it's just a number

it’s finally my turn. 

one by one, the dominos have fallen…  crossing over into the milestone most of us have been dreading. entrance into the not-so-elite, inevitable club: quinquagenarians. 

look it up. it’s actually a thing. sounds kind of cool if you say it out loud. intriguing, rhythmic, alliteration, multi-syllabic, verbal gymnastics. in reality, it’s just a fancy word for 50. 

50 years old.

when i was on the other side watching each friend and family member grapple with impending semi-centurion status (no doubt exacerbated by the AARP junk mail that started filling the mailbox shortly around mid-40!), i would reassure them: “you're brilliant, and vibrant, and accomplished, and amazing. you’re blessed. you need to focus on that. because 50 is just a number.”

i meant that earnestly, in my heart of hearts. i could see them for ALL they were - despite the fretting about wrinkles and dreams deterred and roads not taken. nearly everyone i know who has hit that age exudes a special blend of confidence and wisdom, immune to the noise of outside voices, judgment, bluster. not that it’s always easy, with joints creaking or creases forming, the flood of facetunes filling the feeds. but within them, a sense of clarity, of self. and many actually glow, looking way better than they did when we were all boozing, smoking, carbo-overloading and generally living our seemingly invincible 80s and 90s lives.

it’s just a number. i believed those words to be true. and a part of me still does. as i write this, i float above myself and see that i am the person i just described. at 50, i know who i am. i know what’s important to me. i love my tribe—not a sprawling entourage, but a circle: small and strong and true. i have zero patience for drama and toxicity. i eat clean and work out and feel proud that i’ve achieved a level of professional success, can still smash a tennis ball, rock 5 inch heels (i’ll still race you!), and fit into the same size i wore 25 years ago while owning my celia-brand of style.

i still feel the lightness… but with each passing decade, it’s never a constant state. it flickers in and out. it ebbs and flows. happiness and heartache go hand in hand. feels like much more so now. and truthfully—after all these years— at 50 years young, i also feel the weight of 50 years old.

iykyk.

within that “just a number” are so many other numbers that have made deep marks on my heart and soul—shaping my perspective on life, and how to live. if you’ve been on earth for this long, i know you’ve felt and seen and lived this too. triumphant highs and the deepest lows. loss of parents, pets, friends, jobs, health, control, perhaps even hope…

i don’t know whether it’s my marketing brain or just human nature to quantify milestones by the numbers. but even when i’m not consciously keeping a tally, my synapses connect the dots.

two.

the beautiful, incredible humans that i’m proud to call my sons.

the two moms named cecilia, who shined so bright in my life, then passed.

the twins i carried for 26 weeks, before one died in utero.

the times i got raced to the ICU, 10 years apart, for freak, life-threatening health scares.

two socks on my feet, plum colored, with bright teal and pink flowers all over, and the words embroidered across the top of each: “super fucking awesome.” my only view—and hope—as i laid on my back in the hospital bed for seven days, tubes in my kidneys, a post-op j-drain in my abdomen to suction out excess fluids from the incision site, IV needle in my veins, heart monitor on my finger, catheter, and compression stockings alternately squeezing each leg to prevent clots. i couldn’t actually look at any of the wires and tubes connected to me…i didn’t dare because it was just too traumatizing. but i stared at those socks. and the pink toes underneath them. channeling uma from kill bill. one toe at a time. one day at a time. till i got back to me.

two rocks, perfectly round, smooth, plucked from our favorite beach in michigan, that i held and rubbed and, when everyone left my room at night, in the dark, clenched in my hands like amulets, praying to see my happy place again.

forty-two.

the number of holes i counted on my skin from the endless blood draws and IVs—until i stopped counting. 2 years later, some are gone. some look like freckles. and some are permanent coin-shaped reminders. of trauma….and survival.

three.

jobs that elevated my career, inspired me creatively, and expanded my skills, but were also abusive and toxic. through the process, though each painful in a different way, i realized my own value, unleashed my voice, walked through new doors that were opened to me, and resolved to never endure that treatment again. 

eight.

since the dumpster fire that began in 2020, with the pandemic and racial strife and polarizing politics, gun violence, climate change and overall shit show that’s become a day-in-life for all of us, the amount of times i’ve gotten into the car, by myself, turned the radio up, and drove and sang and screamed and cried…and actually felt better.

