When people aren’t grieving at funerals, they are eyeing the shit out of me wondering what sort of freak chooses to spend the majority of her time with dead people. Specific questions I have been asked: 

“Aren’t you sick of people crying?”
“How are you not depressed?”
“Isn’t it weird being around corpses all the time?”
“Does Grandpa still have his organs or what?” 

And every child’s favorite: “What’s downstairs?”

There’s a really beautiful teaching moment here about exposing one’s self to difficult and uncomfortable things. My firsts at the funeral home were a hot, splotchy mess. 

The first time I had to go on a house call by myself. (Fucking terrifying.)
The first time I removed a pacemaker. (Do not squirt blood in your eye!)
The first time I had to navigate Froedtert’s morgue. (AM I IN THE ETHER?! I AM LOST WITH A BODY.)
The first time I smoked out the pet crematory. (Neat, I have single handedly destroyed a family legacy.) 
The first time I had to raise an artery. (LEAVE THE ROOM DON’T LOOK AT ME I AM SWEATING OK.)

Looking back, my rabbit heartbeat was not due to wooziness. Or sadness. Or intensity. It was a fear of fucking up.

Which brings me to my point: How many things do we talk ourselves out of doing because we don’t want to look stupid?

Why do we all care so much about looking like we know what we’re doing?
Appearing confident all the time means we would never learn a new thing ever again.

Glorious life moments: Pushing through the butt pucker. Clawing out of your own neurosis to help someone. Being 100% okay with not being the smartest person in the room.

That’s how TF I do this.