Beset

“Ugh.  I need it,” is her response when I text her on Friday afternoon to ask if she wants to get a margarita.  I do, too.  If for no other reason than to knock down a little hair of the dog, salve for the vulnerability hangover I’ve been nursing all week.

She meets me at the table outdoors.  I’m salivating at the chance to unload my anxiety on her, only to discover her world has turned upside down due to the notice she received from her company earlier in the week.  She’s been unhappy in her situation for a while now, perhaps the victim of one of Corporate America’s most commonplace and deadly bait and switch tactics:  A new manager.  It’s all done with the best of intentions; the company reorganizes or is sold, and suddenly the leader you had an amazing connection with is in another job, and her replacement is not a match.

Over cucumber margaritas we discover our heads have been pounding from the same malady:  We’ve acted on the compulsion to speak a dissenting opinion to people we believe have power over us.  The choices seem impossible.  We agree our younger selves would have followed grudgingly, rendering ourselves helpless victims, stripped of empowerment or flat out ignored.  We’d probably complain to our friends, not realizing respect for leadership is eroding, and with it sucking all the joy out of a role we once coveted.  Our older selves are a different story.  Years of experience in our businesses and the business of life breed self-confidence and self-security, the ingredients in the shot of courage we slam. We challenge the situation, ask why, maintain our integrity at all costs; we say no when yes is the safer answer. We can’t stay quiet if we try, because following blindly or hitting the mute button when there’s an opening to be heard goes against the beings we’ve grown into.

But there’s no avoiding the hangover. Brene Brown, the world-famous researcher of shame and self-worth coined the term “vulnerability hangover”, the feeling of apprehension laced with a pinch of shame washing over us when we stretch outside of our comfort zone daring to express a controversial, new or dissident opinion to the world.

As we talk through our situations, we wonder how much honesty is too much?  When do we need to share less of ourselves in the name of self-preservation?  I can’t answer the question over one drink on a hot, humid, sunny afternoon, but upon further review I’ll say power raises the stakes. When we’re dealing with people in power, the shot of courage we take before saying our piece needs to be potent because the risk of losing what matters to us is real, making the hangover especially crippling.  It’s so much easier to put ourselves out there in places where we feel safe.

Eventually all hangovers dissipate, the pounding stops, our minds ease.  We’re hydrated by the pat on the back from a friend proud of the courage we displayed.  Someone who heard us simply agrees with our position. Or we acknowledge there was no way we were not saying what we said, regardless of the outcome.

The best advice I’ve come across this week was shared in the hot room at yoga.  If we want our minds to be at ease, we need to be in the present.  Worrying about the future and replaying the past can pitch us into turmoil. Instead of ruminating on all that was said in your moment of vulnerability, take a minute to find a safe place to speak your fears (maybe over a margarita with a friend), and let the present move you on.   

Compass

He texts me to find out if I’m spending the afternoon in my art studio. When he discovers I am, he asks if he and the baby can come over and hang out.  Mama is enjoying a change of scenery, putting in a few hours at a part-time job. An hour later he shows up with a backpack slung over his shoulder (the new, hip diaper bag) and his precious cargo buried under blankets in the basket he’s ejected from its base, anchored in the car for safe travel. He looks exhausted, admitting this is the first time he’s spent an entire day alone caring for his child.

It’s tender and sweet and endearing. He’s not complaining by any stretch. It’s more like he’s shell-shocked, in the way your new first-grader looks when he comes home on Day One and falls asleep at the dinner table, overwhelmed by the havoc paying rapt attention and following new rules wrecks on a system conditioned to move at a much less demanding and looser pace.

My son just turned 23, an age I considered far too young for myself to be a parent.  But when I compare him to my own father, who was just 25 when I was born, I begin to realize he’s not too young to find his way.  Sure, the world is dramatically different today. Everything costs more, the pull of wanting more and living beyond your means is more persistent and prevalent than ever. We’re a conflicted nation, mortally afraid of robots or immigrants stealing our means to make a living. And what I find most sad, the puzzle pieces of humanity lay in a jumbled pile, dormant on the table of our society:  The perpetual, unfounded fear of our differences preventing us from picking up the unique pieces and fitting them together to make an unstoppable whole.

