Jennifer Marshall

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This Is 39

Photo credit: @thelockandco

Yesterday I turned 39. 

This past year brought me to places I knew I'd eventually have to go, through experiences I'd never be able to prepare for, and left me both completely unsure of and one thousand percent committed to the work I'm doing right now. 

Last birthday I spent with my family in Orlando, visiting my brother and sister-in-law and nephew and niece. Watching the kids bond and play makes me so happy. I often wish we lived closer, but since Christmas the kids play video games online together and it's almost like they're in the same room.

In March I was invited to speak at a mental health event in Sarasota, which meant an excuse to get to visit mom and dad in Fort Lauderdale and drive over together. Getting stuck in Florida due to the only decent snowstorm back home wasn't a bad deal, and I got to visit my Grandma on the extra day before flying home.

April brought a trip to Seattle to give my TEDx talk again, only this time at the National Council for Behavioral Health's annual conference. I was a ball of nerves the entire conference because my talk was the final day. Two of my dear friends (also mental health advocates) were there and were incredibly supportive, they calmed my racing heart and made me feel so special. 

Mid-April provided a chance to rest and recharge, as we visited my best friend in North Carolina on the way to Myrtle Beach for spring break. It was the first time our family had taken a trip just the four of us and we had such a great time just relaxing. Mini golf, paddle ball on the beach, jumping the waves, and eating lots of ice cream made up our time there, and the weather was perfect. 

May was full of This Is My Brave shows, and more speaking gigs. Lots of opportunities to connect with people doing incredible work in the field of mental health, and I even got to sneak in a visit with one of my best friends who lives in California while I was traveling. Got a tattoo which has become more and more meaningful to me with each passing day. Hope = hold on pain ends. The reminder etched on my left arm has