Bloom.

When I was growing up, I worked at the neighborhood pool as a lifeguard and swim lesson instructor. I loved it. I loved the people I worked with, the hours were good, and the pay was great.

For lessons, I did one session with toddlers and it was miserable. I wasn’t great at it and hated how all the kids sat– blue and chattering– on the side of the pool as they waited their turn to get dunked… and, subsequently, cry. I asked for a change and in the next session I was paired to teach with my great friend Rachel and we got the second thru fourth graders.

These kids could swim a length of the pool and go off the board, but were looking to sharpen their strokes, learn flip turns, and how to dive. This was my sweet spot. I was good at it and had a lot of fun. These were kids who you could mess with a little and cheer on. They were kids who came to find me later in the day, when I was in the guard chair, to show me what they were working on, ask me to rate their cannon ball splash, or tell me the latest gossip from the playground during adult swim.

And, not surprisingly, Rachel and I made a great team as instructors. I can’t wait until we are old ladies and do something job-wise together again.

One morning, as we waited for our class to arrive at our designated spot in the deep end, I sat on the grated edge with my shins in the water. Two little girls– longtime “pool rats” as the guards lovingly called any kid who spent literally all day, everyday at the pool– came up to me and announced, “Look Claire! We did our hair just like you!”

I squinted up at the little girls, one tall and lanky the other short, and saw that they had styled their hair in an attempted messy ball, right on top of their heads.

Normally the girls would come to the 10 AM class with their bed head hair down, making learning flip turns a mess. But this morning, the girls looked different with their bangs out of their faces. I reached for the mess of thick hair on top my my head and realized… their hair was like mine. On purpose.

The way I threw up my hair- right on top of my head- was a style to them. A style that might make them look older or cooler and they wanted to try it.

As the weeks wore on I noticed they would stride in with rolled up cheer shorts, messy buns and one day they both arrived in big, glittery drug store sun glasses. I pushed the bridge of the sparkly white Fossil shades I splurged on with the summer’s first paycheck ($60…! I still remember!) up my nose and smiled.

It was funny and I didn’t mind it. I have a younger sister so I knew a few things about imitation.

As I headed off to freshman year of college in August these girls shared that they were going to be Rachel and me for Halloween. We both passed on our guard whistles and new, “.edu” email addresses and told them they better send a picture.

They did.

They were us for Halloween.

I remember corresponding a bit via email that first semester with them… and I really, really hope I wasn’t an idiot sharing how I went to a fraternity date party for Halloween dressed as a devil while my date was an angel.

After a little while, the emails fizzled off. (Or, maybe I did share my Halloween plans and their parents– the email address holder– thought, “Nope. No more. Not the role model we thought she was…”)

I can’t even remember the girls names. And, they probably can’t remember mine. But, I have thought about them a bit in the last year, thinking they must be something like… twenty two? Twenty three? Are they doing okay with quarantine? Did they lose their senior year? Their first job?

Or… are they roasting me on TikTok?

Are they– sweet little things as they were– telling me and my peers that our side parts and skinny jeans label us old when just a few years ago (you know, in 2005…) they were imitating me with the purpose of looking… older?

My poor mid-thirty millennial peers are in a tizzy over this. It’s allllll over social media. Cries of” “You can pry my skinny jeans off my old, dead body!” “Why would I take advice from the generation that ate Tide Pods?” And, the ever self righteous: “I don’t care about trends I have bigger things to worry about.”

Even The Cut did an article titled, “Side Parts Are For Olds?”

I have many thoughts.

(Of course I do.)

For one, I love a lot of the anti-anti-aging commentary out there. The, “I don’t care’s” and “what is great about your thirties is that you are no longer worried about what is cool.”

I like this. And, it is true! It is great and freeing to know there are bigger things than this and that you have found a sense of style that you love and are comfortable in. In our mid thirties, we have seen some shit (good and bad) and tried things (good and bad) before. We also have spent more time in our bodies, doing work to appreciate it, celebrate it and understand our own comfort and fit.

But, I don’t think that means we should stop.

I never want to be a person who claims I am “too old” to learn or know or care or try. I never want to grow out of learning and experimenting. I want to stay curious and play, just like those little girls at the pool did with their messy buns. And, just like I did this past fall when I parted my hair in the center and purchased a pair of flares from Madewell… and liked it.

My hair is still thick (and often in that signature messy bun), but when curled and parted on the side I sometimes look… Shirley Temple-like. It is too much. Too done. But, on me, curls and a center part looks balanced and right… And, as a bonus, it camouflages the gray streak that flares up on the right side of my head at about five weeks post-color.

However, when straight? And, center parted? It’s a little Wednesday Adams. So, then I part it on the side.

The flares are awesome and make me feel tall, especially when paired with booties or a small heel instead of the flip flops we tried to make work with them in our youth. But, I still have my skinny jeans for when I need to slip into my– cover your eyes, fashionista’s– UGGS.

It’s fun to try things, especially things like this because the stakes are low. If it doesn’t work, it’s not a big deal. You can opt out. But, you also have the opportunity for something to be great.

As we age, we get the great privilege of knowing ourselves more and better. We get the understanding of knowing what works well for us and what makes us happy. And, this goes well beyond fashion and trends. But, no matter what, I don’t think we should be so quick to dismiss things just because of this claim to “really know” ourselves and the world already and especially to just write things off because it comes from a younger generation.

I want to stay sharp on trends and technology, not to seem hip; but, because things are popular (most of the time) for a reason. I want to stay grounded in this curiosity and always be interested in life.

While, I want to have my own style and for that to be a style that is classic, yet playful and comfortable, yet chic; I also want to stay excited about things that are new and catching buzz. I want to play and experiment with my clothes and hair, but also with so much more than just my clothes and hair. I want to be aware and wise because sometimes these things and this new generation– as trivial as they seem on the surface– do really move the needle.

And if all of that sounds too PollyAnna, I will leave you with this, the reason I told you the whole story upfront: I don’t think these girls mom’s were looking to the lifeguard going on and on about the fraternity date party for fashion advice.

Just saying.

But, maybe, just maybe, those moms did try on a pair of white, sparkly sunglasses as they passed though Macy’s… Just to see what they were like.

To give it a try.

To play a little.

To smile.

And, who knows? Maybe they surprised themselves and liked it.

Join me on the Podcast today as I dive a little into this, the Carhartt Beanie and great influencers for those in their mid-thirties.

In today’s news cycle, it feels like the Inaguration is very old news. But, it was just a few weeks ago. And, it was beautiful.

Can we go back there for a moment?

Okay, great.

