Buy the ticket, take the ride

“Don’t stop running!”

After signing my life away upon payment, those three words were the only instructions I received from my Brazilian guide—my co-pilot for the next 30 minutes.

We stood 20' from the edge of a cliff, nearly 1700' above sea level just south of Ipanema beach. The view couldn't have been more stunning. The drive up the mountain to the launch point couldn't have been more harrowing. And, it was my last day in Rio de Janeiro and I was ready, no matter what happened. This was soon after my mother left this mortal plane, and life felt precarious anyway. 

We belted ourselves into harnesses, then to the glider, and after safety checks, we were ready. Among my friends, I was the first. My brain hit auto-repeat: Don't stop running. (And breathe!)

When the friends we were visiting first suggested this, I wanted to say no. Which meant I had to say yes. Years prior, I made a personal policy that saying no to something required further evaluation--because chances were my no was due to fear or uncertainty... which I deemed inadequate reasons to say no. 

As Hunter S. Thompson said, "Buy the ticket. Take the ride." Saying "yes" often enough, especially when we want to say no, builds our resilience. 

So don't stop. 

That's our option right now. While this hot ticket was foisted upon us--the cluster that is a pandemic, a recession, and political theatre--it's up to us how we get through it. We can dig in, resist, and refuse to accept what is, or we can say yes and adapt, adopt, and change. I know that's not easy for everyone, as many are experiencing true hardship right now. However, with the resilience we've built, we can also help others. 

That flight over the white sandy beach and azure South Atlantic was extraordinary. We caught some thermals and glided for 30 minutes or so before gently landing on the beach. 

I know that not every landing is soft, but I do know they get easier with practice. 

If you like this post or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to subscribe (see right column), share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here. 

Being with what is

My mom, Anelda, 1960s. 

I have come to a place of peace in my life, despite circumstances. Or maybe because of circumstances. While our current reality is hard in many ways, it's not the hardest thing I've ever done.

I come to this place honestly—this place of peace and mindfulness, of relative comfort with uncertainty. Today I feel like writing a bit about my journey because I'm sad today—knowing this is a place I occasionally visit but don't stay.

Today is Mother's Day. 

I write this today for anyone who's ever felt alone. For those whose mothers are gone, for those who didn't have a mother figure in their lives, or for those with no children of their own.  

My mother left this mortal plane 20 years ago next week on May 19. While she had been ill for several years, she was maintaining and doing OK. We were getting into a new groove, as she'd recently moved into assisted living. So when I returned home from a morning run and got the call, I felt like I'd run into a wall. Hard. Not yet, it's too soon. 

In hindsight, I am proud of my mother for living as long as she did, despite dying at 64. The youngest of four children, she was unplanned—an accident—and felt unwanted throughout her life. When her oldest sister died at 48, my grandmother was inconsolable. My mother was never the same; now, she was also the recipient of my grandmother's spite.  

Family matters...  

Still in my formative years, with my aunt and grandfather gone, we moved into the family home to care for my grandmother, who was paralyzed on her left side from a stroke. She graciously died three years later, and despite an end to the misery, I found myself unhappy and alone. With mom working every day, and no adults around, I went from a well-mannered, thoughtful kid, to a rebellious, self-destructive teenager.  

My mom was a single mom when it wasn't socially accepted; my dad died when I was two, and I didn't know his family. My dad was the love of my mom's life, and I'm not sure that sentiment was returned. (By the way, today would also have been his birthday.)

My grandfather, Ben.
(mid-1920/30?)

During those earliest years, there were many family gatherings—no siblings, but grandparents, aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, first cousins, cousins of cousins, and cousins once and twice removed. Holidays and harvests and many family funerals—funerals which resulted in fewer and fewer family gatherings. 

From abandonment to independence 

So my friends became my family, for better or worse. I attracted those on the same destructive path. We were a generation with absent parents, latch-key kids. Hindsight being a brilliant teacher, I see the impacts, from an abandonment mindset that impacted my early marriage, to later self-reliance and fierce independence. 