50%.

the times i feel completely and utterly sure that i’m where i am supposed to be. flowing, content, on the right path, fulfilled.

the times i feel alone, sad, lost, tired, in despair, or just plain numb.

zero. 

the words i have for my kids, and sometimes even myself, processing a world that is literally coming apart, unraveling at the seams.

the amount of f*cks i give, after all that i’ve been through, lived through, for anyone or anything that doesn’t serve me, fill me up, surround me with joy and positivity.

84,160.

the amount of photos on my phone, as of this writing, where i saw beauty and light in a moment—in the sky, on a plate, at the lake, on the beach, on a page, out my window, on random streets, and corners, in faces, in the mirror—despite all weight. 

i still sparkle from the electricity of live music. new adventures. a great story. beautiful art. a blooming orchid. fresh sheets. frenchie snores. a bowl of pasta. a flute of bubbles. a gentle breeze. 

i’ve taken risks, been challenged, hit walls, fallen down, and every time, picked myself back up, and grown and learned. i’m stronger that i could ever imagine. and so are you.

social media gives you the highlight reel. but this is the real real. 

one.

all we have is this one life. it’s beautiful and hard and unpredictable and messy. it’s twists and turns. laughter and loss. happiness and heaviness. starts and restarts. choose to live the hell out of your life—with purpose and intention. no matter what it looks like from the outside, we’re all going through it. whether you’re zero or fifty or eighty or anywhere in between, it’s up to you. only you. to focus on the things you can control. to let go of the things you can’t. to protect your heart. and fill it with the things that make you truly happy. not surface level—deep in your core. to believe in yourself. it’s the only way to steel yourself against whatever life brings your way.

the compass

I’ve been on an incredible journey this past year. A reset. Dipping my toe into freelance work, taking on a new job, traveling, meeting amazing people who are brilliantly inspiring, whether because of their talents or genuine friendship or simple humility in getting through daily life with humor or compassion or even grace.

It all came about because the universe kicked me in the ass to move along another path.

I’m honestly filled with so much gratitude… but somehow the word doesn’t quite capture the nuance. It’s more like this incredible sense of clarity: about what I want and don’t want, and what matters most to me. The more people I talk to, the more I’ve realized that no matter what age, stage of life or supposed level of "success," we are all literally trying to find our place. It’s the age-old nagging existential questions: “Where do I belong? What city or suburb, what profession, with what person or life circumstance? What do I want to be when I grow up? What is happiness in this busted, broken, imperfect world?”

Well I’m here to tell you, I have the answer. No, really. I’ve cracked it. Never mind that scholars and philosophers have been grappling with this mystery for centuries. I’ve got news. It’s really simple.

It all has to do with your inner compass.  

During a particularly rough stretch, I had a random kitchen conversation with someone. She was a casual friend, certainly not a close confidant, but after exchanging niceties and complimenting each other’s shoes, the conversation somehow shifted from superficial to sage. She opened up about a really toxic time in her life and how, though she had absolutely no clear plan what escape looked like, she knew one thing. Her “inner compass was off.” She was sick to her stomach. Hives. Stress. Daily dread with a cocktail of meds and a cherry on top.

So one day she left.

She trusted her gut. And set off to find a new direction. She didn’t have the destination mapped out. But closing that door, while terrifying, opened a slew of new ones based on her own inner clarity, and the connective tissue of friends and loved ones—that magical safety net of support that appears when you need it most, but you forget exits when you’re in the thick of your own drama.