So, I wasn’t expecting much given COVID and all the extra security measures needed after January 6th. In mid-January, The Daily reported that Kamala and Joe really wanted to do things outside and as normal as possible. It would be a message of sorts in their eyes. Deep in my anxiety and blasé mood, I thought, “They don’t really have to do that. Just do the thing in a room, safe and sound.”

But, I didn’t realize how good it would be for me– and for a lot of us– for them to carry on with the pomp and circumstance of it all.

In a weird reality of life, I ended up watching from the dentist chair because I obviously wasn’t thinking about the Inauguration back in July when I scheduled my appointment. But, it was actually great. I am not sure I would have sat still and watched it otherwise because… what is sitting still?

The brightness and color of that day totally lifted my mood. I even made a my first TikTok inspired by it.

And, it wasn’t just me.

Everyone seemed lighter, brighter and hopeful. On my newsfeed I saw selfies with champagne, shoutout’s to Michelle Obama and her perfect pantsuit, quote cards with the fantastic words of Amanda Gorman, and lots of Bernie memes. God, those were good, right?!

I also saw many mom’s sharing the moment with their daughters.

Cries of joy, pride and actual, real tears saying things like, “See what you can become!” and “Isn’t it great?! She will only ever know life with a woman in power.”

When I was ten, I (slightly embarrassingly…) put out the dream to be the first female president in a quote in the 5th grade paper. So, I love this.

Even Competitive Me loves this. 1. Because I took myself out of the path to that race a long time ago. And, 2. Because even if I hadn’t, I still wouldn’t be eligible. And, 3. It is past time. That Wednesday in January was a great day for putting on your best shoes and dancing on all the broken glass a la Annie Lennox.

But, you know who I thought of the most that day?

Not my daughter.

But, my son.

After the 2016 Inauguration I was lost and perplexed and I wrote an essay that landed me in one of my most admired publications, Cherry Bombe. Then, it was early, and I didn’t have the words for things like “patriarchy” and “misogny” in my everyday vocabulary; but, I felt it. And, truth be told, I was scared. I was scared because I knew that is what Donald Trump represented and was celebrated for according to some people. They thought these things made him strong. Made him a leader. Made him a “man.”

I had a brand new son and I knew I would do my best teaching him to lead with love and service. I would make it clear that a girl can do anything he can and vice versa, be it sports, spelling bees or laundry. In my writing I used the parallel of cooking because cooking for people and yourself is a life skill, not a gender role.

But, I worried so much about what the world, his peers and our country’s leaders would teach him about being a boy.

I worried that he would grow up in a time that told him to be a leader he had to be like that one.

At the time, the country was screaming “The future is female” because there had to be another way. I even made that part of the title asking, “If the future is female, what does that mean for my young son?” I got flack for that headline whittling it down to, “It’s like when people say ‘all lives matter’ in response to BLM. Of course, all lives matter. But, black people are dying deproptionatly to white.”

I whole heartily get what BLM means. And this comparison is the same frame work as my question. Because yes, while women were (and still are) disproportionally underrepresented in the highest office, there were (and still are) many fantastic role models in great positions of power.

The men in position of power that seemed to be making the news? They were no role model.

In my words, I was trying to also have the conversation about recognizing this. To live as a feminist, but also believing that the world and its women need strong men. My fear was that in the noise of the shouts and examples on TV, boys would only see this cruel way of leadership or silence and I knew there was another way.

Joe Biden is not a hero. He is flawed and human and not everyone’s cup of tea.

But, on Inauguration Day I thought, “See what you can become!”

My son. Do you see it? You can be a leader that puts in time and tries, loses and tries again. A leader that faces tough personal adversity, yet still serves. A leader that is strong and soft at the same time. A leader that listens and welcomes others into the conversation. A leader that taps an individual of great experience– even if someone like them has never done it– and says, “I need your help and I want you to be right beside me.”

No matter what side of the aisle you sit, that is leadership. And, a man– or woman– who believes in service of others, shows resilience, acts with strength and kindness, who listens and asks for help, feedback and builds a team is a fantastic role model.

It was a great day for our daughters… and our sons.

PS- It doesn’t hurt that these boys will also only know a life with a woman in power too.

The domestic terrorist attack at the capitol last week was frightening, bizarre and so saddening. I have thoughts, opinions and fears about so much that has been brought to light that day and in the days after. I have more thoughts, opinions and fears about the terrible worldview that I unfortunately already knew existed in some groups of people. But, one of the more interesting thoughts I had was how social media played a supporting character in it all.

Social media platforms have become a weird place since March. 

Good, life giving, and important at times.

Other times, it’s been harsh, awkward, polarizing and even mean out there on the old internet.

There has been quarantine tips and gripes. Many arguments about the importance of masks and black lives, of course. But, also the always present posting to follow along with someone’s MLM “journey,” babies born and babies lost, weddings canceled and revisited, weight loss side by sides (good for you, you quarantine overachievers…), at home cooking shows, and all the Live video my Instagram Story bar can handle.

It’s been a lot. It’s all just been— noisy and kind of exhausting.

But, it was on social media where I learned— as my stomach did an actual flipflop— the mob had breeched the capitol and where I spent much of the next few hours trying to learn more. I scrolled and shared and refreshed and read. And, then in the days that followed I learned that this source of information had been a tool.

A tool for the terrorist organizers.

And, a tool for judging the value systems of those with larger platforms. Or, influencers as they are most often called.

Like the message that was clear in June: Silence on the subject is tolerance.

Since March, I have paid special, more critical attention to influencers because it was in March that I began chipping away at a book proposal and having conversations with literary agents. And, basically what I have been told is that if I want to have any chance at getting traditionally published, I need to build a following on social media. A large, engaged following in the literal hundreds of thousands. I need a platform, an audience, a niche, expertise and influence in that space on the internet.

As a mid-millennial, I am an internet native. I have been on social media for years. From AIM to MySpace and Live Journal. To Facebook and Instagram. I even was an early-ish user (not creator) of TikTok. So I have seen the rise of the “influencer.” I have been a “blogger” since 2013 and I have been in workshops, conversations and coaching’s on “building a platform.” 

I know how to do it, in theory. I just… don’t do it.

It’s all very self indulgent and it makes me nervous and even feel a little icky. It never felt genuine to practice some of the gimmicks like “Quick Poll! Vanilla or Chocolate Ice Cream?” or “Double tap if you are ready for Happy Hour too!” to get engagement. I don’t like the idea of listing upwards of 30 hashtags at the end of a caption, but I get why they are used. (In fact, I use them as a search tool often.) I don’t want to give a play-by-play of my day. For one, it’s not exciting and that takes me out of the moment. But, more importantly, it’s not safe. I don’t want to post on vacation leaving evidence that we are not home or that you can find me at the gym at 5AM or this particular coffee shop every Friday. (In pre covid days… ah, coffee shop Fridays. I miss you. 5AM gym session… not so much.)