We are both always, and never, alone

So today I write for those who feel alone. I understand. I felt alone for much of my life. I was alone for much of my life. I even made sure I was alone, unconsciously pushing away anyone who cared—just in case they planned to leave.    

I rarely feel alone now because I have learned to be here for myself, above all else. Because in the end, I'm all I've got, and I'm here for me. I spent my single years building my resilience, learning to love and care for myself.   

Now, I'm fortunate to be with a man who chose to grow with me, even with a rocky (and long-distance) start. We, too, have an important date this month: 24 years together on May 18. This wasn't a given. A therapist once said our wounds recognized each other. The odds were against us—to come together in a healthy, interdependent relationship was not expected nor even anticipated. And yet, what we created will endure, because (with help) we learned to care for ourselves so we can care for each other. 

We learn from our mothers, intentionally or not

I still miss my mom. Always. We didn't have the easiest relationship, and yet, we grew to appreciate each other. She did what she was able to given the resources she had, which were few. Throughout it all, it was always just the two of us... me and mom. I know she loved me. 

Growing up, I wanted a mother I could be proud of, and I am. I'm proud because she found a way to survive despite it all. She offered words of wisdom that, while seeming less than adequate as a kid, now serve me well, like trusting my instincts and using my better judgment. From her, I also learned resilience and determination. A therapist once asked if I was angry at her. I'm not, although I am sometimes sad. But mostly, I feel gratitude and compassion.  

To honor her, today and any day, I take care of myself, including giving myself grace. Because I know she wanted me to have a good life.

I write this today because we are each on a journey, and we do this alone. Finding our place and being OK with "alone" is essential. No matter who we have, or don't have, in our lives, we have to show up for ourselves. 

Life is a continual journey to grow and learn. Pain is part of it. But through it all, we get better, stronger, and more fully human. The more we accept ourselves and our path, the easier it becomes to change our minds, our beliefs, our experience, and ultimately our lives. 

As my mother said so frequently, this too shall pass. 



If you like this post or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to subscribe (see right column), share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here. 

Change: Sometimes you have to burn your fields

A sunflower must reach for the sun
to thrive. 

In an online group discussion this morning, I learned one of the participants is going through monumental personal and professional change. In response to his description, another participant, who grew up on a midwest farm, said, "even a farmer burns his fields"—which, although it seems destructive,  also ushers in new life, bringing nutrients back to the soil and promoting future plant health. 

Essentially, sometimes you have to stop and start over. Or, to paraphrase a term I heard when my own life turned upside down 10 years ago, sometimes you have to just blow everything up. 

Change is good

Ten years later, no regrets, despite the deep anguish of the time. I started over, dove deep into self-awareness, and on the other side found new insights and a future I could believe in.  

When the farmer burns the land, the fire not only replenishes the soil but breaks open seeds from which new plants can grow. When everything is stripped away, it's easier to see what's left, if there's anything worth keeping, and what needed to be scrapped anyway. 

While I don't advocate that we all blow everything up just for the sake of change, sometimes, that's what it takes to shake us out of our complacency. It's from this place where we can create our future based on what we want, not what we had, nor who we were, nor where we came from. 

I don't know about you, but in the past, there have been numerous times when I knew something wasn't working... and I didn't do anything about it until that proverbial two-by-four hit me over the head and I had no choice. 

I'd rather be the farmer, preparing the soil for my future. That burn gives us a fresh start. 

Not my smartest move...  

This morning's conversation also reminded me that when, as an internal communications manager for an organization during massive culture change, I found myself in HR's crosshairs. I oversaw all content for the company-wide intranet and often posted curated content to add validity to the changes underway. 

We were asking employees to change how they think about work, to be customer-obsessed and servant leaders, and to take an entrepreneurial approach to work. I posted the Fast Company story, with only the headline visible: How to Overthrow Your Boss and Burn Your Company to the Ground. 

Being future-focused, I thought it was a great piece and furthered the shift in thinking we wanted. HR wasn't amused and made me pull it, even with my strong rationale and the support of our VP to leave it up. 

Hindsight being 20/20, that may have been a catalyst for my next whack with a two-by-four.  

