually I fall apart and I wave the white flag as I let Jesus pick up the pieces.

He whispers, “Chase me, I’m your perfect.”

Suddenly the ache between my shoulders fades. I then text my closest friends who know just how irrational I can be. I go for a run before bed. As a drift off to sleep I remember what He said.

“Chase me. Love me. Look to me. Keep your eyes on me.” He says this because he is the only constant in my life. The only one who can make all things right. And think I think of that email which has echoed say many women’s comments over the years. Women who come up to me after I speak with tears in their eyes, acquaintances who don’t know the real me and complete strangers who read my columns and follow me on social media. “You have it all together.” 

But here’s the thing, NONE OF US DO. No one, not one person. Nada, Zip, Zilch. 

Perhaps the best thing we can do for each other is not judge a person by what seems to be.  Can we declare not to compare? Can we hold each other up without judgement? Let’s declare our sisterhood and fiercely defend our village from the comparison game and the enemies: guilt, perfection, and fear.