Much of the idea behind growing a platform is to create sharable content. So a strategy is to talk and post about a brand in hopes that they share it on their platform. I don’t shop often so “try on hauls” or even tagging brands isn’t a great avenue for me. Much of the food we eat is from our own farm and I have not decorated the house in over seven years. (Although, that is changing. I have the seven year itch bad.) Even tagging books is tricky because so much of what I read is digital and from the library. That doesn’t make for the most Instagram-worthy photo. 

Oh, and then there is the whole photography thing. I do not do that right. (Neither does Adam. I stopped asking long ago.) I never could quite do food photography well because 1. Talent, skill, practice, etc. And, 2. It just seemed so wasteful. And, when it comes to sharing a good old fashioned selfie, I am more a “6” than a “10” so my mug all over my feed seems ridiculous.

But, the trickiest piece of all of this for me is the whole idea of finding a niche and establishing expertise there, especially as it relates to the book I am working on. It is about the transition to motherhood and how my experience was “clunky” to say it in just one word. On the surface, it looks like a book about birth and maybe even the health complications that can follow birth.

So I could share quote cards about rates of preeclampsia, its symptoms and feelings a new mom might have if they are fighting PPA/PPD. I could engage in that space and become a thought leader.

But, I don’t want to.

I want to share my story, but I don’t want to live in the space of new babyhood for a career. I want o raise awareness and encourage women to listen to their bodies and be their own advocate. I will look to candidates supporting families of all kinds and stronger maternity and paternity leave. I want to have real, deep conversations about our experiences, heartache, growth and hopes; but, I want these conversations to go beyond motherhood and postpartum. These are the kind of conversations I want to live in.

But, what about the gal who I follow because I like her style? Or the account I follow because of her cute dog? Or, the woman sharing iPad tips? What about the many food and garden platforms in my feed? These gals have niched down and I follow them for that niche. Do I want them to say something about the major event last week? Do I need them to also be a source of information on politics and current events?

Many people seemed to demand yes. I saw influencers called out for being quiet, going on as business as usual, saying they were upset about everything, but taking time to think offline and especially for expressing the desire for unity because, oh man, was that the cop-out of the century.

Even this was met by the masses as not enough and worthy of a rallying cry for the rest to unfollow.

Listen, I don’t put too much stock into follows. And, as a gal who follows and unfollows on the regular to protect my head, heart and newsfeed clutter: Do whatever you want. But, to basically say, “How dare you entertain me and then not also say the exact right thing at the exact right moment” seemed unfair.

In in the spirit of full disclosure, I had to look up the definition of “insurrection” and double check the pronunciation “coup” last week. My last government class was fifteen years ago and I grew up and into adulthood with the rhetoric of “you don’t talk about money or politics.” (I even wrote about it here just two years ago.)

A lot has happened in the world and me in the last two years. These words and situations are things I fortunately have not needed to know and January 6th was the first time I witnessed either. Had I been the influencer agents tell me I need to become, it would have felt hard to know what to say because there is this huge pressure to say it right and first. Bonus points if it’s sharable.

However.

Just because knowing the right terminology and understanding immediately what was really happening was hard, there are things that were easy to see and say that day. 

Some of it is thanks to my learning in the last few years; but, also just knowledge from Day One of being a human on this earth full of other humans. It is easy for me to call the insurrection of the Capital dangerous, wrong, hypocritical and so sad. It is so simple to say that the people brandishing symbols of hate in that space— and let’s be clear, anywhere— is pure evil. And, that the president’s words after the facts were so upsetting (yet, not surprising) and his complete lack of claiming any responsibility is not what a leader does. (Again, not surprising.)

To ask for unity and peace? Nope.

Nope. Call that what that is. Evil. Wrong. Intolerable. I am as glass half full as any Enneagram 7 could get, but to reach for peace and unity with people who actually wish subgroups of humans dead? Plain and simple. No.

I don’t even want to have a conversation on it.

Which is weird for me.

But, to not give someone time to think and even just understand what they were seeing, hearing and learning in real time, perhaps for the first time, seems to be asking the impossible. No one can be expected to know things they have not been taught. No one should be expected to have all the answers or even just something wise to say about something they have never experienced.

I think there are parts of this that are crystal clear. But, there are others that are murky just because it’s new, but not new. Scary and weird and, at times, grey. Those are the conversations I want to live in.

When I do my best thoughts on what Bloom is as a “niche” or “brand” is that it is a state of becoming or a way of being. You are not the bud, but not the full blown flower either. You are learning, growing, and trying. You ask questions, you listen and are curious. Staying put or getting “there” is not the goal. You are in the messy middle where the work is done and conversation is had and growth is happening. 

And it is not a bad place to be. 

I think we need to give people the opportunity to bloom and, perhaps, even at times demand it. Especially of ourselves.

• 

Join Claire on the podcast today as she shares her thoughts on this quote and how there is a connection to influencers as they are in the business of human interests. As well as a challenge to take on some of the energy we all found in the early part of the 2010s as Pinterest made it’s mark and bring it into today. Learning new things, reading new blogs, creating and trying, and finding new people to follow.

Earlier this month, my sister shared this thing that gets into your Spotify and gives you a (sarcastic) assessment of your taste in music. It was funny and scary accurate. Although, I did not appreciate the AI’s high horse ‘tude for the one and only artist who single handedly saved 2020: Her royal highness Taylor Swift.

It asked me if I listen to 22 “ironically.” As someone who constantly oscillating between happy, free, confused and lonely, I said unironically, “No.”

Obviously.

I was also mocked by this robot for the amount of Disney music and show tunes played in 2020. This was not surprising considering my account’s most played song this year was Disney Mulan’s, “I’ll Make a Man Out of You.”

A bop, fortunately for me. At least the first few times I heard it after the song had been tucked into the archives of my brain for twenty years. Other songs from my past that were resurrected this year to help make quarantining and time in the car with toddlers more fun were things like Raffi, Veggie Tales, all of Glee’s seasons and a whole bunch of musicals. Hamilton, obviously. Momma Mia. And, Savannah really liked Annie late this fall.

I kind of loved this. I *loved* Annie as a girl.

But, like most things, through the lens of adulthood– and 2020– the story and lyrics hit different.

I thought of the scene in the movie where Mr. Warbucks and FDR sing “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” and how it was kind of a rallying cry for the time. And how the radio show played a jingle about, “never being fully dressed without a smile.”

It was The Great Depression and times were dark for so many. Leadership and media was reaching for optimism and hope and reminding others to do the same.

