Noticing What's Underneath

This afternoon, I had a routine conversation with a potential client. I prepared my notes and readied to call, knowing I'd done this many times before. Still, I felt fear and doubt. My relationship with fear and doubt is long-term and sometimes unpredictable. I took a few deep breaths and made the call, recognizing fear but not letting it control my listening or speaking, nor my ability to stay present. The call went well: kindred spirits talking and details decided. A new opportunity to practice and teach mindfulness.

Just now, as I sliced tomatoes and peppers, I had an insight: my fear was not about the phone call; it reflected my circumstances two years ago on this day. September 23 is when my dad, sisters, and I made decisions about mom's end-of-life care. We had to decide, without consulting her, whether to extend her life via medical machines or to allow her to die. The news stunned us in its suddenness yet we all agreed, through tender, broken hearts, to let her go. We held a compassionate vigil, working closely with hospice nurses to ensure she didn't suffer. It was both deeply painful and vitally important.

This—much bigger and heartbreaking—decision is where my fear and doubt arose. The phone call was just a phone call. When I'm open and aware, I notice my internal weather. If a storm brews over a routine action, I need to look closer. On this particular day, I needed to cry and grieve. To put my hand on my heart, and bear witness to my pain. To remind myself that we made the best decision we could under terrible circumstances. I have no regrets about those last hours with mom, yet fear and doubt arose because that's what emotions do. Underneath is sadness. And deeper underneath is trust in my capacity to stay with everything.

I don't know why this anniversary resonated so deeply with me. Grief is unpredictable, just as life is unpredictable. I wonder: who else is walking around today—or any day—with a tender, vulnerable heart? This helps widen my circle of compassion, for myself and others. Life is difficult, wondrous, heartbreaking, and beautiful. How do we stay wholehearted and awake? I think we do it together, as community. Sharing what's real and true, and listening with kindness; hitting the pause button and connecting with each other; bearing collective witness to joy and sorrow and everything in between.
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Small Steps

Over 15 years, I've made huge leaps. Yet each leap contained countless small steps. The path from self-aversion to self-compassion is gradual. It's hard to pinpoint a single moment, but eventually I had appropriate tools and enough practice, and my heart shifted. When I revert to old habits, I trust there's a safe space within me: I re-connect with breath and awareness.

In last night's mindfulness class, I shared a story about my journey. For years, I looked externally for approval. I asked my loving husband repeatedly some version of "Am I okay?" His reassurance was never enough, and not because he wasn't genuine, but because I was looking in the wrong place. What I needed—in the core of my being—was my own approval: my own love and acceptance. And once I found this, I stopped asking him those questions, because I trust that I'm my own anchor; my own friend.

One of my students responded, "How did that transformation happen? Can you describe it?" These processes are difficult to pinpoint. There were many small steps along the way, and the way is zig-zagged, not straight. But I made a commitment: I truly wanted to befriend myself. My tools were meditation, journaling, therapy, self-portraiture, gardening, mindfulness, listening, and being. During one of our unplugged sabbaticals, I went out for a run to the end of the island, not a single person in sight. I sat on a rock and sobbed, feeling old and new wounds. This experience didn't provoke shame nor did it provoke external focus: I didn't want to hide nor did I need help. I could stay with myself. I trusted that everything I need is inside me. As my meditation practice deepened, so did this sense of trust. (I still need human connection—love, hugs, and support—but my true ground comes from within.)

Small steps have huge impact. Small steps pave paths of great awakening. Each person has their own journey; their own deepest intentions. What's most important is to listen to our own heart and then begin: take the next small step and then the next. Forgive ourselves when we falter—which we will—and have the courage to begin again. Bit by bit: this is how we change.

With this in mind, I created two short guided-meditations. Small steps toward awareness:


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Embrace Paradox

To navigate this complex world, we must embrace paradox. We must hold in our hearts—at the same time—two seemingly different things: honesty and gentleness; persistence and patience; courage and vulnerability. And we must, with kindness, remind each other: life isn’t just one way, it’s many things all at once. Yet we can live, love, and create within paradox.