Burn your ships

While trying to find that 2015 Fast Company article to post here, I discovered a similar expression: Burn your ships. Apparently, when explorer Hernán Cortéz landed in the new world, he burned his ships, sending a message to the crew that there was no turning back. It was, quite literally, succeed or die. 

In other words, you can't have one foot out the door. You're either committed or you aren't. I often ask myself the question, are you interested or committed—one of my key takeaways from the Landmark Forum a couple of decades ago. If I'm just interested, those proverbial ships are my escape route, and I'm unlikely to achieve my goals. If I'm committed, I'm going to get where I say I'm going no matter what; I don't need those ships! 

No try, just do

(Borrowed from the interwebs...
copyright TBD; asking forgiveness,
not permission)

And finally, at least half a dozen times in the last week, I was told, heard, or saw the famous words of StarWars Jedi Master: Do or do not. There is no try. Wise master Yoda reminded me, via various channels, that the only way forward is to act. While I believe that burning the fields works, I've done that enough, and I don't want to be hit again with that proverbial two-by-four. So my only option is to do. No try. Just do. The hard things, the easy things. The daily habits and rituals. Those things that must be done. 

So tell me, what's your gut telling you that you need to change? What can you change now so you, too, can avoid that whack on the head and be the farmer instead? What must you do to create a life you want to wake up to every day? 

I'm about to change nearly everything, again, but this time, I'm doing it on my terms. And having some fun with it, too. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

Grow your mind, body and spirit

Change is all there is

If you've ever been hit over the head with a two-by-four, figurative or literal, you know it hurts. And sadly, the hit of the proverbial kind often takes more than one to get our attention. Ideally, we learn and stay out of harms way the next time.  

That proverbial hit has happened to me more often than I care to admit—major moves, job changes, relationship trauma—but thankfully, I can also say I've experienced what the experts now call post-traumatic growth (a term I'm still not sure I like, even though I get the value of it). When we learn from events that cause what most of us know as PTSD, we develop new coping skills, grow our emotional intelligence, and ideally, grow our mind, body and spirit. 

To do this, though, we must be willing to shift our mindset. Most of us are more prone to be victims of our circumstances, rather than to view what happens as opportunities to grow. 

Blueprint for growth and change

Over the last week, I watched a five-part series called Transcendence, Live Life Beyond the Ordinary. The show is a comprehensive blueprint for change, challenging knowledge and beliefs pervasive throughout our north American culture. During one interview, Sean Stephenson, author of the international best seller Get Off Your 'But' asked himself after yet another fall, 'why him' and 'why again' when he broke more bones. Sean, who was born with a rare bone disorder, grew to just three feet and wasn't expected to live, is an extraordinarily accomplished human—because at one point, he changed his mindset.  

A few things he shared: 

• having a dream is more important than achieving a dream
• when something is upsetting or unfair, he's too zoomed in; he suggests zooming out and changing perspective—this isn't happening TO me, but FOR me
• ask, "what can I learn from this?"

While this post doesn't even remotely do justice to the show, which I highly recommend to anyone who's interested in living a more intentional, empowered life, here are a few other gems from this episode:

• To be fulfilled, apply effort now, enjoy pleasure later; to be gratified, seek pleasure now, but pay later
• Be an unrealistic human being; these are the people who chart the course for the rest of us (think Jobs, Bezos, et al)
• If we're unsure of our purpose, look at the pains we experienced as children and explore the gifts those pains may have provided us; these pains may lead us to what we're passionate about and where we feel purposeful 

To have a fulfilling life, there are three types of worthy pursuits: 

1. decide what experiences you want to have in your life
2. ask yourself and then list how you want to grow and evolve
3. consider where you want to make a difference and how you'll give back to the world... 

Reap the rewards... 

From Transcendence... 

I don't want to be hit upside the head again, so I actively work to grow mind, body, and spirit, and facilitate change when I know something isn't working anymore. I've felt that blow enough, and while tremendous good has come from each, I'd rather learn sooner and reap, not pay, big dividends. 

How about you? Feeling any change afoot? Areas where something no longer serves you? Know what you need to do but aren't yet willing to do it? My suggestion is to get on it, or it'll get on you. Seriously. 

