The Simple Yet Not-So-Simple Act of Living

The last blog I wrote—then rewrote (a thousand times)—a year ago was about how showing up for my family in hard times was a blessing. Choosing to “walk through the fire” with the people you love is a privilege—one that made me stronger and awakened every part of me to the very meaning of life.

You see, over the last couple of years, both of my siblings battled severe health issues. My sister underwent a second brain surgery due to a rare and excruciating nerve disease called trigeminal neuralgia. She was only a couple of weeks out of her operation when my brother called a family meeting. We don’t have family meetings. What was stage two colon cancer—with a very good prognosis—suddenly became stage four cancer, with a very bad prognosis.

Honestly, showing up was the only thing I could do. It became my saving grace, my coping mechanism. I felt grateful to be by both of their sides as much as I could. But each time I tried to write about it, I couldn’t finish. It felt like a desperate attempt to wrap it all up in a pretty bow of “lessons” and “blessings”—and there was no pretty bow.

My brother, Mark, died.

I am steaming mad, sad, furious, and still in utter shock. I can’t believe Mark’s beautiful children have to wake up every day with this tremendous loss. I can’t believe my sister-in-law has to go on living without the love of her life. I can’t believe the pain my parents have to withstand in their golden years. I can’t believe my sister and I don’t have our brother.

After all the prayers and all the treatment, he is gone. How do we live without him here?

There are rabbit holes, triggers, and traps everywhere. When the burning grief swells to an all-time high, doubt follows close behind. It spirals quickly into every other aspect of my life. To combat it, I find myself watching endless videos about near-death experiences. The testimonials of “seeing the light,” “the endless love of God,” and “no more pain” are incredibly comforting to me.

I have to remember that Mark is no longer in pain. He is no longer suffering—but he was never supposed to suffer. (I can’t seem to get past that part.) And yet, he isn’t. As strong as he was, never allowing his pain to be a burden on anyone, every day was a struggle. He suffered greatly—more than he wanted any of us to know.

It is clear that Mark led us through his cancer like an empathetic and loving king guiding his people. We looked to him with every new update, every twist in treatment options, every… everything. He never once led us astray.

Maybe we allow Mark to keep leading us—this time, helping us navigate the painful path of his physical absence.

Mark didn’t want cancer, but he faced it with laser-sharp intention, pure love and compassion, brave leadership, and true warrior grit. We didn’t want to lose him or endure the twists and turns of overwhelming grief that followed. But we can choose to face it the way he faced cancer: leaning into the storm, giving it hell, and somehow making peace.

He gave it “hell” not only by relentlessly treating cancer, but more importantly, by relentlessly living. His life force grew stronger.

Mark lived with pride and love in his favorite roles: Husband, Father, Son, Brother, Friend, and Believer in Jesus. He used every breath blessed upon his body for as much good as possible.

From the moment Mark heard his diagnosis, he was extremely intentional. He had a fun and salty sense of humor and never lost it, but he did start thinking twice before he spoke. On more than one occasion, he texted me, “Was that harsh?” to which I replied, “Kind of,” followed by a “Don’t be a jerk” GIF. #smileyface

He was not perfect, but even on his worst days, he leaned into his life force, his God, and his most authentic self—and let that lead the day.

Mark’s example of living is our roadmap.

He never allowed cancer to define him, and we don’t have to allow the roller coaster of grief to define us. Just like him, we have two choices. We can choose to let the loss we never wanted make us more of who we truly are—more compassionate, present, and loving—or we can allow it to make us less.

Mark approached each day with the sacred knowledge that only the sick and dying are often blessed to know: every single moment counts. Our actions create ripple effects that expand exponentially. The ordinary—the very thing we often seek to escape—is actually extraordinary.

As I watched Mark make peace with each stage of his illness, it was clear that it did not mean giving up. Not at all. He simply became more accepting of the present moment and the immediate next steps—which seemed to make him even more open to miracles.

Grief is exhausting and unpredictable. More often than not, I want to scream, “Uncle, uncle—you win!” But if Mark could do what he did, and so many others in similar circumstances can do the same, then I can get up and face the day—the precious day I have been given. That may be all I need to do.