Liz Gilbert writes: “Creativity is sacred, and it is not sacred. What we make matters enormously, and it doesn’t matter at all. We toil alone, and we are accompanied by spirits. We are terrified, and we are brave. Art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege. Only when we are at our most playful can divinity finally get serious with us. Make space for all these paradoxes to be equally true inside your soul and I promise—you can make anything. So please calm down now and get back to work, okay? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes.”

I'm trying to say yes, but as I reread my post, I'm struck by another paradox—within me at this moment—being mindful and making a living through mindfulness; practicing mindfulness while marketing an e-course. This seems an important place to stay true. My work—my life—matters, yet I'm not a big deal. So calm down and get back to work, Joy: just be.

PS: If you're not familiar with me, my story, or my work, you can read my (recently added) short bio page.

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Practicing Hope

Even now, I have a hopeful view of the world. Heartbreaking violence and greed unfold every day, but still I see goodness in people. There are brave, generous, and compassionate acts that soar under the radar. These aren’t mentioned in the news, but I witness them daily. My hope isn’t based on denial. It’s based on direct experience with my best self and the best selves of others. 

I recently read wise words from Krista Tippett: “Hope is distinct, in my mind, from optimism or idealism. It has nothing to do with wishing. It references reality at every turn and reveres truth. It lives open eyed and wholehearted with the darkness that is woven ineluctably into the light of life. Hope, like every virtue, is a choice that becomes a practice that becomes spiritual muscle memory. It’s a renewable resource for moving through life as it is, not as we wish it to be.” 

Practicing hope is like practicing mindfulness: stay aware of everything; be honest and gentle; release expectation; cultivate love and acceptance. Hope applies in the larger world, yet it equally applies in our individual lives. Darkness and light are interwoven. Hope allows me to stay with difficulty and savor joy. Even as I experience grief, in deep and new ways, I have hope: I will heal. I don’t “wish” for this. I practice it every day.

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Ignite Your Spark

I believe we have innate goodness. But as we navigate a complicated world, we amass layers of judgment, identities, and habits. We play roles, defend opinions, and stifle joy. Yet underneath everything is this: goodness, awareness, and belonging. 

We're deeply interconnected and at the same time, each of us is unique. We all have special gifts—ways we impact the world. In each of us is a unique spark; a spark that keeps life in our life. Karen Maezen Miller says, "When you see your life, you bring it to life. When you don't see your life, it seems lifeless."

Life moves in a flash, unless we choose differently. We ignite our spark if we slow down; notice everyday grace; listen inward. And then if we allow ourselves to grow, blossom, and move in ways that feel true. Not every moment contains awareness and spark, but more moments can. Consider your unique gifts: ways you feel most present, connected, and real. It's possible to bring these gifts alive. It's possible to see anew—to see our own beauty and the beauty of others. We can light sparks. We can light sparks that fill the sky.

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The Power of Possibility

I've long believed myself incapable of enlightenment. Daily, I practice meditation, generosity, and loving-kindness, but I reserved enlightenment for monks, nuns, and "special people." Then I heard my meditation teacher say, "We all have the potential to awaken. This is an important belief: it's possible to live with an awakened, open heart; to be fully present." With these words, something inside me shifted. 

The next day, I met a recently-graduated college student. She was bright, kind, and capable. Still, her first-year advisor told her not to pursue math. Hearing this news, I sighed and said, "I'm sorry you were told what you couldn't do rather than being told what's possible. I wish I could have been there to say: You're capable of so much; believe in yourself and move forward." With these words, she began to cry long-held tears. 

I want to be clear: enlightenment requires serious effort, as does studying mathematics. This effort is persistent and honest. But we spend far too much energy resisting our own goodness, limiting our potential, and then passing this on to others.

I think life is filled with possibility. It's possible for us to be our best selves: watering seeds of love, compassion, and awareness. It's possible for us to study mathematics, awaken our hearts, change old habits, plant gardens, follow dreams, find meaning, shift careers, make art, and forgive each other. Imagine if we encouraged ourselves and each other to see what's possible; to believe in our potential. I think we could change the world.