But when I look back to the mid-1960’s when my own father was launched into parenthood, our country was just as violently divided and volatile as it is today, maybe even more so.  The Vietnam war pitted Americans against each other; the weapons of the civil rights battle reduced to spitting on our fellow humans and assassinating public figures who presented the means and the passion to make change.

 
What’s been comforting and stable for me across these four generations is our family values.  I celebrate the joy I see in my son’s heart as he drinks in all being a father means to him.  I see him yearning to create the family he pictures in his mind’s eye.  It’s not lost on me that he has aching gaps from his own childhood he’s determined to fill.  Don’t we all?  I admire his conviction in himself to be the change he wants to see in his world.

And I’m grateful for all my father was able to teach me. We single mothers like to claim we can do it all ourselves.  It makes us feel better for the impossible choice we make when we concede to divorce and allows us to forgive ourselves just a tiny bit for not being up to the challenge of co-parenting.My father gave me a far richer and diverse point of view to pass on. 

Even though he’s less than a year into this, I catch glimpses of my own father in my son.  The way he has embraced his responsibility to support his family, improving his own position with a new job with benefits.  The moves he’s made to nest in a safe and healthy neighborhood.  The games he plays to make his baby smile and laugh.  The way he glows with pride when he looks at his child.

Happy Father’s Day to the new father I carried, bore and raised, and to the father who raised me.  In a world where very little is certain, I’m certain fathers pass a steady guiding light down through the generations, a light that’s solidly anchored in our souls, the one that tells us we have it within ourselves to find the way. 

     

Besotted

Sauntering down the hallway in a simple black cocktail dress, I plant myself in front of the TV he’s watching and ask what he thinks.  All this primping, packing and parading of fashion is an undertaking in itself, often requiring a complete inventory of the closet to suss the proper clothing:   Those pieces appearing professional yet casual, stylish yet comfortable, somehow insulating me inside air conditioned spaces while at the same time suitable in the sunshine and warmth outside; the ones that (wishfully) shave a few pounds and a few years off this vessel carrying me around.   It’s a tall order and my closet usually fails me, meaning if time allows I’ll make a half-hearted attempt to acquire some resort wear guaranteed to gather dust in my closet after the trip.  I’m curating my wardrobe for a 3-day business conference in Florida, and I’m exhausted.  

These events are a huge financial investment for my employer, a concentrated time commitment, an overload of opportunities for connection and teeming with more relevant and insightful information than any one human can possibly consume.  We’re in front of everybody who’s anybody in the organization.  Of course, we want to have practiced our elevator pitches and brand statements and be armed with a set of intriguing questions to ask the many new faces we’ll meet.  We need to be personable and witty, engaged but not overly serious, humble while channeling a little hubris, as this is the time to put our greatness on display. The pressure to look your best and be your best from the 6AM 5K run to the wee hours of the morning wherever cocktails are served is palpable. 

I have a love-hate relationship with these events.  I’ve slogged out of many conferences on the last day, feeling like the most plain, average, uninspiring woman on the planet, comparing myself to the beautiful people who have somehow struck exactly the right chord, looking totally comfortable in their chic elegance, while my resort wear hides in my suitcase because I can’t bring myself to don such foreign attire.  Everyone else seems to be in all the right conversations and at complete ease, lost in riveting dialogue with people they barely know.  All this culminates in award winners hailed in tear-jerking videos for not only their flawless work but selfless volunteering and unwavering devotion to their families. 

Oh, the stories I tell myself about not seeking out enough connections, not enticing enough meaningful conversations, not asking enough questions, not staying up late enough to network, or staying up too late and choosing sleep over breakfast in a ballroom with a slew of colleagues.  Everywhere I look there is an opportunity to tell myself I am less than. 

What my experience at these events tells me is if I want to thrive I need to call upon the powerful sense of self-love I’ve been religiously cultivating for the last several years. Working in such an amazing culture of incredibly smart, organized, prepared, thoughtful and caring leaders means there will always be room to doubt myself.  Even though I’ve been strengthening  my self-love muscle for years, it inevitably buckles under the sheer weight of the convergence of so much excellence under a single roof.   So, the question becomes how do I rekindle the romance, remind myself about all there is I love about me so I can ward off the ferocious feelings of inadequacy that threaten to take me down? 