If you choose life—whether in extraordinary circumstances or in the day-to-day (which may be the same thing)—it will most certainly be unpredictable. It will be messy and filled with extreme highs and lows. Sometimes, it may even feel like torture. But from my perspective, living will always be worth it.

When I get quiet and cut through the noise in my head, I always hear Mark:
“Look within, Jen. Look to God. Honor yourself, not me. You don’t get to use me as your excuse—use me as your inspiration.”

Those who knew Mark best carry his soul forever imprinted upon us. The gifts he gave continue to bless our lives. We honor his legacy and spirit by acknowledging our own—through the simple act of living.

Jen Kelly

Someone Please Help Me... Anyone?

As an actress, you have to find a way to exist in a business that does everything in its power to say you don’t exist. You’re not good enough. You’re too fat, too pretty, too quirky. And this can all change on a dime, based on someone else’s ill-informed opinion.

I was once told my name sounded like a toothpaste brand and that I should change it immediately. I may not know much, but I do know that Jen Dede is a great name! The frustration and confusion were, at times, maddening.

I was also told to be grateful for the shitty little crumbs I got and to gobble them up before they were passed on to someone else. You are replaceable. I spent years “gratefully” choking on those crumbs until I couldn’t do it any longer. I needed help. I needed someone to pick up the phone on my behalf. I needed someone to take a chance on me. I needed someone who wouldn’t say, “Your name sucks,” but would instead get me an audition—an opportunity to make a living at what I do.

But still… nothing.

So I started asking for help for what I thought I needed in my career. At first, I was terrified. I worked up the nerve to ask in many different ways, getting better at it with each ask. I started to realize that my problem wasn’t knowing how to ask for what I needed. I asked. My problem was this: What do you do when you ask, and you get nothing?

Here’s the thing—it was like I was asking for a beautiful, delicious, ripe red apple, and someone would throw a stick of sugar-free gum at me. I felt like I was living in a bad dream. I knew I had a gift, but I also knew it needed to be tended to daily. I did everything “right.” I diligently worked on my craft. Every week, rain or shine, I showed up at one of the most prosperous acting studios in town and challenged myself to learn more.

I took every job I could. I got a few breaks. I came close to others. I said no to nudity and yes to pasties. I dyed my hair red, then brown, then red, then blonde—then all of them (this is possible). I was stuffed into the sexy category, the funny category, the one-who-could-cry-on-a-dime category. The door I was trying to bust through was sealed tight with super glue, and no one was going to help me open it.

Then I started asking myself, If no one ever helped me in the way that I needed, how could I help myself?

I also realized that the step of asking for help—which seemed so entirely fruitless—was actually crucial in my evolution, because it made me brave. And no matter the result, it always gave me clarity and moved me to the other side.

Out of utter frustration, I began to write. In my mind, I wasn’t a “real” writer, so I had nothing to lose. I took my writer friends out to coffee to pick their brains. I took their workshops and read all the books. I asked for feedback and gained champions along the way. Nikki DeLoach was a big one, by the way! We all need champions to keep us going.

I wrote and produced shorts. I wrote with different partners and in different genres. I started writing a film about a story close to my heart. I realized I had so much more to give. I ended up breaking through a massive wall—the wall that could have kept me in a small box forever. Playing the small, helpless actor wasn’t working anymore. Begging for people to help became an afterthought.

I found my worth, and for the first time in forever, all my previous struggles felt on purpose… for purpose.

I began saying a big, fat, happy NO to work that felt demeaning. I said no to projects that paid nothing—unless they added immense value to my artistic career. The liberation of each NO became a high. And then, it hit me…

All those years, I thought I was asking for what I needed, only to be ignored, dismissed, and rejected. The truth is, I was asking for what I wanted and was actually getting what I needed.

I know.
Read that again.
And again.
Now sit with that.

Opportunities and people entered my life that empowered me to know my worth as an artist and to believe in myself enough to have my own back. I got real with the fact that no one was going to come along and do that for me. This is one of the greatest life lessons we can learn as humans.

Sitting around waiting for permission—for someone to save you, heal you, or bring you success—is a door that will never open. Instead, I learned to do all of those things for myself.