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Vulnerability as a Portal

In 2014, Pema Chodron gave a commencement address. Her topic was the importance of failure. She spoke about the raw place of failure or loss: "Out of that space comes a lot of ugly things. And yet out of that very same space of vulnerability and rawness and the feeling of failure can come our best human qualities of bravery, kindness, the ability to really care about each other, the ability to reach out to each other."

I know about ugly things. I understand self-blame, which spun me in circles of striving, overwork, and wanting to be someone other than who I was. But ugly things didn't help. What I needed to do was feel the rawness and vulnerability. To feel this over and over, until I trusted: I'm vulnerable and I'm okay. That's when I discovered the best human qualities.

I'm most connected with people when I unmask my face and my heart. Chodron describes this as the "ability to really care about each other" (to see and care with an open heart). I think vulnerability is a portal--a portal to deep connection. When we share the rawness, we allow others to do the same. If we embrace failure, we embrace truth: we're all imperfect. We're all complicated, beautiful, real, and in-process. 

My current raw places are these: sadness about my mom's death, doubt about the viability of my new career, concern for my friends' health, and compassion for the world. These run deep--they expose my heart. They awaken me in important and wondrous ways. And they remind me, daily, to be brave and to be kind. Because who knows what someone else is going through? These raw places connect us.

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Come as You Are

In my last years as a professor, I saw something clearly: we give students little space to make mistakes; to mess things up in a safe environment; to experiment, fail, and try again. And now, away from academia, I see this pattern still. We don't often come as we are, we come as we think we should be.

"I can't take yoga class until I know every pose."
"I shouldn't share my difficulties, because I'll seem like a downer."
"I can't start a new project until I'm an expert."
"I shouldn't dance, because I'll look silly."
"I shouldn't dream, because I might fail."

I know this place well. I lost swaths of my life trying to be perfect; to always appear smart, put-together, happy, knowledgeable, and flawless. I gained back my life when I showed up, as is. When I'm real and vulnerable, I'm more connected to others and more effective in my work. I still prepare. I'm still dependable and thoughtful. But I no longer try to be perfect. Instead, I try to be more present. 

The reality is we're all flawed and we're all beautiful. In the words of Rumi: "Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there." Come as you are.

New Grooves

I like routine. I find comfort in my morning meditation, Friday yoga class, nightly hot tub, and Saturday farmer's market. Routine is soothing. And it's also rut-making. Mark likes to try new things and he easily goes with the flow. I often resist. Yet the resistance sends a veiled message: don't assume, try something new, just show up.

When I take a fresh path, even the slightest veer, it's always worthwhile. My experience changes and my mood shifts. Sometimes I resist the entire time, yet I emerge differently. I see life in a new way. Old ruts can indeed become new grooves.

Love and Let Go

I spoke at my grandma's funeral. More accurately, I spoke, cried, spoke some more, sobbed, and spoke again. Later I described the event to my therapist. She said, "You felt. You trusted your feelings, Joy." And then she gave me a hug. 

I did inhabit my feelings on that July weekend in 2010. I allowed (publicly!) for sadness, love, regret, and gratitude. I laid open my heart. 

"Don't tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel," my therapist used to say. Most of my life I'd spent in my head: thinking, planning, or judging. I could analyze an issue. I could understand the reasons for my anxiety or self-doubt. But nothing really changed until I opened my heart. I found sadness needn't overwhelm, but it longs to be felt. And I unraveled my protective armor--armor that spared me hurt yet also denied me love.

Just last night, I sat on my back porch, crying. Many of my close friends are in difficult situations. If I love completely, my heart will be broken. Yet it will also burst with joy. Things only get murky when I believe I can save people. In this mode, my sadness morphs into fear and I retreat to my mind. I try to think of an escape. 

From Mary Oliver's "In Blackwater Woods":
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let go,
to let go."

My therapist again: "Joy, your life and growth will mean continually giving up control." Let go. When I emerge from my murkiness, I find balance between loving and letting go. I feel without the delusion of control. My heart expands. A smile forms naturally. I accept all the blessings of pure, unbounded love.