The moral of the story: “Keep doing you.” It’s literally all you’ve got. You are one in 7.5 billion people. A truly unique, one-of-a-kind combination of hair and eyes and heart and cells and atoms and thoughts and talents that only you can bring. And you have the power to make a dent in the world when you’re firing on all cylinders. Authenticity is such a lame, stodgy word, but at the heart, it’s about living your truth. While all else might be murky or uncertain (your ultimate path or detailed plan), your inner compass never lies.

If you sense something's off, you’ll know it. You’ll physically feel it. If it’s just a slight inconsistency, then perhaps all you need is a little course correction—a series of turns, pit stops for help with directions, small changes in attitude or focus.

But if your compass is literally taking you in the opposite direction from who you are and where you want to go, then listen to that nav. Whether it's your conscious choice, heroic moment or the forces of the universe giving you an unexpected nudge, maybe it is time anyway to take a pause. Pull out the roadmap and figure out your next move. Or better yet, get lost for awhile. It’s terrifying when you set off on a journey that you mapped out clearly in your mind or life plan.

But trust me. Side streets and detours can be utterly delicious. They can open up worlds of opportunity and inspiration from places and people you never knew existed. And despite your deep-seeded fear about veering off onto the wrong path, you may well realize it’s ultimately exactly where you need to be.

If you can’t make a wholesale change because finances or kids or life obligations box you in, then take even small steps that get you out of your comfort zone. Put yourself out there in little ways, express yourself, create, talk to people and make connections. At least it’s movement in the right direction. It’s better than inertia, standing still.

And no, it won’t be easy. Many of us end up or stay in the wrong situation because we believe in the narratives that other people tell us—about ourselves, our talents or skills or definitions of what happiness is supposed to be. The truth is the biggest roadblocks you will face are the doubters and the haters: those who seek to knock you down or even your own biting inner critic. Battling both will take resolve. But when those voices creep into your consciousness, take inspiration from one of my all-time favorite memes. It’s both hilarious and anthemic... 

Following your inner compass means trusting yourself above all else. The haters and skeptics are just noise. Don’t try to chase other people’s dreams or listen to external scripts about who you are and what you can do. Follow your own inner compass and you can’t go wrong.

that moment

it must have been divine intervention. how could you not think so… as your eyes gaze upward, a glimpse of heaven spreading out before you. on that ceiling, the sacred stories upon which entire religions were born, all told here in radiant pastel perfection.

yet he was a man. i wondered if he appreciated the magnitude in that moment—as he rubbed his strained neck and mopped his weary brow—of what his work would ultimately become. lying on his back, painting by candlelight, reveling in periods of progress and working through setbacks on a scaffolding high above. the end result: a masterpiece. the pinnacle. his ultimate vision fully realized after literally years in the making.

tucked away in a corner of the vast vatican museum hallways, amid miles and miles of tromp l’oeil ceilings and gleaming gilded frames, is a fragment, a sketch, of a man standing, head turned upward, brush in hand.

the man was michelangelo, and the graphic replicated from a letter he had written to a friend while painting the ceiling of the sistine chapel.

a few simple strokes of black along with words penned to a friend revealed volumes about the man, behind the masterpiece.

during the creation he vacillated between utter clarity and self-doubt, pressure to fulfill others’ demands and resolve to stay true to himself.  in his own words:

“every gesture i make is blind and aimless…my painting is dead…
i am not in the right place—i am not a painter.”

one of the greatest artists who ever lived, questioning, throwing punches in dark, with only his heart and the vision in his head to guide him. this beauty he created is now a beacon, yet the end product we all admire was the result of courage, endurance, guts and grit, behind the scenes. he encountered supporters and skeptics along the way, but in the end he had only one choice. to drown out the noise, all other voices—and stay true to the one inside himself.