Life is about change, and change is good. Without it, we'd all be stagnant, boring, and bored. Who wants that? 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I also have two openings available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

Anger is an energy

Alone in the wilderness... or, well,
 in this case, on a beach. 

A few years ago, while talking about growing up, a life-long friend told me my anger scared her when we were teenagers. This caught me off guard; I had no idea. We met in elementary school; I was a lieutenant on the safety patrol and she was on my squad. From there, our lives became deeply intertwined; we know and understand our origin stories. And yet, her words made me think.  

As a teenager, I was small, smart, and cute, which didn't benefit me at that point in time and caused ire among my peers. So I was feisty; I had a mouth only sailors could love, and I was often in trouble with teachers for directing it at them.  

We learn to be angry... 

I learned how to be angry from my mom. That was her acceptable emotion, along with frustration. She yelled a lot, swore a lot, slammed doors, and threw things. Throughout our life together, I watched her vacillate between anger, frustration, and depression. Consequently, my teenage self yelled and swore a lot, and sometimes slammed doors and threw things (typically, just my hairbrush on bad hair days, though). Full transparency: I had a few good reasons to be angry. I just needed better ways to express it.  

I started my journey toward healthy expression in my early 20s, but it's an ongoing practice and I don't always get it right. As a newlywed, I yelled during an argument—and my husband's response taught me to quell my anger, even deny it. Instead, I withdrew rather than rocking the boat, which had its own unintended consequences.  

Now I'm rarely angry and I know anger is just one of many options. But it's also a useful one if we pay attention. It's a tool, a motivator. Or as John Lydon (nee Johnny Rotten) sang on Rise, it's an energy. It's information. 

Anger is often our quickest response in a heated interaction and can easily mask other emotions, like fear or hurt. Stopping in the moment, when we first feel angry, is a big step. What's it telling you? Stop, notice, and name it. Then choose how you want to respond to any given situation.  

I don't avoid conflict, but I stopped provoking controversy when I 'grew up.' That doesn't mean I don't express anger when I feel it, but I discovered my limitations around arguments. I sometimes struggle to follow a train of thought when emotions are high, and verbal communication can be challenging for me. That's why it's important to know I can stop. I also noticed in heated conversations with certain people that I can become overwhelmed and get flustered and acquiesce when they insist they're right. This also isn't OK, and I've learned to navigate those relationships more carefully.     

Communication, awareness, and boundaries 

Now, with a lot of deep work behind me and a high level of self-awareness, I have very clear boundaries, which makes setting limits easier. Anger isn't my immediate response.  

But here's something else: We typically have different boundaries for different relationships, and we're allowed to change and adjust them. We're also not required to tell people when we set new boundaries, especially if it puts us at risk in some way. Push-back is real. Sometimes, they don't know what's different, only that something is, and that's enough to cause a reaction.   

The trick, then, is to hold those new boundaries and not get sucked into old behaviors, and not get angry. I recently got tricked. Hence this post. 

Remember Charlie Brown and Lucy? 

I found myself in a situation where I expected a different result. I have a friend I regularly feel challenged by. I'm Charlie Brown, falling on my ass trying to kick a football that Lucy pulls away at the last minute. (Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice... what?!?) I decided I couldn't do that anymore, so I created some new boundaries for myself in that relationship. I didn't share that; I just showed up differently. And then... here I was... I did the same thing, again, and I said a thing or two in a conversation I didn't want to have... and got lambasted for all the ways I was wrong. Charlie Brown... I should know better. 

I was livid. But... this time, I didn't react. I didn't swear. I didn't cry. I noticed it. I stepped back to look at what just happened.  

Behind the reaction...  

The Landmark Education Forum asks you whether you want to be right or whether you want workability. I aim for workability, which is why I don't think all disconnects need to be discussed. I could very easily find myself saying hurtful things that don't help. 

So what happened... I felt like a caged cat, trapped, attacked even... which made me even less interested in further engaging. It wasn't pretty, so we hung up with neither of us in a good place. What I know for sure is that this cannot happen again. I refuse to again be Charlie Brown.   