While not as catchy as the musical numbers, there has been similar messaging on commercials and radio spots this year. The “be together, apart” and “we will get through this” and “things may seem dark, but…” messages.

I have gone back in forth in my mind wondering, “Is this just… propaganda?” Is it keeping morale– and people– in check by searching for silver linings or hope for better, sunnier, smilier days?

This year in particular people are quick to jump on the idea of toxic positivity and this kind of “finding light in darkness” or silver linings get lumped into this thought. And, they are seen as a negative and in poor taste to think. Sometimes even thought of as privilege to even consider any bright side.

I don’t believe that any part of this pandemic “happened for a reason” and I would hope that the things we have found beautiful this year are things we could find any year– even though the slowness of this year may have made them more predominant. I don’t find any silver linings in the fact that hundred of thousands of people have died and that jobs, fantastic restaurants and countless family businesses have been lost.

I do recognize that I have slipped into some “searching for the positive” looking at the time in quarantine and wondering perhaps if it will actually be some of my most treasured memories.

But, I cannot get behind the idea that hope and optimism is toxic. Or even privileged.

For one, to dismiss hope as a feeling or state of being from someone who may be at a disadvantage is just cruel. To deny someone the ability to be optimistic because of their lack of societal deemed “privilege” denys their skills and abilities to do anything to improve their situation.

And second, the alternative is pessimism. It’s not believing that change is possible or that better days are coming. It’s apathy. And, I cannot think of a darker, more toxic way of being.

Despite all of 2020– this pandemic, the unrest and division– I remain hopeful for better days and believe that the sun will come out… maybe not tomorrow, but it will come out again. Soon-is even. And, I hope is the same for you this New Year.

So, Hey Daper Dan, Hobo Man; Senators and janitors; Millennial Moms, binger of sitcoms and owner of too much lip balms, put on your best smile. Cheers to 2021.

Writers Note: This should have gone out on Christmas Eve to stick with my Thursday blogs. But, life got in the way and in an effort to be present, I didn’t get on the computer. But, here we are celebrating a modifided 12 Days of Christmas with gifts (hopefully) rolling in all week due to shipping delays, so Merry Christmas! Even a week late.

I love the word Jubilee.

1. It’s fun to say. Ju-BIL-EE
2. Any word with duel definitions of a joyous celebration and a dessert, obviously, gets a special place in my heart.

I also love it in the verse in Angels We Have Heard On High asking “Shepards why this jubilee?” Slower Christmas music was my companion this season in my pursuit of less “‘Holly Jolly’ and more ‘Silent Night.'”

On more than one occasion this season, before the news of Taylor Swift’s evermore, I searched for “Sad Christmas” music on Spotify.

I told myself that it’s not that I am sad (per se…). It’s that I wanted slower, softer, pretty and even melancholy. Things like “River,” Merry Christmas, Darling,” “If We Make It Through December” and even hymns– with the right beat– like, “O Holy Night” and “Angels We Have Heard On High.”

I like the sound, often paired with powerhouse vocals, and I love the lyrics in both of these.

That line of questions with “jubilee” in Angels We Have Heard On High is so earnest.

Shepherds, why this jubilee?
Why your joyous strains prolong?
What the gladsome tidings be
Which inspire your heavenly song?

What and why are you celebrating? And, how are you able to find reason for celebration?

I felt that way this year. About many things, not just Christmas.

Why celebrate? Why do the things and traditions this year if there is no one to enjoy them with?

Is it right or fair to even be happy? How could we be?

What does a “jubilee” even look like in the midst of a pandemic?

No offense to all those trying who worked hard to make things cute this year; but, masks and social distances are not the right accessories for a jubilant celebration. I feel like a true jubilee warrants wrinkle creating smiles, big laughter and lots of hugs. Dancing and cheers-ing, too. These things feel like relics of past already.

In the past, my mom would cry every year on Christmas Eve. Every year, like clockwork, as our church dimmed the lights and everyone passed a small flame from candle to candle, filling the room with soft light and the sounds of “Silent Night” my mom would cry.

As kids, bursting with excitement for the 24 hours to come and knowing this was the first sign the service was wrapping up, we didn’t understand.

“Why are you crying, mom?” we would ask.

“How could you cry right now, mom?” we would wonder.

It’s Christmas! We are about to go to a party! Santa is coming tonight! And, Jesus was born! That’s good news. And… uh, hello?! We are just ONE sleep away from presents!

Through soft tears and whispers she would tell us that it was because she was happy. And, then she would just cry more and the tears would return year after year, so we were not convinced.

We asked the same question each year and– regretfully– as we grew into teenagers, with more and more attitude and embarrassment.

“Why and how are you crying right now? And, why and how are you crying when you are happy?”

Like many things about my mother, I didn’t get it until I was one too. And, I get this now.

That church filled with the glow of individual candles, the sweet hymn sung in community, her family around her– excited and all– and the promise of hope in the messed up, wild and uncertain millennium era that she raised children? That’s a jubilee.

It doesn’t look always look like a family wedding. It doesn’t need the crowds and big laughter and dancing. Sometimes it’s softer. Sometimes it even looks like sadness, but it’s not.

It’s a jubilee.

But, why?

And, how?

Because even now, finding happiness even in tears is one of the strongest things we can do because it means there is still hope.

I didn’t love Thanksgiving this year.

I thought it was going to be fine. Good, even.

I talked it up in my head: “No driving!” “We will all be in our own beds!” “We don’t have to marathon cook!”

And, of course, the: “I can still make it really fun and special!”

So, we paved forward with new menu items and I got the kids a couple small gifts to help kick off the Holiday season like Christmas PJ’s, a Gingerbread House kit, and an Advent calendar. My mom sent ornaments to open on Thanksgiving day, a tradition carried on from my own childhood.

The big day came and we got to cooking and setting the table. The kids knew there was something to be excited about, especially with wrapped presents on the table; but, as the day wore on, there was no where for that excited energy to go.

There weren’t visiting cousins or Aunts and Uncle’s to talk and play with. No grandparents. Just us. Just like any other day.

And, they were all up in my business.

“What’s in the box?”

“Can we open the presents?”

And, just the normal, everyday toddler needs for entertainment.

Finally at 3:30 I caved. I made a cheese board and Adam opened some champagne and I said they could open the presents.

PJ’s. Boring.

A Gingerbread House… that we are not going to do right now.

An advent calendar… that we can’t open until Tuesday.

And, two very perfect– a unicorn and Baby Yoda– but, very glass ornaments. For my toddlers.

As I shot out, “Be careful’s!” And “Be gentle’s!” Adam said, “Way to go. A bunch of gifts they can’t play with.”

You could have fried a turkey with the look I gave him.