Just Show Up

Expectations are like invasive weeds in our lives--they choke out surprise, curiosity, and joy; they feed disappointment. If we create a story about how things are supposed to be, we lose connection with our actual experience. Expectations trigger judging mind, which constricts life.

Today I leave for Europe. Eleven days and five cities: Prague, Vienna, Maribor, Rovinj, Venice. The trip is a gift from my dad, to be experienced with my dad--the person I most admire in this world. We're travelling with a group, so the itinerary is set. Nothing for me to do but show up.

My intention for the trip: have few expectations and many alive moments. I've not researched must-sees. I hope to view whatever is in front of me with curiosity and wonder. 

This Europe adventure feels unique, so it's easier to drop expectations. In my everyday life, it's a harder process. Yet in most situations, the just-show-up mantra works. Just show up, as I am in this moment, and let life unfold.

Always Share the Happy Thoughts

Imagine you're having a conversation with a friend. And the discussion leads to an insight about another person--a kind act you witnessed, a positive change you noticed, a brave step you saw. It's easy to gloss over this experience, because that particular person isn't with you. Yet this happy thought is worth sharing. What if we remembered these happy thoughts--maybe wrote them down. And then made a point to share that positive moment with the other person (e.g., spouse, child, coworker, or friend).

We often protect our hearts from hurt. Interestingly, not sharing the good thoughts is a form of protection. What if I tell this person the positive change I noticed and he thinks I'm weird or she makes fun of my pollyannaish-ness? I'd like to share the good with this person, but that's just not how our relationship works. These are all forms of protection. Yet they also shield our hearts from gratitude and love. They constrict rather than expand.

Given the uncertainty of life, it's important to tell people what they mean to us. It's important to share the happy thoughts, listen to the difficult, and treat ourselves and others with kindness. There's no need to hold back the joy, love, and gratitude. If you realize something good about another--even the smallest thing--share it. Tell them. Kindness is contagious.

Awake

Twelve years ago doctors discovered a malignant melanoma in the scar tissue of my dad's arm. When melanoma spreads, people die. We spent two weeks waiting for surgery; waiting to see if the cancer had spread. It was excruciating--the most painful period of my life. I walked on campus in a daze; normal conversation felt bizarre. All my thoughts were with my dad. At the hospital during surgery--a surgery that blessedly showed no spread--I was wide awake. My life in sharp focus: I value relationships over all else. 

At that time I worked 60+ hours a week (and probably obsessed for 70 hours). During my awake period, I committed to better work-life balance; to putting people first. Six months later I mindlessly returned to the busyness. My dad was okay--quite healthy, actually. I re-rationalized the long work weeks. I lost sight of my awake choices.

Gradually I found my way back to wakefulness. What do I mean by awake? Present. Real. Self-aware. Open to life--the joys and the struggles. Mindful. Vulnerable. Brave. Connected to self and others. Living life true to oneself.

I've had more episodes like my dad's cancer scare. Experiences that shook me awake, but only for short spells. These taught me lessons and built my arsenal of tools: meditation, therapy, writing, and reflection. Now I feel more awake every day. I notice small details, everyday kindnesses, and undercurrents of my inner-dialogue. When I engage with people, I feel like myself--not a cardboard cut-out of what I think I should be. I am me, whatever that is in the moment. 

My former therapist said something that sticks with me: "Joy, trust yourself. Everything you need is already inside of you." It's human nature to look externally for validation and love. But until we come back to ourselves--until we learn to trust and love ourselves--we aren't fully awake; and we can't fully love others. This is not a self-centered or surface kind of love. This is not retail therapy or rationalizations. Self-love starts by taking an honest look at ourselves. There's beauty in all of us and there's also darkness--judgment, anger, sadness,  shame, fear. Self-love comes from working honestly and gently with the darkness (and celebrating the light). It's hard work; the work of a lifetime. Once I experienced self-love, I was able to awaken; to make choices that are true to myself--to the self I know so well. 