Trust your insides... 

I have finely honed gut instincts, and I must listen to them. I can't second guess myself, nor must I explain my actions and choices, nor defend them in most circumstances.

I mentioned anger is information, and this particular experience enlightened me to a couple of things. 

• How I relate to my partner: I have a new appreciation for my partner's process when he's working through something. Now, when I ask him what's up when my spidey senses are buzzing and he says 'nothing' or 'it doesn't have anything to do with you', I have to trust him. I must also trust that if he does have something we need to talk about, he'll let me know.  
• What's important to me: I have more clarity about my values and boundaries, how I want to show up, and what I expect in relationships, friendships or otherwise. 

As with anything else, there are always gifts... that proverbial silver lining. This exchange prompted me to write on my bedroom mirror, where I see them sometimes multiple times a day, a few affirming statements:  

• take up space
• amplify my voice
• know my worth (an ongoing theme here)
• trust myself, and 
• take no shit

None of this is about making someone else wrong, or not loving them. What I find I need is to rethink my relationships, my needs, and my interactions—which right now, is taking back some space, and when I say "no," know that I mean no, especially when something is personal and not about them. 

Writing this, I feel less angry and more compassionate, for my friend and myself, even as I recognize I'm done with being Charlie Brown.  

Anger... it's useful. In this case, it caused me to pause and reflect, and then stand firm, know my worth, and resolve to set more limits.   

Let anger be your guide...

And, lastly, there's a lot to be angry about in the world... like oppression and inequity. That's where anger can be truly motivating. It's information and an energy. Use that. But don't let it consume you, and when you feel it, explore it.   

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find out more here. 

When a parent dies...

The life cycle of a yellow rose. 

Sometimes, life kicks you in the ass, makes you re-evaluate and re-assess, see things, people and places differently...

My father-in-law, Del, took his last breath just after midnight east coast time. My partner Forrest was there, along with other members of the family. Del was diagnosed with throat and lung cancer earlier this spring, but didn't share that news because he was caring for his long-time partner, Dotty, who had Alzheimer's and preceded him in death by just a few weeks.

Del and Forrest's mom Okay divorced when Forrest was just four-years-old. While he and his siblings spent their summers with their dad in the north Georgia mountains, as an adult, Forrest wasn't close to him, despite a solid resemblance, a shared countenance and caustic wit. Del wasn't much of a 'dad' to his first family, never really taking responsibility. When still married to their mom, they moved a lot, as Del was a prospector looking for gold from the deep southeast to northern Alaska. The family story goes: he finally found it in the tourists who pass through Helen, Georgia, the country's first gold rush town. There he opened Duke's Creek Mines, a gold and precious gem panning business, along with the adjacent Heidi Hotel. I met him on two occasions, one of which was a long weekend visit many years ago with several shared meals and conversations. It was clear he was a man of few words, significant intellect, strong opinions, good humor, and a resilience about him that makes his death at 71 seem implausible.

Death is a funny thing no matter who it is that passes from this mortal coil. Funny in that it's the only real constant other than change (even taxes can be evaded...) but yet, it's something most of us don't plan for, don't really talk about, nor even actually expect, for ourselves or others. The death of a parent is often, but not always, devastating. Yet no matter the circumstances, it's one of the more significant changes each of us will experience in our lives; with it comes a different level of complexity, especially if the relationship was complicated or after a lengthy illness.

I'm not presumptuous enough to think I understand someone else's experience, and I certainly can't know what Del's family will go through. But I do know the death of a parent changes us, even if the relationship is strained. We are different. It has the capacity to bring families closer together or sever ties. It can shift our priorities and show us what's important. Mostly, it tends to bring us up-close and personal with our own mortality, our own shortcomings, our own unmet desires and regrets. It can show us, and those close to us, parts of ourselves and each other that weren't previously visible -- like the tenderness Del showed Dot, and unfamiliar or long-denied or hidden feelings that bubble from below the surface.