Don’t get me wrong—we need people in our lives who love us deeply and care enough to catch us when we fall, offer a helping hand, or open a window of opportunity. I have intentionally filled my life with those people. But I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the magical person who holds the one key to the opportunity door, only to be disappointed when it didn’t work.

I had to learn to swim without a life preserver.

I hated it for a while. I downright resented it. But I made it across the ocean.

At the time, I had no idea what lay ahead for my husband and me regarding our fertility journey, but I can’t help but think the path I walked as an artist prepared me to endure it—and continues to inform and empower me. The evolution of life is beautiful like that.

I learned this poem in high school, and it has always resided deep in my heart since. Maybe on some level, I knew I would be taught this lesson in a big way—and that it would lead me toward true happiness:

“Don’t wait for someone to bring you flowers.
Plant your own garden and decorate your own soul.”

Jen Kelly

Me and My Body: Through Thick and Thin

I did all the things “they” said. I exercised. I ate well. I tracked my cycles. I trusted my body. I tried to “relax” Hahahahahah…

So when she didn’t get pregnant, month after month, I took it personally.

The past seven years (almost eight—but who’s counting), my body has been on a mission, trying with all its might to conceive. It’s what we as women do without a second thought, right? It’s what our bodies are supposed to do! And even though it was not my main drive in life, I always knew I would conceive. I was strong and healthy. I took cycling classes every day. I hiked up huge mountains… the Hollywood Hills are mountains to a Midwest girl. I even found my “magic healthy happy weight”—133.4. My periods came like clockwork. I never suffered horrible cramps, and when my period arrived, I was grateful.

My mom (a health nut and fitness guru) always told me to be grateful because that meant my body was working properly. It was healthy and naturally cleansing itself. So, I was grateful. I was also excited to see how my body would morph into a house of plenty for my baby someday.

At first, it felt like my body just needed a jump-start. In fact, that is exactly what my doctor told me: “Once you conceive, your body will catch on. And the second one will be super easy.” Nothing about this seemed easy, and it got harder and harder to be grateful for Little Miss Aunt Flow showing up, uninvited… every month. I felt like a salmon swimming upstream. My period no longer meant I was healthy; it meant I was not pregnant. It meant my body wasn’t working.

My awesome, athletic body—which I had actually started to really like—was turning on me. She was becoming a real pain in the ass, with a mind of her own… not to mention how much time she demanded. Just taking the endless vitamins and herbs took up half the day!

This whole “not being able to conceive” thing was definitely not my mind’s fault. My mind was behaving beautifully, doing precisely the tasks needed to “manifest” my baby. My mind was awesome! It was meditating, chanting mantras, and reading all the books. I was doing Olympic Mental Gymnastics every day, every hour, and I was winning. I would find the answer. My body would get the message eventually and catch up.

But it did not.

What happened to my strong, capable body? I felt tired and weak, and I slept… a lot. I wasn’t me. As the years went on, I started to gain weight. They say hormones do that. It wasn’t just the hormones—it was all of it. I decided not to be so hard on my body. Honestly, I didn’t have the energy. I changed how I worked out and tried not to be so demanding. I decided not to freak out over gaining five or ten pounds. I’d ignore it because, oh well, I had enough on my plate. No pun intended.

I was trying to get pregnant, and once I did, I would need that extra weight. I wanted to be an abundant house for my little baby. I wanted them to be able to feed off my cellulite and suck up my extra fat. This was way more important than a few pounds. My body would be housing a life! The amount of time I spent being 133.4, I now spend doing everything in my power to procreate.

So, I decided I would accept this new me. My cause was worthy. As my body softened, so did my mind. The generic, endless meditations helped for a time, but they no longer resonated with me. I wanted something more specific. I went to a hypnotherapist—who also happens to be a dear friend—and she customized my meditations. I told her I wanted to believe in my body again.

I don’t know when I lost that belief, because I was never given a solid reason why this was so hard, but I did. I started seeing a Mayan massage therapist who worked with my body in a way I had never known was possible. It’s like she had the key to unlock years of physical pain and grief that my body was holding onto for dear life. I spent hours weeping on her massage table. I had good days. I had bad days.

To this day, I still don’t understand why it’s been so hard. Some things we may never know, and the hardest part is living with that. But I do know this: it’s not my body’s fault.