By the time dinner rolled around, I made boxed mac and cheese for the kids and set them in front of Frozen while Adam and I went into the dining room on our own. I was tired and didn’t want to fight about keeping booties in seats or green beans.

In the end, it was fine… I guess. Definitely not great.

But, it all got me thinking about our plans for Christmas.

The knee jerk reaction for me is, “How can I still make this year special? How can I make sure we make some great memories? I should do something new/bigger/better this year to make sure it’s still magical.”

I am not alone in this. There is so much loss this year, especially for our kids and our family is not the only ones keeping the crowd small. I have seen countless requests from women my age on social media for ideas to make the Holiday’s fun and special this year. I can get behind this. I like when social media is used as a tool for good. For learning and community. And, truthfully, some of the ideas are great.

But, I have also seen this quote making its rounds:

“As a grown-up I’ve learned that all the ‘Christmas Magic’ I felt as a kid was really a mom and dad who loved me so much.”

I can’t get behind this.

There is sweet intent in this attempt to show appreciation to our parents and that is great. And, deserved. But, as millennial women, half of us are people pleasers and about 95% of us tie our self worth to what we do. (These stats are just my own guess-tamate… but, they feel right.)

Feeding us a line about parents doing things to make sure there is magic at Christmas equates parental love? Our high achieving self kicks it in high gear like there is a yearbook deadline, lacrosse tryouts and SAT II’s all in the same week.

Sidebar: Thinking back, we literally did have weeks like that. Except, I need to throw in the inevitable chem quiz, 5 paragraph essay due Thursday, boyfriend impressing and girl drama as well. Yikes.

Maybe those days were the perfect training ground for reaching a little more as adults. High performing in work and in our homes. Going big for our own weddings and friends showers. Reaching for the best for our kids nursery, toddler birthday parties and even just with coordinated family Halloween costumes. And, for any Christmas, but especially this one.

And, maybe you love this. Maybe going above and beyond, being “extra” or crafty or a magical memory maker on par with a cruise director is your thing.

I have moments like this and I do–sometimes– think these things are fun.

But, it’s taken a lot of work to recognize that doing these things doesn’t make me more worthy, lovable, or chic and doesn’t measure my love for others. And, if this Covid Season has taught me anything it is that even in sadness and with calendars stripped down and extras taken away, magic still shows up.

I found it in the green that finally came in the spring, brighter than it had ever seemed before. In the laughter Savannah’s belly flops brought to us all at the lake. In the pure happiness and big giggles a hose and popsicle brought Theo all summer. Magic is always found on our patio and this year, with a special thanks to folklore, it was no exception. And, on many days, I found so much magic in staring at the clouds wondering, “Are they always like this and because things are slower I am just now noticing?”

After Thanksgiving I really took stock of how I wanted to spend the season. Overbooked and extra didn’t seem to fit the bill this year. Even as the decorations came out, I found myself leaving much of it in the basement. I explained my feelings on it to Adam with a: “This year, I need a little less Holly Jolly and a little more Silent Night.”

It sounded like a plea for kids to sleep better, which isn’t entirely off base. And, Santa, if you are reading, I wouldn’t hate it.

But, it was a mood. A mantra. A new way of being.

And, so far, it’s been really nice. Keeping it simple with a nearly empty calendar, no Elf on the Shelf and a whole lot less glitz and glitter.

I don’t want to overwhelm myself or my kids with manufactured magic this season. I don’t want to work to prove my love or try to find it in my toddlers or people on social media with those things either. At Christmas or ever.

I want see the magic that just shows up because I know enough now to know it will.

Especially at Christmas.

• 

Right before the holidays in 2016, I was grocery shopping and ran into the principal from the school system where I was the food service director in my early career. She was with her teenage daughter, who I happened to know; but, had never made the connection that she was this woman’s daughter.

She was a teacher at my son’s daycare. We got to chatting about this coincidence in our connections and her daughter, after learning who’s mother I was, goes, “Oh, I know Theo!”

Theo was seven months old.

Thanks to the haze of postpartum depression/anxiety/sleeplessness I felt like I was just getting to know Theo as “Theo.”

Or, as anything besides this tiny, precious being that needed me for everything. Or, “anyone” for that matter.

But, she knew him.

There is something strange and so special about first time you hear someone else say your child’s name. It’s a simple thing really, and for us it was always from family. But, each time my kids names were first said by someone other than Adam or me my breath would catch. You used their name…!

Then, there comes the wild magic of hearing another kid say your child’s name. A “Bye Theo!” yelled outside of the school. Or, a “Hey! That’s Theo!” at the farmer’s market.

And, then there is this weird and wonderful moment when someone knows your kid. And, this moment is even weirder when it’s not through you.

I am big in highlighting the milestones of parenting that are rarely talked about, let alone celebrated; but, are major. “Underrated Baby Milestones” are what I call them. Think: The day when baby can balance on your hip. Or, the marvelous day when all the bottle pieces are packed away and no longer drying on your counters or tumbling out of you cabinets.

Someone knowing your child is so major; but, unlike the other milestones, this will happen over and over again. And for me, it will likely still be just as major for the rest of my life. Every time I see that my kids are known and loved by someone I know my heart will swell and butterflies will churn in my belly just as they did in that bustling grocery store four years ago.

Because it’s exactly what I want for them.

Many times quotes and sayings about being “known and loved” lean towards faith or marriage. I get it. To be loved, but not known has got to be lonely. And, to be known and not loved sounds terrible. Who wants a creator who knows every little thing about them, but doesn’t love them? And, who wants a marriage with passion, but no truth?

I want these things for my kids in so much more than just marriage, if that is the path they choose. I want them to find that they are known and loved as many places as possible.

The night before our wedding, there were a whole lot of toasts and speeches. I love this about rehearsal dinners because I really enjoy the act of eulogizing one another while we are alive. It’s truly one of my greatest joys and I think we should do it more often.

That night, as we spoke, our parents spoke and our friends spoke, I became overwhelmed in the best way. We were so cared for and loved.

But, when Adam spoke about his groomsmen with ease and love and laughter and a couple tears it really hit me. It was something I had known– of course– but, I saw it in action that night. It was that great man is a fantastic friend and he has his own fantastic friends, but he chose me.

He wants to know and love every little part of me. He wants to be my best friend.

This Thanksgiving, even though it’s small and different, I know we have so much to be thankful for. Our health and that of our family. Our home and the space it affords us. Our jobs. Our kids. Our friendships and the great people who know and love us. And, each other, of course. 

But this year I am also really, really thankful for the people who know and love our kids.

This year, showing this love and care for our kids looks different than it has ever before.