ever since i was young, i’ve always been fascinated by biographies—barbara walters, behind the music—the story behind the story, of people who’ve reached success and fame, the so-called status of “having it all.” yet 9 times out of 10, a glimpse behind the curtain reveals that it wasn’t just their god-given brilliance or amazing talent or fate shining down upon them with good fortune, but rather their resolve: to overcome fear, failure, rejection, redemption, heartache or loss. finding their way meant walking, pushing, stumbling forward, despite not knowing what lay ahead.

when you’re in the weeds, in the thick of it, grinding it out just to get through each day, it’s nearly impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel, to know whether the final product will be what you envisioned.

yet despite the uncertainty, you have a choice: to stay safe... or forge ahead through the darkness. rely on what you’ve learned. trust your gut. stay true to your instincts and your truth. lean on those closest when you feel you can’t go on. have faith that everything will work out—perhaps not as you planned, but always always as they should be.

every line, every brushstroke, every blemish or mistake, acknowledged then let go of – all contribute to the masterpiece that is your life. it’s not just a passive exercise of watching things unfold. it’s acting, in little and big ways, with intention.

the act of creation—be it a tiny project or grand plan, a work of art or simply a day lived without regret—may be touched, ever so briefly, by glimpses of grace. but in the end, if it’s meant to be, it’s up to you. 

deus ex machina

long before it was the title of a sci-fi psychological thriller, the term was coined by the ancient greeks. literally translated to “god from the machine,” it refers to a god introduced into a play to resolve the entanglements of the plot.

today it’s an improbable plot twist used to clear up the conflicts encountered by the main character. think of the cavalry in classic westerns swooping in to save the damsel in distress, tied to the train tracks and seconds away from being flattened by a speeding freight train. or the magic kiss from prince charming that finally awakens snow white from her poison-apple-induced slumber.

as human beings, we’re wired to believe in the magic bullet, the ticket to a tidy resolution to whatever ails us. “if only i had…that life, that job, that house, that family, that award, that (fill in the blank) to make it all better.”

and fairy tales and movies and shiny stories tied up in bows only perpetuate our belief in that cavalry coming—sometime, somehow—to save the day. the myth leaves us in a strange place… living, yet waiting…to find true happiness or reach our full potential. 

there is a great passage in the classic dr. seuss story, “oh the places you’ll go,” that sums it up perfectly. “The Waiting Place…” 

but that thing that you’re waiting for may never come. or once you’ve got it, there will be a whole heaping helping of more where that came from.

imagine all the things you may have missed—in those moments of waiting, of longing, of spinning or distraction—forward and forward, before realizing what you actually had in the moment.

as heroes of our own story, we are desperate to map out the big story arc, to understand how to shed our baggage and connect all the dots toward a satisfying resolution. but setting our sights solely on the epic climax leaves countless seconds, minutes, hours, days, even lifetimes, on the table: overlooked, forgotten, perhaps half-lived or never fully appreciated.

what if we shifted our whole perception of the narrative?

instead of waiting for that grand epiphany, perhaps the answer lies in all the experiences along the way—of beauty, truth, connection, trying and failing and picking ourselves back up again. instead of the big story arc, it’s the small, pure moments that define us, inspire us, heal us, and make us who we are.

maybe the driving force en route to save the day isn’t the chiseled-chin, bulging bicepped superman, but underdog, the unlikely anti-hero, the symbol of forgotten moments and the little things in life that are pure, yet incredibly powerful.

and that “god from the machine”? maybe it’s not somewhere out there at all—but much closer to home—inside ourselves and how we choose to approach every single day.  

precious cargo

the anxiety and self-loathing started last month. interspersed between santa commercials and holiday sales were the barrage of weight loss and self-help spots. before the big ball dropped in times square to usher in 2016, the media was already preying on our fears—and predicting our inevitable failure to live up to those grandiose goals we set for ourselves.