This time I dug deep into my reserves and brought to the forefront me at my very best.  I not only wrote my own story, I told my story, and the dividends I reaped are priceless.  I helped a struggling colleague find her energy reserve to keep going in a tough job.  I used my superpowers of inquisition to facilitate a lively and thoughtful conversation I was asked to moderate.  I listened to an old friend tell the tale of his recent divorce.  I met the families of our award winners and shared my own views about what makes their loved one so special to me.  I spoke out about some behaviors I have observed that run counter to our culture.  I encouraged another to make the very courageous choice to speak up about a colleague in trouble, opening the door to some much-needed help.   I found a deeper clarity of my purpose in this organization and shared it out loud.  Instead of wishing I was more like the others in the room, I owned what makes me different, and in being brave enough to tell my story I was rewarded with respect, even reverence.  

Sitting in my middle seat on the airplane flying home I’m determined to finish this piece and post before this Valentine’s Day comes to a close. There isn’t a better day of the year to reinforce the power of self-love, to recount our own love stories in hopes of inspiring others to give themselves this very special gift.  

I was not the most glamorous, the smartest, the most vocal or most connected person at the conference.  Not only did I skip breakfast one day, I didn’t even sign up for the 5K.  At the end of the day it wasn’t about quantity, it was about quality.  I took risks. I spoke my mind. I wore the black cocktail dress he gave the thumbs up to.  And I didn’t even bother to pack resort wear.  

Positraction

Technically, I’m the mentor, but what I love about these relationships is the moment my group of mentees enquires about what’s happening in my world I don’t hesitate to the turn the tables and ask for their take on a troubling situation that’s hurled me and my car into a ditch. They represent everything a good mentor should:  They’re removed from the organization I’m involved in. My future success doesn’t depend on them in any way, shape, or form.  I can be my most authentic, letting my hair down in its most disheveled, tangled mess with no threat of running into any characters outside this trusted circle in this unpolished, unapologetic state.

 

Each one of the three contributes a sliver of solid perspective, a glimmering nugget which I turn over and over in thoughtful consideration while deciding how I ultimately want to show up. A veritable roadside assistance crew, they are instrumental in helping me put my vehicle back onto the pavement. 

They suggest I keep an open mind, presume the uninvited protagonist entering the pages of my story comes confident in my abilities and ready to advocate. What could happen if I assume her intentions are good?  If I give her the benefit of the doubt, entertain the possibility she might just be a jughead, ignorant or naïve about how she is landing on me.

   

They ask me to consider what a personal win looks like to my new foil. How do I make myself as valuable to her as anyone can in these circumstances?  Could focusing on what makes her tick help me feel more comfortable about my own standing?

Reflecting on their sage advice, it dawns on me I’ve been very myopic, intent on my own insecurities. My old, demonic nemesis, Perfectionism, rearing her ugly head yet again, demanding I shore up every aspect of my responsibilities, admonishing me for any inadequacies, marginalizing the places I shine by intimating they neither matter nor are valued, suggesting my biggest weakness is the only chapter of the story anyone is reading.  Ultimately bolstering the perpetual fear I’m one day away from being put out to pasture.

 

With this clarity I’m able to put into action my mentees’ most powerful message. They reinforce the concept of focusing on my strengths, of doing more of what I do best:  Asking questions to induce her to reflect on how she is showing up, to suss an alternative point of view, to open the lines of communication. “You are the master of these questions,” they tell me.  How do I use this skill to tamp down my own rising resentments and pave a positive experience on the road I’m now traveling as Tonto instead of The Lone Ranger?

The professionals sharing research on people development tell us the data suggests we get far more bang for our buck by ameliorating our strengths instead of trying to improve our weaknesses.  So, it shouldn’t surprise me that when I’m stuck, sending more power to the place where I have the most traction will ultimately catapult me out of the mud.