I spend more moments awake. I also lose myself in doubt, fear, and shame. But I find my way back, because I viscerally know that place of center--where I access my basic goodness, as is. And when I'm centered, I have more to give the world. My heart opens, my creativity opens, and I'm fully present to all of life.

A close friend was recently diagnosed with cancer. The news vibrated through my body; my heart ached. But I didn't need this emergency to reset my priorities. It's clear (and has been for years): I'll do anything the family needs; I'll be there for the difficult and the everyday. There's no other place I'd rather be than right beside them, wide awake.

This writing is in creative collaboration with my friend Cyndi Briggs. Cyndi is wise, funny, kind, and awake. You can read her thoughtful post here. 

A Compassionate Heart

I remember a conversation with my high-school volleyball coach. She advised me, as setter, to be a sponge: soak up team emotions, but remain even-keeled; be a positive leader. I absorbed negativity, upset, and frustration. I took responsibility for everything and beamed enthusiasm. This was natural for me. From an early age, I sensed the emotions of others.

Eventually, though, the emotional-sponge model didn't work for me. I took on the difficulties of others as if they were my own. I thought I could save people. I thought I was responsible for the world. My heart was overwhelmed. 

I needed to look inside myself; to understand my own emotions. With enough self-awareness, I began to discern my feelings from those of others. I could see my response to the pain of friends. Then I tried to work skillfully with the situation--applying loving-kindness to both myself and others. It took practice to develop compassion--to open my heart completely and yet not be overwhelmed. Sharon Salzberg writes in Loving-Kindness: "It is a state of peace to be able to accept things as they are. This is to be at home in our own lives. We see that this universe is much too big to hold on to, but it is the perfect size for letting go. Our hearts and minds can become that big, and we can actually let go. This is the gift of equanimity."

The last two weeks brought sad news from different arenas. Distressing things happening to people I love. Some days I'm overwhelmed by sadness--so many people suffering. I try to remember Sharon's words: the universe is much too big to hold onto. I can't possibly save the world or take away the pain of loved ones. And if I dwell in an overwhelmed state, I only create more suffering--my friends suffer and I suffer. A different strategy is to open my heart; to not resist the pain and sadness. Then do what I can to help. And when I can't help, I let go. (The universe is the perfect size for letting go.) Sometimes I forget, but then I remember: I only need trust in my compassionate heart.

Trance of Unworthiness

On Friday night I attended a stirring talk by Tara Brach. Tara is a meditation teacher who speaks directly to my heart. Her book, Radical Acceptance, exposed me to life-altering ideas. More simply, I appreciate the book's title. In our culture, it's indeed radical to accept ourselves, as is. Self-love is so counter-culture that it's radical. Her new book, True Refuge, provides a heartfelt framework back to ourselves--dropping the false refuges and regularly connecting with our true refuge: our own inherent goodness.

From Tara I first heard the phrase, "trance of unworthiness." In her experience, most people suffer from this trance--living life with the constant hum of I'm-not-enough. I understand this trance well. I've lost swaths of my life in it. And I've also found my way back to myself. (See my previous post about shame and acceptance.)

My habituated reaction to difficult emotions is aversion--I push away. Through meditation practice I've learned it feels better when I allow for these emotions. It takes more energy to push away than to let them in. Still, my habits are well-grooved. But eventually I release from the trance. I allow for the sadness, anxiety, fear, and shame. Sometimes sitting with an emotion (e.g., sadness) releases it. Other times, the emotion is layered and sticky. In these situations, when I compassionately sit long enough, I typically find this root: something is wrong with me; I am not enough; I am unworthy. In these moments, if I place my hand on heart and say, "Joy, I'm sorry and I love you," I feel release. I feel connected to myself--my true, vulnerable self.

Tara names the common false refuges: striving, distracting, numbing, and judging. I understand every one of these. When I feel unnamed uneasiness, I often 1) try to prove myself via achievement, 2) distract myself with busyness and planning, 3) have a glass of wine and watch a movie, or 4) judge myself harshly (self-judgment is the background chatter of my mind)--or sometimes judge others harshly. These false refuges provide merely seconds of relief and must be reapplied. That is, they don't provide long-term refuge. 