It’s different in fun ways because they are now older and talking. They are even interested in things that a grown up might be interested in, or at minimum, open to chatting about. Theo can talk with my brother for hours about Pokemon and Star Wars. Savannah will happily catch up with my girl friends over cocktail hour— so long as there is a cheese board with prosciutto and the stinkiest blue cheese. A conversation starter if there ever was one…!

However, in a lot of ways thing are different and a bummer. Loving and getting to know my kids this year is hard.

If we are able to get together, there is a risk involved. That does not go unnoticed. Thank you for being a part of our bubble and giving our children a small village. 

And a huge thank you to their teachers. The other adults they see on a regular basis who are helping them to know and love so much. School, Baby Yoda, food and especially other humans in their great lessons on kindness.

But, if we aren’t able to connect this year because of travel or health concerns the love and care is still there. You have gotten creative to show love and care and it is so special.

There have been Zoom birthday party invites.

So many FaceTime calls. Videos texted of your dogs doing something silly and your kids singing, “Happy Birthday.”

And, so many presents sent in the mail. Games and crafts. Advent calendars and winter coats.

Cupcakes left on your front porch for them as we drop farm things off.

Books read to them or stories told over Zoom so I could focus on getting something done.

Help given even from afar and in Facebook mom groups when big questions came up about 9/11.

And then just recently, there were videos of people New York City, Chicago, and Washington DC the day the election was called. Videos of people cheering.

A sound— that I didn’t realize until it captivated my kids— that my kids have heard very little of. And, because of their age, they may have no memory of.

I asked for more videos and they came in in droves via text and Instagram DM. Each one enchanting my kids with the sounds of happy, joyous cheers.

They have only been to one Purdue game and I splurged for a box last minute because it was pouring. 

This would have been the year for the real game day experience. Maybe even a Colts game. A trip to Chicago to see the Cubs. Maybe even the Nutcracker. Heck, at this point, I would be open to some Disney on Ice.

This may have been the year for a dance recital. Little League or soccer games. Pre K Christmas programs and even graduation.

They have not had these things. And so, they really have not heard the sounds of a crowd– of people– cheering.

But, like faith and the feelings of being loved and known, sometimes just because you cannot see things doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Thank you for loving, knowing and cheering for my kids.

I am so thankful for you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Oh. And PS- Just so we are clear: If you keep this up, prepare for me to be an absolute mess when when you all come over for BBQ after their graduation.

My mom asks me often if I have been writing.

It sounds like it could be an annoying question, but I actually don’t mind it. I have asked people to ask about my writing to hold me accountable, especially as I am working on long form projects. I also like it because it forces me to really answer the question. Even if the answer has a tinge of annoyance or frustration in my lack of time spent with my butt in a chair. Or, is just a flat out, “No.” I still like it.

In her asking me this question, she is holding up her part of the deal. But, it’s also because she loves and knows me. She knows that being creative– and writing being my medium of choice most of the time– helps to keep me me.

Since March, I have thought a lot about writing and wanted to write things; but, I have not really done that much of it. Even this blog post feels a little like the first mile after a long break from running.

On one phone call this summer, my mom asked her now well worn question and I truthfully told her that no, I had not been writing.

I could have listed all the excuses that were and still are quite valid. Things like how the noise of the world made it hard to get into my own head and sort things out. I could have shared how the act of wrestling thoughts into words and getting them onto paper is work. And, between the news and the fear and the loneliness and monotony of staying home with toddlers and more, it was work that I was too exhausted to do.

I could have told her that if I could untangle words there was also pressure to say it first, to come correct and profoundly amid a rapid reckoning and cancel culture on social media. I write truth and much of my truth is that while always with good intentions, I make a lot of mistakes. This made writing even more scary than it is on a normal day.

This year, I was also told to “Get back in touch!” when my following is larger from people who could make the dream of a published book true. This barrier to entry is deflating for many reasons. But, as someone in marketing and media professionally, I knows consistent, quality, sharable content is the key to growing a platform.

So, combine all these things? Enter Creation Paralysis.

Back on the phone, as I thought of what to say to validate my lack of time writing, my mom spoke first. Not even letting me answer her question.

She shared that she had recently talked with a friend of her’s who is a potter– a full time artist– and learned that even she had not created one thing since March.

And Glennon Doyle, a New York Times Bestselling Author and objectively a voice of our time, tweeted that even she had not written a word since the start of quarantine.

My own recent writing “By the Numbers” is bleak: Twelve Instagram posts since the start of summer. One blog post. No emails. Not one other agent queried. And, about one hundred, five minute chunks of focus– which might as well be none at all– on my proposal and manuscript. And, likely just as many other scribbles and scratches on many sheets of paper with blog posts that never came to life.

No. I have not been writing.

But, I won’t get flustered or annoyed or rattle excuses when you ask.

Because, while I have not been writing, I have been creating.

In the last nine months, I have picked up a pencil and put it to a new sketch book. Studying figure drawing and doodling online and in library books, creating pages coated in lead as I learn.

There has been plenty of messy mornings painting alongside the kids. Playing with and mixing Crayola colors, creating new shades.

Of course, there has been plenty of kitchen creations. Recipes, lots of cookies, my now famous “salads that are not salads” and many gold rounds of sourdough.

My sister gave me an embroidery kit for my birthday and (thanks to TikTok) I have learned to do every stitch. Punching the needle through the stretched fabric at night before bed, creating flowers, loops, lines and a whole lot of messy knots.

Each of us now has a couple new handmade masks, created from scraps from sewing projects of the past. And, speaking of the past, my mom’s old icing tips helped me to create a beautiful birthday cake for Savannah.

It’s not writing. It’s a new kind of creativity. A kind of creativity that I am new at, so I am giving myself permission to be a beginner. For it not to be perfect. To do it just for fun. For the sake of creating.

But, also with the tangible creations, there has been more creating that might be even more beautiful than that of art and craft.

In the slowness of this time, I have been creating space.

Space in our home by stripping down to the essentials. Space in our lives as we did the same there, recognizing the goodness outside of the hustle of a busy calendar and found on our patio.

Creating space in our hearts for others as the year has stripped away the smog, leaving those less fortunate than us so much more clear.

Because of this, I have been creating new thoughts. Unlearning and reading and learning things I should have learned a long time ago, as well as new things that are fun and fascinating. I have taken those thoughts and created conversation in my circles and will move forward with creating written words again.

But, perhaps most important to me, while the world was screaming and simultaneously sighing, I was creating memories.

I didn’t know it at the time; but, stepping away from the screen and words when I felt stuck, took me to the couch or to the floor for snuggles during another viewing of Frozen II or our five hundredth round of Candy Land. It took us outside to walk and stare at the sky, creating stories abut the clouds.