“80% of people fail to fulfill their new year’s resolutions.”

and let's be honest. the other 20% are likely chronic over-achievers (you know who you are) who have berated themselves for not doing the other 10 things on their list.

so why even bother?

i am a big believer in visualization, in writing things down, and the magic that can happen when you don’t just think about a desire, a want, a goal—but you commit to it in a tangible way. i have found that, consciously or not, the mere act of announcing that intention to the universe (even if you are the only person who hears it) propels you somehow toward the end goal. sometimes it happens in huge, life-altering ways. but most often it’s little ones that put you on a trajectory and move you ever so slightly in that direction.

and guess what… that’s ok.

yes, you should absolutely think about your goals. look inward and find that fire in your gut. lean back. dream big. and commit yourself fully to whatever it is you are striving for in life or work, personal relationships or self-fulfillment. even buy a stack of power ball tickets for good measure.

but remember to balance those resolutions with respect for yourself and how far you’ve come.

nothing and no one is perfect. screw unattainable goals.

forward progress and baby steps, kindness and compassion, raising people up versus tearing them down, being true to yourself and present in moments that truly matter—that is #winning in my book.

this new year is a gift. and this life of ours, it’s precious. fragile. for anyone who has experienced illness or loss, you know that in a whisper, the blink of an eye, all can be lost.

so in your quest for the better you, don’t forget to celebrate all that you are and have —and every experience that brought you to this moment.

yes, look forward... but live in the now.

18 days

From the moment we got the first phone call to our last goodbyes at the cemetery.

It seems strange to say we were “lucky” for this time. Her death was so sudden. Out to dinner laughing with friends one minute…and then, in an instant, the universe shifted. A 911 call, a series of emergency heart surgeries, a courageous if not unfathomable recovery, a fragile moment of light and hope…before it was taken from us.

Those 18 days were an emotional roller coaster. Ups and downs. Long road trips back and forth from Chicago to Cleveland. Time spent in our heads, praying, hoping, processing, questioning. Running through the carousel of favorite moments and memories.

It’s been a month since she passed. Yet despite that time, there is a still a rawness, a sadness, surely exacerbated by the holidays. The process of accepting that she’s gone, of healing, and adjusting without her in our lives, has only just begun.

Family and friends who heard the news echoed the feeling we all felt, privately in our own hearts, and every time we greeted each other in the waiting room of the ICU, squeezing each other with weary, teary, yet hopeful eyes. Until the end.

“No words.”

After going through it myself, and shortly thereafter hearing of other friends who have lost loved ones—it occurred to me that there really are no words adequate to sum up the loss.

Those 18 days were a mixed bag of doubt, hope, despair, numbness, strength, sorrow and ultimately surrender.

Looking back on the photos I took during that time, I realized that, consciously or not, the images below captured how I was feeling in those moments, in a way that words couldn’t. In shadows, in nature, in art on the walls at the hospital, in moments, in the sky… I was looking for an answer.

Not sure I ever found it in those 18 days. But I did find comfort. In the beauty. In the order of things. In the belief that somehow, some way, there must be a reason why. 

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dreams, spandex & death goggles

Though it was a great excuse to get away from the office grind, I was fully prepared for the barrage of buzzwords and bravado. It was, after all, a new business conference for advertising’s top brass—the crème de le crème of seasoned sales pro’s, spinning stories and selling dreams for some of the world’s biggest brands.

I’d been in advertising long enough to be jaded—exhausted by the echo chamber and marketese/mumbo jumbo that reaches a feverish pitch at conferences: “integration, transformation, disruption”…indigestion. Nonetheless, I was looking forward to hearing the war stories and hopefully walk away with even a smidge of inspiration amidst the talk of pitch strategies and procurement woes.  

When the young, tan, whispy-haired dude from Boulder, Colorado, shuffled onto the stage amidst the slick-suited, stiletto-clad crowd, I knew this would be a different kind of talk. But I had no idea what deep, existential ponderings were in store for all of us in the audience that day.

The title certainly didn’t sound riveting: “Reframe Your Business: A Growth Strategy Inspired by Personal and Social Values.” But he came from a place and echelon of success in our industry that very few could even fathom to reach.