When my mom died, time stopped. I felt like I had a tattoo that read "mom died" on my forehead, as if this was a rite of passage that had to be marked. In between waves of grief, there's shock (at least, for a death unexpected), which is a useful thing as there are immediate decisions to be made and a laundry list of things to do. It's after all the 'things that must be done' are behind us that the reality sets in and processing begins.

Unless you're firmly in denial and prone to stuffing feelings, that's where introspection really kicks in. I went through many of the grief stages (although I find the traditional definitions of each stage lacking): anger, denial, remorse, sadness, and finally came to acceptance, despite a lingering void. But what often isn't among those official stages about grieving is relief. With her death, my mom was released from her suffering and sadness.

Grief and the time it takes to move through it -- and we do move through -- is different for all of us, but it's something we'll all experience. And from the other side of loss, I know it's worth the journey. Painful experiences can suck beyond comprehension, and many of us try to avoid them, or at least, the feelings that accompany them.

Dive in...  

Without these challenging times, we'd never experience nor understand the full spectrum of love and joy, gain empathy, nor even enjoy those quiet moments of contentment. And I believe those who left their imprint -- good and bad -- are with us always, whether from a spiritual, soul connection or a practical, in-our-DNA perspective; they help us become our best selves, even if it's "don't do as I did".

Our parents give us life, and while the best of them give us tools for living and help us become healthy, functional adults, some of us get there despite our families. And that's OK. By the time we reach a certain age, no matter our upbringing, we can be grateful, thank them and even acknowledge them for their own shortcomings. We can embrace ourselves and cherish our relationships from a place of compassion, connection and love that we may not have been able to before, even as we pine for what might have been had those relationships been different. And with their transition from this earthly plane, we can take deeper meaning from the lessons they proffered, perhaps unwittingly, and honor them by living our own lives fully, and being present to our daily experience.

Del never knew what great kids he had. Every one of them is a talented, creative, funny and extremely capable adult. I don't know if he had the depth of understanding to feel that loss. That might be the saddest thing of all.

Letter to my step-daughter

Well, this sure isn't an easy one to write, but it's been on my mind a long time. Here goes: 

Granted, it may be as many as 20 years since we've seen each other, and technically, you're not my step-daughter now. It's been more years than that since your dad and I split and you and I only saw each other a few times after that.

But that doesn't mean I haven't thought of you often. I have. You played a significant role in my life. You're 30-something now. Older than I was when we last saw each other.

So much water under that proverbial bridge.

You were eight when we met at the beach house in White Rock. Sandcastle weekend. Your dad and I reconnected the year before, and by then we were pretty enamored with each other. We'd met and dated briefly a few years earlier; we liked each other, but the distance was too much the first time around.

To be clear, there's more I could say than can or should be included in a blog post like this, but this feels like a necessary step.

It seemed like destiny.

When your dad and I got married, I was happy you were my step-daughter. I didn't have children, and you were funny, creative, sweet and smart. You lived with your mom but we liked spending time together, even though it wasn't often.

A lot happened during the years our lives were interconnected. But I want you to know that, despite all that proverbial water, you were family and I cared deeply for you. I still do, although to say I know you, or even know much about you, would be untrue. But I knew you during a formative time.

I'm glad we reconnected, even if just on Facebook (thanks for the friend request!). I'm sorry it was your loss that made it possible, but when I heard, I set aside previous hesitations to contact you, because I know what it's like to lose a mom too soon.

I was close to your age when I lost my mom. We were both too young to say goodbye; their lives were short. But I don't think the similarities stopped there. My relationship with my mom was complicated, despite how much we loved each other. That's why I sent a note to you...  I think yours was, too. And it tugged my heartstrings.

But even that isn't why I'm writing this.

There's this thing about completion...  

...about things unfinished. And I've felt unfinished with you. Early on, I felt sad, guilty, confused, concerned. Reconnecting brought some of that back up. I'm fortunate to have a life I'm truly grateful for, but there are things I've wanted to say, and never forgot.

The last time we saw each other was a year or two after you moved back to your mom's. You were living in Kamloops, so I drove up to visit you. You were busy with friends, though, as any self respecting 16-year-old would be, so we didn't have much time together. Instead I tagged along with your mom to the local bar, and left early the next day. I didn't try to contact you after that. I learned you moved back to your dad's after a couple years, and finished high school in the city. Reaching out really didn't make sense then.

