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photo courtesy of Kira Baron Photography

One morning, in my 32nd year of life, I woke up.

Then I woke up.

I sat up in bed just like any other day, but for the first time in my life my eyes were open.

I saw everything.

My gut hung over my waistband, resting heavily on my legs, shrinking my lap by a good four inches. When I slumped forward over my stomach and threw my head back, sighing in overwhelm, I could feel the unshowered rolls of my back squash together, sticky with sweat, bloated from the food and drink binge I’d had the night before.

I had three kids under the age of four, and I felt disconnected from all of them. One of them was already crying for breakfast, the other two were fighting in the other room, shouting from their beds. I loved them dearly, but even more often I felt resentful. They were always there. They were always needing me, never giving me even thirty seconds of peace and quiet. I hadn’t peed alone in four years. Every meal I’d had in the past three years consisted of cold kid scraps eaten over the sink, and I hadn’t showered in a week.

Next to me, obliviously sleeping despite the noise, lay a man I hadn’t felt connected to since the cheating started eight years before. We hadn’t had a date night in five years, a meaningful conversation without arguing in two, or sex in one. His porn and gambling addictions and work-is-top-priority created an ocean wide canyon between us, and I was sure there was no bridging that gap. We were roommates, at best.

More accurately, I was the live-in servant maid and nanny, doing all the work, tending to the needs of the entire family, getting nothing in return.

Not gratitude, not acknowledgment, and for sure no help.

I was the most consistently used, taken-for-granted piece of furniture in our home. I was a foot stool, beat up, abused, sat on, and kicked around, a stool that conveniently generated clean clothes, picked up messes, wiped butts and noses, and produced healthy meals.

Unlike the actual footstool in the living room that got everyone’s stubbed-toe attention when it moved three inches to the right, I was 110% convinced no one would notice I was gone until they wondered “Where’s dinner,” or they ran out of clean socks.

On the morning of my awakening, as crying, arguing, and snoring drilled into my hangover, my eyes rolled over piles of laundry, an overflowing garbage can, shelves that still hadn’t been put up, boxes that weren’t unpacked from moving six months before, and a desk across the room piled high with work I didn’t have time to finish.

I saw the chaotic mess my life had become, and something inside of me broke.

“How the hell did I end up here.”

Never in my wildest dreams did I expect my life to end up like this.

No one does.

We never plan on mediocrity. No one aspires to drown in hopelessness, love a family that empties you out, or trudge knee-deep through a mucky life with a hood of grey, gauzy sadness over their head.

No one plans on living a life they feel they have to escape from.

When we’re young, before we’re wrung out and crusted over by consequences of our own choices, we plan for great things.

A job that fills us up as we pour ourselves into it.
Kids we love and deeply connect with, who love and respect us in return.
A spouse that loves just and only us, without condition or clause.
A healthy body that exists in harmony with the state of our heart and mind.
Friends that make us better and high five our quirky weirdness.

What would you say if I told you that you could have all these things, all the things you dream of, no matter how deep the hole is you start in?

Imagine feeling confident. Capable. Loved and appreciated. Imagine feeling powerful, mentally strong, and emotionally sound.

Imagine knowing exactly who you are, who you’re meant to be, and exactly how to get to where you want to go.

Imagine that every single person you choose to spend time with makes you better, not worse, fills you up, not sucks you dry.

Imagine what it would be like to look in the mirror and feel joy. To go to a job you love, hug kids that adore you, kiss a spouse that wants you and considers you his best friend, live in a home that fulfills you, and spend time with friends that soothe your soul.

You can do all those things.

You can have anything you want.

All you need is Depth. To tap into the brilliant light that already exists inside of you, and let it out.

My name is Erin, and I am no longer trapped. The hole I started in was one I dug myself, out of obligation, fear, and lack of purpose, and it was deep. Slimy. Dark. Wet. Depressing. It was so deep that the light at the top was no more than a pinprick of white, so dim and far away that I couldn’t even see the walls to hold on and climb out of the mess I’d made for myself.

At first I thought there was no way out, but I was wrong.

There is a way out.

The depth of the hole you’re in does not compare to the brilliant, boundless Depth of your own soul.

You are Deeper, and so you will win.

Let me show you how.

Subscribe to my newsletter here, get a free book, and let’s get started.

Still and forever Digging Deep,

sig

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