Uncovering my shame and loving myself through it has radically changed my life. I live many more moments not in trance. I'm more present to all of life and all of me.  And once my heart opened to myself, it opened even bigger to the world. Imagine if we all healed ourselves with self-compassion; if we experienced life and others without protective armor; if we walked not in trance, but with open-hearted presence. 

A Letter To Myself

Joy,

People don't love you because of your garden, photographs, cooking, blog, cards, home, or workouts. They love you because of who you are inside. They appreciate your kindness, compassion, presence, and vulnerability. They love your heart, when it's full and when it's broken.

So it's okay to have weeds, receive no flickr comments, ruin a recipe, quiet your blog, send belated wishes, have dirt on your floors, or skip a workout. It's okay to take care of you as warmly as you take care of others. It's okay to ask for help. It's okay to not always be happy. Just be you, as is. Lead with your heart. People love the real you. More importantly, I love the real you. Trust in that.

What is a Brave Choice?

What is a brave choice? Previously, I described a common response to my resignation from Lawrence: how very brave of you. Yet my decision to resign didn't feel courageous; it felt clear--a straight-forward choice along my path. One of my friends recently asked how I came to such peace with the decision. My answer: I accrued enough self-awareness and fully trusted myself. Indeed, that is where the bravery lies.

It took courage to explore layers of myself in therapy. It took courage to have hard conversations with people I love--to let my voice and needs be heard, when I wasn't sure of the outcome. It took courage to feel the range of my emotions and let others see all parts of me. It took courage to sit for weekends in silent meditation--alone with my thoughts and feelings. It took courage to make different life choices from my colleagues--to prioritize people (including myself) rather than to-dos and accomplishments. It took courage to say "no" to some things in order to fully say "yes" to others. It took courage to try new creative outlets--to put forth my creative work in the beginning stages when I was most vulnerable. It took courage to tell people how very much I care about them.

My bravest act was not giving up tenure or quitting my job. Those decisions came easily after years of regular self-reflection. I think my bravest act was committing to that path of self-reflection (even when the truth was difficult to hear or say). And that still takes courage--every single day. Some days I don't want to reflect; I want to distract. Yet too many days of distraction leads to disconnection not just from myself, but from all of life. So I gather my courage and plant myself back in the moment; back in life--life filled with uncertainty, love, sadness, kindness, disappointment, contentment, anxiety, and joy. And I can't imagine it any other way.

Be Yourself

My friend Steph gave me a lovely pocket mirror whose backside contains a classic Oscar Wilde quote: "Be yourself; everyone else is already taken." I placed this mirror in a compartment of my purse and then completely forgot about it. Last Friday, as I walked home from work--after a long day and a long week--I searched for something in my purse and happened upon this little treasure. Of course! Be yourself. This was a much-needed reminder.

The quotation can be applied in many situations: when imitating someone else's work (instead of finding your own path), when acting like someone else (in hopes of being liked and admired), or when assuming certain roles (rather than trusting yourself). The latter is where I firmly stood while digging in my purse last Friday. So when I saw the words "be yourself," I immediately smiled. 

Last week I was trying to be the-best-teacher-in-the-world and a social director and a counselor and the-person-who-dreams-up-the-most-creative-photograph-ever. And in the process, I lost touch with myself--just briefly. Indeed, I'm at my best in the classroom when I'm myself; when I'm mindful; when I create from my heart, not from my desire for students to think I'm a great teacher. And my photography is most true when I listen to and trust myself. But sometimes I forget. 

I can be pulled from the mindfulness path; lured into playing habituated roles or inhabiting comparing-mind (where I'm never as good as anyone else). This often happens when some strong emotion (e.g., fear, sadness, shame, hurt) is not given the care and attention it needs. Instead of feeling, I distract and busy myself, and then my ego is off to the races--do, achieve, run from your true self. But when I make time for myself--just sit and listen and feel and cry and love--then there's just enough softening that I return to my true intentions. I return to being me. And that makes me happy.