I started to think of my body like my best friend—my soul sister. How would I treat my best friend? Someone I deeply love and want the best for? I would tell them they are beautiful, resilient, strong, and a warrior. I would tell them to take care of their precious body. Something clicked. I wouldn’t let my body be the punching bag anymore.

I began to feel compassion for my body, for all it had been through. I started to feel protective of my body. My mama bear came out. I was becoming a mother, and even though I had no baby to show for it, I knew the journey wasn’t over. I knew there was another chapter, another step. I knew I could let my body heal and finally allow my mind to sync up.

I would also do what I knew I had to do: stop the medical journey. My body had been screaming at me for so long to rescue it. I always thought I could do anything for a few weeks to get our miracle. In fact, I proved that I could—but at what expense?

When we finally closed the chapter on the medical journey, the feeling at the end of the day—that it was my body that had to conceive—was overwhelming. It was as if a dam broke, and a deluge of water came flooding at me, over me, and around me. But it also felt undeniably good. I felt free! I wasn’t a machine anymore. My body wasn’t a science experiment with a big question mark hanging over it. I was liberated from the never-ending, rigid mindset that everything I did affected my fertility. My body was mine.

Around the same time, I lost twenty-five pounds rather rapidly. I had a severe tooth infection that went undiagnosed and led to the double whammy of severe TMJ. It was incredibly painful to eat. Overnight, I was back to 133.4 Jen. At first, I felt sad. The baby dream is gone. I didn’t want to be my “skinny” version.

But then I realized the baby dream is not gone. That’s not what that weight represented. It was my “sad weight.” Not all of it—some was carefree and happy—but most of it was sad and angry. It wasn’t protecting me or nourishing me. It was just hanging around, reminding me I wasn’t pregnant. It was a burden. As it melted away, I began to feel a vitality running through my body again. Even though I lost the weight in an unsettling way, it was gone—as the cool kids say—BYEEEE.

I do feel like me again, but a different me. The scared little girl who started this grand adventure is gone. I feel fresh, as if I could reset the past seven years. I know I can’t, and honestly, I don’t want to. My relationship with my body has changed. I got to know her so intimately that I would do anything for her.

Recently, I was talking to a dear friend, and she said, “Man, your body is a rock star!” And I thought—yes. Yes, she is. She is doing what she was meant to do… heal. She can still be rather stubborn, but she has carried me through some of my hardest times. It has always been the two of us, and it always will be.

Through thick and thin, I will love my body forever 

Jen Kelly

An Open Letter of Love to Our Child

I have had a recurring dream about our child for years. In it, my hands are outstretched toward their plump, little, dimpled hands. A deep blue sky is behind us as we first float toward each other, then past each other, just missing the connection. I wake up feeling that my love for them is so intrinsically real. Through the years, I have prayed for their safe arrival and that they will know how to find us, that divine timing will have its way. It may sound a little nutty, but I’ve felt their spirit around us for years.

Can one love a child that is not yet here? Absolutely.  One can love a child that is not yet here, just like one can grieve a child that hasn’t come to being yet. 

 “We have wanted a baby for so long, we truly already love them.”  That is the last sentence in our adoption profile, our “brochure,” if you will, of our story. At this very moment, our profile is on its way to birth mothers across the country. So, in this month of LOVE, I feel called to write a letter to our sweet nugget, who may already have been conceived.

Dear Sweet Miraculous Baby,

Ahhh…. I don’t know if you are a boy or a girl, or what you will look like, or be like, but I do know I already love you! Every time I think about meeting you, my stomach drops with excitement, and my body fills with joy.

The story of our family began almost 20 years ago, when Daddy and I were cast in a play together. I had just graduated from college, while he was already working as a professional actor. He was very handsome and very talented.  When we met, we instantly had a deep connection, one that you can’t explain, almost like electricity.  It would grow into a constant, evolving love. After the show closed, Daddy asked me out to see a movie. He took me to see Citizen Kane, one of the greatest films ever made. I said yes, and watching that movie sparked another love affair for me... filmmaking. 