That said, the point of this is...


...this post is about us, and that last year together.

Frankly, there were a lot of "shouldn't be's" during that year you lived with us. By then, you were 14 and looking for trouble--that's why you came to live with us. Ideally, you wouldn't find trouble, and trouble wouldn't find you, under the guidance of me and your dad.

Hindsight being that rear-view mirror, I saw later that it was pretty much a no-win for both you and me. Your dad was largely absent, working 16-hour days at least part of that year. I landed the role of stand-in guardian, rule-setter, school conduit, curfew enforcer, wicked step-mom, the bitch from hell... a few choice words you didn't shy away from saying. As the adult, I won't deny some of the accusations were earned; that's part of a parent's job, but... I wasn't your parent, and I overstepped (more on that later). You were rebellious, indignant and misbehaved, asserting your independence, no matter the conversations about honesty and consequences.

When you moved back to your mom's after the school year ended, our marriage went from bad to worse. While I would never say or believe you caused our break up, I'm certain that disastrous year, including my behavior, hastened it.

Those first years on my own required some intense soul searching on my part. I loved your dad. I thought we'd grow old together, together for life. I was devastated when I learned that wasn't to be; even on our last day together, he said he still loved me and we were family.

But neither of us had healthy role models for how to be in a relationship, nor how to parent. So I have a confession of sorts, and this wouldn't be worth writing if I wasn't completely honest...

First, I'm sorry. 

There were times I didn't show up as a skilled adult. I don't fault myself, but I'll own it.

So... 

At 14, terrible things happened to me. I wasn't fully aware of it then, but that history colored my experience with you. You were so grown up, or wanted to be, but you were still a kid. I was a child at 14, but I would have been really pissed off had anyone said that to me. You would have been, too. But your presence in such close proximity made me see my 14-year-old self as the child I was, not yet capable of adult decisions, nor the experience to understand consequences, and very much in need of boundaries and protection.

I'm not proud of my teenage self. Yet I have come to understand why I made the choices I did. Sometimes I'm sad about that. Unsupervised, I was a party girl, desperately looking for love and acceptance, afraid to say no, unaware that was even an option. I found myself in some precarious situations, some of which I couldn't get out of, some which caused me harm. There wasn't much I wouldn't do or try as I unconsciously sought that connection and affection. My friends were my family; you said the same of yours.

So, part of me wanted to protect you. Another part was scared--for you and for me. You reminded me of me. Except, by the time you hit your teens, the drugs were scarier, the consequences greater, and men and boys still dangerous. A lot of my friends didn't make it out; I was lucky. I didn't want anything bad to happen to you, or to me, or to us.

I wanted you to have a better experience. 

For much of our time together, I can say unequivocally I tried to be fair. Tried to tie actions with consequences. Tried to help you have a better life and give you tools and resources you weren't getting elsewhere. Tools and resources I hadn't had either, but in hindsight knew they'd have made a difference.

But it shouldn't have been me. 
That wasn't my job. 

Nothing worked. I felt threatened by your behavior and scared I could lose what I thought I had, and my actions reflected that. My early years were hard, but after many painful lessons, and a lot of self-reflection and conscious effort to do differently, I grew and changed. I felt like with your dad, I finally had something good.

I was afraid of losing that. 

After you went home, you got in trouble with your mom within a week, and your dad brought you back. I think that may have been my last straw. My coping skills disintegrated. My fear got the best of me. That year was a terrible time for all of us. I won't sugarcoat it; it challenged me on practically every level. That year -- and you -- left an imprint. I think I did a lot right, but I admit to being ashamed of my own behavior at times. Overall, I felt like I'd failed us both. I don't blame either of us. And I don't regret it. That year, our divorce, and what happened both before and after taught me more about myself, and relationships, that I couldn't learn any other way. I'm grateful for that.

But I've wondered about you. I have hoped for all things good for you. I'm sure you're still funny, creative and smart. From the outside looking in, you have a good life. And you got there on your own, with all the life lessons you gained along your journey.

Through it all, that's all I really wanted for you.

Life lessons: Courtesy, kindness and dignity

Dirty cat paws... 

My grandfather was adamant about treating people with courtesy, kindness and dignity. Didn't matter if that person collected your garbage every week, lived across the street, worked with you day in day out, cleaned your floors, sat at your table, or waited on you in a service environment. Income bracket, skin color or age didn't matter, either. He was first generation American, born to Swedish immigrants, merchant mariner, union employee, pretty standard middle class with first-rate values.

I often think of the lessons I learned from him in my current work environment as we move to a servant leadership model and focus on an overall customer experience. While those lessons were personal, they're easily adaptable.

I am very aware of how I'm treated in almost any circumstance, and if my customer service experience with a provider, service or seller is bad, I won't return. And as common research states, I'll also share that information with my immediate circle of family and friends. That said, I'll also share a good experience.

I like feeling valued. We all do. 

Here are a couple of my own customer experience examples:

• Nordstrom was my very first credit card and I've had that card longer than I'm willing to admit. They have a rewards program based on spending, like so many other retailers, but last month, I received an email message letting me know I had a surprise gift coming. And the next day, I received a $25 gift card. Not based on purchase amounts... and without any stated reason other than they valued me as a customer. Who needs a loyalty program with recognition like this. I'm in!
• Prior to leaving on vacation, I asked my gym, Olympic Health Club, if I could put my membership on hold while I was away. Turns out this is a benefit for month-to-month members only, and last December, I paid my membership dues for the entire year. I don't know how hard it would be to move my membership expiration two weeks out, or why they wouldn't want to offer more rewards to members who commit to an entire year in advance, but apparently they can't do that. This isn't my only disappointing experience with them - there have been many over the few years I've been there. While I like their pool, I think I'm done. My beaten path has plenty of other options these days. 

I think it's apparent that at my gym, I'm just another click of the member counter. Their support staff also don't seem empowered. I ask a question and they're hard-pressed to answer, and even more hard-pressed to answer like they care.

Having done brief stints in retail, restaurants and phone sales, I know I'm not cut out for that very public work. Even now I'm sometimes hard-pressed to be courteous and kind in certain circumstances (especially if I'm hungry; low blood sugar brings out my worst behavior). When I deviate from that moral stance and don't correct it, I'm not proud of myself. But as I practice being more kind, I have become mindful, and have caught myself being snarky to a grocery clerk or bank teller, called myself out, and apologized. No one deserves to be treated badly. Ever. Even flipping off a bad driver makes me give myself a little kick.


Kindness: empathy, compassion, patience 


My job keeps me behind a desk most of the time, but a computer screen doesn't shield bad attitudes or behavior. Long ago I learned that you can "hear" a smile in a phone call, or read between the lines in a message. It's not hard to be kind. And even small kindnesses go a long way, especially if someone's experiencing a difficult time. Kindness may be a tender word, a thoughtful note, an offer of help, or owning a mistake that isn't yours, but it may just mean taking a step back, listening, noticing, being patient, or taking the high road when it feels like that'll make a difference. I know how far it goes when said bank teller responds to my angst with kindness; I'm immediately diffused and apologetic. An exchange with an inexperienced, unsympathetic Barnes & Noble staff person resulted in the opposite experience. Poor guy. It's likely the only time in recent memory I haven't apologized. I think he may have been in the wrong job.

It's not hard. 

We can't possibly know what others are experiencing - even if they tell us. The annoying driver weaving in traffic? Maybe it's a family emergency. Benefit of the doubt goes a long way, too.

Ultimately, we're all in this together. And if that's not enough reason to be kind at least the majority of the time, or apologize when shit happens, kindness reduces stress - yours and that of your kindness recipients. Studies are proving it. And who can't do with a little less stress these days? Here's an Atlantic story for further reading.



What do dirty cat paws have to do with life lessons about courtesy, kindness, and dignity? My furry little friend, dignity not withstanding, gives me ample opportunity to practice patience. Even a little white cat needs lots of kindness, dirty paws and all.