All the art projects, time in the kitchen and in books and in my head and my heart stitch together to create some of what will be no doubt my most treasured memories.

So no. I have not been writing.

But, I have been creating.

Join me on the podcast this week as I talk more about what you all have been creating thanks to some fun feedback on Instagram earlier this week.

April 16th is a date burned into my brain. 

It was Theo’s due date and I stared at it, counted down from it, circled it on my calendar, talked about it, dreamed about it and more just as any other eager-beaver, soon-to-be new mother would. 

I liked how it sounded and looked. 

4/16/16.

All even numbers and multiples.

But, even in my big, naive expectant momma dreams I knew landing on the due date likely wouldn’t happen. And, I knew that was okay. 

I remember the awaited day well. It was a Saturday and it was finally warm. I actually went to a friend’s baby shower and walked around Broad Ripple with my sister and great friend, Betsy. All in all, a very ordinary day.

Three days later, April 19th is also a date that has stuck around in my messy mind. 

It’s not Theo’s Birthday, but rather the day I got induced. I remember that warm Tuesday where I was still working, despite being overdue, and taking a conference call on the drive to my appointment. I wrote notes and followed through with tasks on my lap top while perched the examination table waiting for the doctor as my fat, flip flopped feet dangled above the floor. Pretty ordinary.

Every year since 2016 these dates have been far from ordinary to me. They have made me take pause and even made me a little sad. On Theo’s first birthday in particular there was a cloud that followed me around those five days leading up to Theo’s birthday, April 21. Things that I have since learned would— and should— be expected given my experience.

My experience of getting induced, it not working for two whole days and ending an emergency c-section. My experience a few days after that c-section with postpartum preeclampsia. My experience of being a new mom thrust out into the world fighting blues, anxiety and wondering, “What the heck is even going on? How is this my life?”

Maybe if you are coming from a different perspective, my experience seems like no big deal. Maybe even a gift. I had a healthy baby after all. Maybe my experience sounds pretty ordinary. But those dates and the time they represent? To me they are extraordinary.

I have heard a couple people compare this time of quarantine to maternity leave. I don’t find it ironic that these people are also those that speak out in an effort to normalize postpartum depression based on their experiences. I too have felt the familiar fogginess of that time in this quarantine. The feelings of isolation, unpreparedness, nerves, and fears of my inability to handle all of the things I might need to handle. I have had the similar thought I had on maternity leave of being a “package deal” with my kids. Together 24/7. Unable to be apart and, in turn, a clunky unit leaving the once simplest of tasks a challenge to complete. Wondering, “What the heck is even going on? How is this my life?”

Maternity leave and those early days of motherhood are things every mother experiences. Days that much of society sees as sweet, but very banal. Sleepiness and cuddles, right? Something very ordinary. But, perhaps to some like me, extraordinary.

As rumblings quarantine started, I pulled myself and the kids out of the world. We hunkered down early. As the world tried to determine what was coming and who was essential, I made the call that the three of us were about as “unessential” as they come. So, for over five weeks we have stayed home. We have baked and watched a lot of Frozen 2 and Blaze and The Monster Machines. We have gone on walks and played with chalk. We sing the ABC’s and have competed in about 500 games of Candy Land. 

I am not a nurse or a pharmacist. I am not a doctor or a grocery store employee. I am not at redesigning ventilators or developing vaccines or even making meals for the many kids on the school lunch program. But still, when I really get to think about everything and all that is going on— or not going on— in the world or I even just get frustrated because my life is run by two tiny drunk dictators masquerading as my toddlers, I wonder, “What the heck is even going on? How is this my life?”

This is a collective experience of frustration, loss, disruption, and grief. But, also very personal based on perspectives and experience. And, if you life looks a little like mine right now, maybe you are feeling that sting of shame for feeling frustration or down or for just wondering, “What the heck is even going on? How is this my life?”

What we are doing is so ordinary. Board games, baking and movies. So very ordinary.

But, maybe we are actually doing something extraordinary. 

Maybe in the ordinary of our life, it’s flattening the curve. Maybe it’s freeing up space and resources in a hospital. Maybe it’s just loving on those in our homes with togetherness, making art or music and another batch of chocolate chip cookies.

And maybe in these simple, everyday actions we all learn that it is in fact the ordinary things that makes life extraordinary.

On one of the many FaceTime calls with my parents recently, my dad and Theo chatted. It wasn’t about anything in particular. Maybe about the letter we discussed that day in his “home school” or the Kristof song in Frozen Two. As they talked I heard my dad gush, “Theo, you are so special.”

And then, realizing, he very quickly followed it up with, “But, so ordinary!”

I smiled.

Yes. Thank you, Dad.

This is exactly the self awareness I want my kids to grow up with. I want them to know they are special, worthy, lovable, and extraordinary; but, also no different than anyone else. So ordinary.

And, like extraordinary, ordinary children, my extraordinary experiences– even those of struggle– are very ordinary.

So are yours.

Struggle, hardship and sadness is a universal experience. When you are in it, it feels extraordinary. But, it doesn’t make you special.

I am not special because of the hard roads I have walked. You are not special because of the extraordinary things you have experienced.

But, that doesn’t make them invalid experiences. They happened. They were hard. But, the expectation of how things should be or facing life’s curve balls is so normal.

In this time of challenge, this is so clear. Hardships, setbacks and sadness are something we will all experience in this time. So it does no good to compare and also no good to live into the extreme of the experience. What is better is to recognize the challenge in our own life and each others lives. To help where we can and send out lots of love and grace.

To share more of what is good… and to also share what is hard. And, to celebrate and sit with that.

Because if we want that full, extraordinary life of joy and love for ourselves and our neighbors, we all have to sign on for the hard and ugly too.

Everyone does. It’s just how it works. It’s so ordinary.

 

I lost my job in 2011.

I was two years into my career as an Assistant Account Manager at a global ad agency, representing what is easily the world’s most iconic brand. I was able to visit the sleek, modern office on Michigan Avenue; but, for the most part, I worked from home (aka wherever I wanted) and traveled. I was great at my job and I loved it. Weekly, a performance tracker was shared with those in my position across the country and every single week my name was at the top. I liked it that way and made sure it stayed that way. I was so strong that once executives for that big beverage brand joked they wanted to “clone” me.

But, it was also those big executives that found they didn’t have the funding anymore and cut the national marking program I was a part of.

It was announced to the eighty eight young people who shared my position across the country on a conference call in early May. There was no warning and no fanfare. Just straight and to the point. It was just three weeks before my wedding and 48 hours after moving to a small, rural town with Adam, where I was banking on growing my great career while working from home.

I lost my job.

… And, I was unemployed for six months.