Not too much later, a romantic Chicago blizzard struck, forcing us to stay inside for days. When we could finally venture out through the sparkling snow-covered streets, it was as if we were skiing in our shoes. We bundled up and took a walk. Talking and laughing like we were the only two people in the city.  The quietness after a snowfall is one of my favorite things in the world. The only thing we heard was the sound of each other’s voices and our feet crunching through the snow on our way to a cozy restaurant where we talked for hours. I had big plans! I shared my dreams of moving to LA with your daddy!

A visit to Los Angeles was already in the works. I would take meetings with agents and see my best friend from college, and even squeeze in a road trip to Vegas. (Just so you know, I was always SUPER fun!) Off I went on my exploratory L.A. adventure! All was going as planned, and then in an instant, my plans changed. (Is it too early to teach you that that happens a lot?) Next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance, asking if I was paralyzed. The paramedic treating me responded, “You are watching way too much ER”. (By the way, ER was a very popular TV Show that Daddy and I both got to act on.)

I don’t remember this next part, but apparently, I got out of the car and walked to the curb, where two women held me. I was indeed NOT paralyzed. I did get hurt, though. My pelvis was broken in 3 places. As soon as I arrived at the hospital, I asked the nurse to call my then-boyfriend, now husband. (And soon to be your Daddy.) I was on a lot of medicine for the pain, but this man who I officially started dating less than a month prior, was the first one by my side. He immediately flew from Chicago to L.A., even before my parents were able to get there. This is an important part of our story. There are certain times when one quickly learns who someone truly is. This was one of those times. Always take note when people show you who they truly are.

My life had stopped in its tracks. It felt as though the protective layer I needed to live in the world was gone. Everything seemed to come blasting at me like a fire hose. Daddy even saw me cry. I wanted him to see and think of me as the same strong, ambitious woman I saw in myself. I have never felt so helpless. But he stayed by my side until my parents (your Grandparents) arrived.

Once I got back to Chicago, Daddy visited me at my parents’ house every night after his play, and we began to truly fall in love. For fun, he would take me on wheelchair adventures.  He brought me roses, and we celebrated our first Valentine's Day. He gave me the soundtrack to a movie called Boogie Nights. (You can’t watch that till you're much older.) Our song became “I Believe In Miracles” because that is how it all felt; the miracle of coming into each other’s lives, the miracle of healing. It was one miracle after another. 

Love is a perfect elixir for healing. After I got better, Daddy and I moved to L.A.

Five years after that, on January 13th, the anniversary of the day I was in the car accident, Daddy proposed to me. In doing so, he made that day not only the day I lived (it could have been much worse), but also the day I said YES to spending the rest of our lives together! One year after that, we went back to Illinois for our wedding.

We walked into our wedding reception to our song, “I Believe In Miracles.”

We built a full life following our dreams, rich with friends, family, and lots of love.  But we knew something was missing. We desperately wanted to share our ever-expanding love. So, we tried to have you for many years in many different ways. Sometimes we thought we might never find you. It wasn’t easy, but we kept going no matter what. We believed in the miracle of you coming into being, and we were committed to finding you.

This past year, it became clear that YOU would find US. And that it was going to be through a path that many have traveled in my family: adoption. It was a path we hadn’t tried yet. A path that sometimes scared us. A path where you would come into this world through a woman who is called your Birth Mother and would live nine beautiful, miraculous, loving months (almost ten) in her tummy.  Oh my goodness, you may already be there as I write this! There’s that exhilarating feeling again. I want you to know this: you will find your way to the parents that were always meant for you. Your birth mother will know in her heart. We will know in our hearts. But most importantly, YOU will know in yours. You are guiding all of us, sweet one.

I can’t wait till my arms ache from rocking you for hours on end. I welcome the sleepless nights like a tall glass of water at the end of a long journey through the desert.  I know Daddy can’t wait either. He is going to be so good at being your Daddy, and he can’t wait to take you on his awesome adventures. YOU are going to love them and him so much! We have been getting ready for you for the past 8 years. We prayed, begged, and loved each other through it, and along the way, we have always believed in miracles.

When I put you on my chest, and you hear my heart beat and we hear yours, you will know you are home, I promise you.

We already love you, indeed, little one.  

Love your Mommy forever.

Written by Jen Kelly