 

It’s the shining moment in the movie “My Cousin Vinny” when Marissa Tomei, as the glam Italian girlfriend, is on the witness stand using her experience growing up in a family full of mechanics to define the word for Joe Pesci’s bumbling amateur defense attorney, and with it, winning the case for the yutes.

 

And so I’m determined to make it my shining moment, too.  I focus on returning to my bedrock, the dependable and infinite well of my strengths, pressing the accelerator to the floor without letting up.  It may feel like overkill in this moment, but what I know for sure is this extra power is everything my tender, bruised ego needs to burnish in my next chapter, back on solid ground. 

Shift

I am a navel gazer, a merciless self-hazer, a sensitive blazer, a sharp razor afraid to shave what doesn’t serve me from my tender, aging skin.  

I do this every January. I dedicate some days and nights of this drowsy and bitter cold month to get clear on how I’ll spend the new year upgrading the operating system of my soul, moving a little bit closer to the version I think I’m meant to be; then packaging my fixes in a pocket-size artist’s book I can carry with me for download from any location. 

I have always been upward-heading, skin-shedding, water-treading, coating myself in any breading this corporate world expects of its most promising and successful charges. 

But it’s different this year. I’m considering the plateau I’ve been camping on for several years.  I have always just assumed this would be a weekend stay, a few nights acclimating at base camp, and then onward with my ascent.  But the air is getting thinner at this elevation and circumstances are speaking to me in a language I’ve never heard before, a soft whispered question “what if you just stayed put?”

And so I become a ruthless assessor, an inquisitive professor, an emboldened confessor of everything I ever thought I wanted to do better. 

After dancing around the idea for months, one sleepless night shows me the goals I’ve been working toward aren’t important to me anymore.  Maybe they belong to someone else?  My quest to broaden my interests and invest time in them has sent me on a slow but insistent drift from the now faded umbrella I planted in the sand many years ago.  I’m in a different place now.  

And so I imagine what it might be like to be a tub soaker, a breezy toker, the blessed stoker of the creative fire a higher power ignited decades ago and has waited ever so patiently to see burn brightly. 

I’m going to be better at what matters to me, and care less about what doesn’t. I’m going to consider what and who I give my precious time to.  I’m going to steep in all that brings me joy so I have joy to return to others. I’m going to gather around me all I find beautiful in this world. I’m going to free myself to be me. I’m going to practice gratitude for a life full of abundance and choice. 

I am a stargazer, a herd hazer, a trail blazer, a stinging razor cutting through the great wide open in search of the dark sky where my stars brilliantly shine.  

Restive

The revolution, it stirs ever so quietly within me.  Despite the uneasiness at my core I often don’t realize I’m rebelling as its happening. It’s not until I recount my visceral reaction that it dawns on me.  Phrases like “we’re not doing that” or “over my dead body” spew from my lips. As I consider how I’ll present my objections I’m gripped with fear that the value system my beliefs are pinned upon has been kidnapped without a demand for ransom, our culture and everything I stand for bound and gagged in the trunk of a getaway car speeding off unnoticed by those who should so fiercely protect this stolen treasure.

Is it an overreaction?  Sure, it is.  I ask for some unbiased opinions and it’s suggested I think positively; we don’t have any evidence yet to confirm my mounting suspicions.  I’m also advised to do what I do best:  Engage my adversaries in a shrewd line of questioning to prompt some reflection and to seek understanding.

 

At the end of the day, whatever the outcome, I know this is simply a sign I’ve grown. The fact that I have an opinion about how the situation was handled and feel passionately about being heard tells me so. On the brink of mutiny, that’s when I know I’ve yet again come into bounty.

The poet Mary Oliver passed away this week.  As social media presents to me the many paying homage, I recall her poetry, so lithe and sage; prolific work connecting humans and nature, beckoning us to answer the ceaseless knell to be ourselves.

I feel this uprising more than ever in my artistic life.  Every escape to my studio is another log thrown onto the fire fueling my creative soul. I don’t know if I’m destined to make a living with my art, but I do know for sure I’m meant to make a statement. It’s a calling impossible to ignore.  And I answer in earnest.

“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”  -- Mary Oliver