Looking Back

Last weekend I caught up with a close friend. We had a lovely, meandering, heartfelt conversation. During part of this discussion, I reflected on my graduate-school days in Iowa City. It's interesting for me to look back at that period of my life. As with most experiences, it's layered and not straight-forward.

In the first year of my PhD program, I waffled between feeling like the biggest idiot in the world and feeling completely capable and talented. Some days I sobbed after class; other days I walked home with a huge smile on my face. These complicated feelings stayed with me even as I finished my dissertation. Part of me doubted my ability; the other part felt confident and strong. (Lucky for me, I had advisors who believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself.)

I also struggled in my relationship to food (very restrictive) and exercise (too much). Yet at the same time I played doubles volleyball twice a week, which was the most positive, enjoyable athletic experience of my life. I worked with therapists to understand and heal old, painful wounds. Through this process I found my own strength and beauty. I met Mark in my second year of graduate school. I learned what unconditional love really meant.

Here's how I summarized things to my friend: I wouldn't want to go back to that time, but it was really important for me to go through it.

My seven years in Iowa City were part of my life path. A path of learning and growing that will continue until I die. Today I trust in my gifts, believe in myself and my abilities, savor really tasty food, work out in a way that's comfortable for my body, honor and move past my emotional scars, let go more often, and open my heart regularly.

Struggle has been an important teacher in my life. It's uncomfortable in the moment, yet incredibly helpful in the end. Most importantly, I know I'm okay even in the struggle. I trust. I experience. In my early years,  I deeply feared struggle (in a fear-of-death sort of way). But once I emerged from challenge after challenge, I began to relax. This is one of the many reasons why I LOVE getting older. Each year brings more experience, more perspective, more understanding, and more love.

Be Brave

In June I connected with my 3 life-long best friends. During that lovely weekend, I found a delicate yet bold necklace that declared, "Be Brave." The message resonated with me deeply; it touched a spot of tenderness and growth in my heart--the part that began to trust myself.

Through years of self-reflection, therapy, and meditation, I've gained insights, changed habits, found happiness, and explored creativity, yet I've experienced an underlying discontent (beyond the basic level of difficulty that is life). Although I knew it was time to be brave, I wasn't sure where this path would lead. In the first weeks of a new academic year the path became clear: leave academia; take my gifts and skills to a new career. The biggest aha moment was when I realized I didn't have to be an academic. For so long--most of my life--academics has been a strongly-held identity for me. School was a place where I achieved and excelled. It gave me a feeling of enough-ness and of control. When things were difficult in my life, I felt I could change, save, or control  via hard work in school. Now I realize I don't have that kind of control. (In fact, I never did.) 

Although my role as a college professor was extremely rewarding for many years, it does not define me. And recently it has drained me. So I stepped outside the academic box. And when I allowed that space, my world grew huge. I saw all the many ways I can serve the world and my own passions. I took the leap: next September I will no longer be in academia (with no back-up plan in place).

When I told my colleagues, there were 3 themes to the responses: "I'm surprised, but actually not that surprised," "I'm sad for Lawrence, but happy for you," and interestingly, the most common response, "I admire your courage, bravery, and honesty." I didn't expect the last reaction, yet it poured in from people--from very different people. This was indeed my be-brave path.

There's a reason Brene Brown's TED talk, "The Power of Vulnerability," has over 6 million hits. She talks about vulnerability, shame, and taking risks. These are topics our society squelches in many ways. Our current level of societal discourse (e.g., news, social media, politics) is often judgmental, not open to vulnerability. So there's any undercurrent of uneasiness. People recognize they want to be true to themselves, take risks, make changes, yet it doesn't feel safe--we don't want to be vulnerable. But someplace deep in our hearts we believe the words of Brene: "Vulnerability is the birthplace of joy, creativity, belonging, and love." 

To be brave is really to be vulnerable. It's not brave or courageous if we don't expose some part of ourselves. I think the more brave acts we witness--even small ones--the more courage we gain to tell our stories, be ourselves, and share our passions. The reality is we're all vulnerable. And that real-ness is often what connects us. We only need be brave enough to share, even just a little. Or to occasionally take a big leap: