It snuck up on me before I even realized it. I was walking into yoga, my mat rolled under my arm, minding my own business, and out of nowhere there appeared a perfectly beautiful specimen of a woman. She was tall and thin with her hair smoothed back into a neat ponytail. She was elegant and drop-dead gorgeous. And her body? Ridiculous. Before I could even take in the entire spectrum of her prettiness, my stomach started to churn, my shoulders dropped, my eyes sank, and my feet wanted to run back to my car. Just the mere sight of such a beast of beauty made me want to cower and hide.
Heartbreaks and Triumphs
I think I have PTSD from Valentine's Day. Those years spent as a single mom were some of the best years of my life but also some of the most lonely and painful. When every magazine, TV show and social network was bantering on about romance, I just wanted to slink off and hide until the whole thing was over with.
Don't get me wrong, I did great things with my daughter. We'd go out to dinner and to the movies. We'd get flowers and decorate the dining room table. I did my best to create a version of Valentines Day that worked for us. But honestly, it still hurt.
How to Find Balance
Balance? Are you kidding me? Is that even a thing?
Work-life balance seems to be not only my own nemesis, but just might be the great white whale of our time. It's the thing that we are constantly seeking to conquer, yet never quite able to attain. We wish that there was some kind of magical pie chart that would show us the exact proportions of a life well-lived, but in my experience, the math never really adds up in real life.
I work twelve hour days, seven days a week. I wake up before dark just to get my four miles in before the kids wake up. On any given day, I've got three companies to run, yoga to practice, reading to catch up on, and any spare minute is squirreled away for my writing projects. My husband and I high-five each other on the way out the door in the morning and pass out on the couch hours before the kids put themselves to bed. (Sexy, I know.)
The Power of a Beautiful Question
Every January I take some time to look back over the previous year. I reflect on what went well and the aspects that I liked. I look at the challenges of the previous year, what was difficult and how I can rise above those challenges in the upcoming year. This past year was a demanding work year for me. I worked more hours, in more locations, with more intensity than ever before. Yet, reflecting back on how much energy I've been expending, I still feel like I'm not keeping up. At the end of the day, I'm still collapsing into bed with the nagging feeling that I could have and should have done more.
I've spent the past week journaling, studying and reflecting on my priorities, my desires and on the overall vision that I want to create for 2016. What I found is that I had forgotten the importance of one of the most basic (yet life-changing) life coaching tools available: the power of a beautiful question.
What to Do if Your Daughter Hates You
Divorce is horrible. And unfortunately, it's even more terrible for our children. This week, one of my students posted on my online forum asking for help. Her tween daughter is unhappy which means she is unhappy. My student is newly divorced and their entire lives have been upended. Once having lived in the expansive stretch of a McMansion, now living in a tiny two-room apartment. Her daughter complains about the apartment, the clothes, the new life. The mom feels guilty and ashamed and is grasping for anything she can do to help her daughter feel safe. Feel loved. Feel like it's all going to be okay.
I remember what this was like. I remember that first year, living in my little house. I remember the tears, night after night, as I tried to put my inconsolable daughter to bed. I remember her fury and her heartbreak.
"You've stolen my happiness," she told me.
A Mother's Loss
It happened again.
I watched my daughter get out of the car, sling her backpack over her shoulder and run after some friends. I watched as she crossed the busy street to the inner sanctum of junior high. She was laughing, face to the sky, hair flying in the wind, so beautiful that time seemed to stand still just for her.
I sat in my car watching, waiting for her to look back in my direction, if even for a second.
She did. She always does. A smile and a secret wave saying, "Bye, I love you."
Ask A Better Question
At some point over the last few months, I decided to not have fun.
I don't know if it was the aftermath of several back-to-back work events, moving to a new home, an extraordinary and unexpected tax bill, pouring myself into writing a new book, or saying "I do" and settling into a new life. But at some point, I unconsciously decided to get serious.
As if I wouldn't do these things if I allowed myself to be happy in the meantime. As if my seriousness would make me more efficient, more successful, better at getting-shit-done. Somewhere along the line, I fell into my old habit of living life as one never-ending checklist and seeing each day as the hamster wheel that gets me no closer to what I'm truly wanting.
The House That Built Me
I'm sitting on the cold terra cotta tile floor. My finger tracing grey squares of gritty grout. The sun's warmth opens all the white lilies that line the deck, not strong enough, even on the sultriest of days, to bring this floor to even a corpse-like temperature. Its cold seeps through my jeans now and I laugh through tears. Thinking of how many times I've cursed that cold tile. Sucking the life force out of my feet for the past five winters. And even so, how I remained barefoot most of the year.
This beautiful floor. The hardness of it is highlighted by our quiet echoed conversation. Its unwillingness to bend or comfort. It had a job to do and it didn't get caught up in softening a blow to a foot or to a head. It was unconcerned with offering warmth or pliability.
It held this house together. And it kept us suspended and supported in this place.
What We Touch
I am holding a beautiful Wedgewood porcelain tea pot.
I found it high up and way in the back of the kitchen cabinet during my move.
This beautiful thing.
I don't know its history. When it was purchased. Who it served.
I don't know if it holds happy memories. Or terrible ones. I don't know if it held hopes and dreams of beautiful dinner parties. Or if it has served an army of broken hearts, mistrusts and betrayals.
I only know that it has been carefully stored. And that it is not mine.
And that I am sure it has stories to tell.
The #1 Gift You Should Never Accept
Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results. Einstein defined this as insanity.
I define this as...
The holidays.
Trying to create the Pinterest-perfect-Rockwellian holiday, we hurry and worry. We compare and despair. It's as if we've turned the holidays into a competitive sport. Social media being the judge and jury. And the harder we train, and the tougher our game. The worse we feel.
We hold ourselves to the standard of being thin, happy, rich, gracious, grateful, cheerful, merry and bright, while the kids must all get along, and the cards need to be sent on time, and the dog needs to stop eating the ornaments off the tree (or maybe that's just at my house). Which makes us highly susceptible to receiving gifts that we should never accept in the first place.