It was hard, awful, challenging, boring, embarrassing… and also, the best thing that ever happened to me.

In my early twenties, I thought a job was my value and defined who I was. For sixteen years, everything I did had been for the purpose of “landing a great job.”

I had followed the rules, studied, been good- and even great- and it worked. It scored me a great job. (In 2009, to boot.) Two years in as the team’s “rockstar,” I was on the track to a great career. I had done it right and well.

I was great because my job was great. I was cool because my job was cool. I was smart because my job was with one of the most successful companies ever. And, I was the best because I was the best at my great, cool, smart job.

And, as soon as the conference call ended, it was clear that it wasn’t just a job that was ripped out from under me; everything I knew about myself was gone too.

With all of my identity in my job, I was lost. I didn’t know how to feel good about myself unless I was succeeding at work. I was embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know I didn’t have a job. I presented myself to the world as smart, cool and great thanks to that job, after all. What was I without it? Who was I?

I also didn’t know how to fill my time because work was all I knew. I had been so good at the job because I had given it everything, including after hours attention.

Luckily, I had the distraction of the wedding, but after it was over and the dust settled, my days were wide open. Boring. And, lonely. (And, did I mention I was also now in a remote, rural town that was new to me with zero friends besides my new husband?)

So, for a while, I slept in, staying in bed until 9AM, which after a few days became 10 AM and then 11 AM. I, of course, applied for jobs and then sat around the rest of the day watching reality TV reruns. I didn’t change my clothes for days, let alone shower. I scrolled Twitter and Facebook often. And, spent a good amount of time feeling bad for myself.

But, it didn’t take long for me to recognize I could not live like this.

I could not be this person who didn’t do anything all day. Who didn’t talk or think. Who was bitter when my own friends shared their most recent excitement with me. Who got mad at my husband when he wanted to spend some time golfing or with his friends instead of poor, lonely me.

After taking it out on Adam-again- one month into marriage (So much for newlywed bliss…), I knew I had to do something to make this better. I didn’t want to be the sad, lazy, mean person I was becoming. My exact thought was: “I am too creative for this.”

So, I got creative and got to work.

But, really, the work didn’t look like “work.” I didn’t set out on a project or new business venture. I didn’t make a To Do list. I didn’t produce tangible results.

In that time unemployed, I didn’t start a blog. That would take another two years.

Instead, I read blogs. I learned that normal people write them which seemed revolutionary. I thought about what I liked about some blogs and what I didn’t like about others. I wondered if I could write a blog and wrote down many ideas for the blog that maybe I could create.

I didn’t launch a business. That would take another five years.

Instead, I learned about entrepreneurship and what it really means. I read books and blogs about business. I learned about good financial practices. I didn’t even really believe starting a business as something I might actually do, but I did take the time to brainstorm and dream a little.

I didn’t write a book. That would take another eight years.

Instead, I got in the habit of writing. Jotting thoughts in journals, outlining ideas and starting a handful of word document essays that no one ever saw.

I didn’t train for a marathon. That would take another nine years.

Instead, I shook up my normal routine and tried new workouts to make it fun and new again. It didn’t matter what it was and it was rarely the same thing twice. I resurrected old workout DVDs, took a free ballet class, tried crossfit, yoga and even the occasional meditation.

And though really tempting, I didn’t go back to school in order to fill my days. And, that will likely never happen.

Because in that slower time, without the tasks required of me in a job, I learned that I can learn so much on my own… for free.

I went to the library. I watched YouTube and played on Pinterest. I tried a lot of things. I cooked, painted, danced, gardened, played the piano, baked, sewed, drew, and more. I read and I wrote just for me. Not for a grade, a job, a dollar or a purpose other than solely for me.

Without my armor of To-Do Lists and Performance Tracker standing, I also got to know me. Who was I beyond a business card?

I had time to think about my values, passions and beliefs. (Even just considering taking unemployment brought these questions to life.) I learned about my enneagram number. (In 2011…! Far before it hit today’s rage.)

I worked out awkward, great, and defining moments of my childhood and young career through words in journals and thoughts while running or cooking or just sitting still.

I asked myself things like:

“What do I love?”

“What am I great at?”

“Why do I do some of the things I do?”

“What do I want my life to look like?”

“What do I want to be proud of when I am 75?”

And, sometimes I just sat and felt bad for a little while.

I wrote lists of what I would buy when I had a job. I once even wondered if I would ever work again. As time went on, those moments happened less, replaced with finding more in my days and an awareness that I was not just good and smart and full of cool interests; but, also resilient, creative and had a whole lot to be thankful for.

All this work built up a strong understanding of myself and true foundation in gratitude that was such a gift to receive.

A gift. Losing my job.

A gift. Even though in the beginning, it was awful.

This one experience gave me confidence to do all the things I have done in the last decade. I couldn’t have done them without that season.

But, I also could not have done them in that season. That time was hard, even when it seemed to be getting better. That work, even though it didn’t look like work, was tiring. So was always wrestling with the reality that I really did not have a job and shushing voices in my head that wanted to come out and say, “Unemployed. Loser.”

That time was for clearing weeds, building soil, and planting seeds. The work that doesn’t look like anything. Nothing sprouting and growing tall and no harvesting.

Eventually, those seeds became the blog, the writing, the business… and also the move in 2018 from a job that had me slipping back into someone who only found worth and purpose in her performance. Who was nothing but her job.

In that season of slipping, my job was threatened by a demanding, unreasonable, plain old rude client. And, in what she thought would have me scrambling to oblige her every request out of fear of getting fired, I was able to find roots in the awareness, confidence and gratitude I gained years before and remembered what was important… to me.

I remembered who I was, what I value and who I wanted to be. Not what I “do.”

Simply and honestly, I responded to the cruel woman with a: “Well, the good news is that losing my job is really not the worst thing that could happen to me.”

It’s not. Losing yourself is.

 

A note: When I lost my job, from a logistics perspective, I was so fortunate. Stakes were low. We didn’t have kids and Adam had a great job. We both had small savings accounts and we also had the windfall of generous wedding gifts.

Things were leaner and I had to be smart, but I can’t- and won’t- speak on true financial hardship after job loss.

If you happen to find yourself facing a job loss, furlough or change in income this week or the ones to come, I am so sorry. I get that you might feel that the things I found “hard” in job loss would be “nice” to have to worry about. I get that you can’t even consider putting energy towards anything besides figuring out how to pay bills.

Please take advantage of the programs available to you. Among many of the things I found when unemployed, a newfound grace and empathy granted me to see Unemployment Insurance as just that… Insurance. You paid your premium for years. It was taken every paycheck since your first job. This is your car wreck. Take your claim if it is going to help you.