Alex Bogusky was an original founder and partner of one of the world’s hottest ad agencies, Crispin Porter + Bogusky. He was the “Elvis of advertising”—a superstar. In Ad Age’s words, he was “as clever, brash, and iconoclastic as the campaigns that earned him a reputation as the most dangerous weapon in advertising. He relished playing cultural deviant—creating brazen campaigns for Virgin, Volkswagon and most notably Burger King." 

4 years ago, he left Crispin, Porter because he didn’t feel his values were aligned any longer with the business. He went on to found a series of companies and social related projects that “do good in the world.” He worked with Al Gore to raise awareness and action against climate change. He started Common, a creative community that helps social entrepreneurs “do shit that matters.” And just last month, he launched a new agency called Fearless, designed to help corporations, foundations and non-profits build campaigns around social issues.

It all sounds so lovely and idyllic—the former ad guru who cashed out, made millions by selling off his share in one of the most lauded ad agencies to “find his soul,” and is now spreading peace, love and pixie dust all over the world from his aptly named “Fearless Cottage” in Boulder.

The cynic in me scoffed. “Easy for him to say from atop his moral high horse,” I thought, reflecting on all of us poor schelps in Adland—and every other industry for that matter—who actually have mouths to feed and bills to pay as opposed to sinking riches into whatever cause du jour comes our way.

But when he hit the stage at the conference, he won me over—not with self-absorbed anecdotes from his glory days in advertising or business strategies to drive growth, but rather with personal “stories” and sage advice from someone who, at the pinnacle of his career chose to pave a different path—based on personal values and fulfillment rather than traditional notions of success.

7 Steps to Career / Life Fulfillment from Alex Bogusky

Below are some inspiring sound bites I scribbled into my moleskin almost a year ago at the Mirren Conference in New York. These thoughts have swirled in and out of my consciousness as I’ve transitioned to a new job, juggled the demands of work and family, and struggled to carve out the time for passion projects like writing my blog and photography, and even just unplugging from the chaos of daily life. The answers are far from black and white – but they’re nonetheless great reminders when you feel adrift or simply need permission: to dream, take risks or even simply baby steps toward the next stage of your own personal journey.

1.     “Aligning your values and work can be so fucking hard.” The truth hurts, doesn’t it? But there it is. Someone finally laid it out on the table. Landing your “dream job” or even figuring out what that is—it’s nearly impossible when you’ve got bills to pay, rent, a mortgage, god forbid the money pit that is kids. Based on where you are in your life and career, you may have to suck it up for awhile: earn your stripes, pay back your loans, do whatever you need to do to earn a living now. And accept that that’s ok. But if your ultimate goal is to do something more, something different, something better—then it’s also up to you to define where you want to be and what you want to do. It’s hard. Brutal even. And even if that dream job is eons away from your current reality, you have to start somewhere, with even little actions that will set you off in that direction. In the end, if you can achieve that kind of alignment, when you know in your gut and heart and your soul—not just your wallet—that this is what you were meant to do, it will all be worth it.

2.     Lycra: "It’s not always pretty… but it’s you.” This was the single best career advice I’d ever heard. Wear spandex to your first interview? No not exactly. What he meant was this: YOU have to decide what fits you perfectly. Screw what everyone else says about what path you should take or how to benchmark success. Wearing lycra means putting it all out there—every nook and cranny, every bump and blemish, every experience and talent that makes you uniquely you—and doing it fearlessly. There is nothing more empowering than finding your true, authentic voice…and screaming from the rooftops.

3.     Now is the time. All white slide. No other words on it. I got chills. When it comes to work or big life decisions, it’s natural to focus on the end goal. And because of the weight, we often find ourselves waiting: for “the right time” or “the right opportunity” or whatever real or imaginary barrier to be removed before we act. And big changes are scary as hell. Often the person watching with judging eyes, anticipating our own imminent failure is ourselves. On the next slide: “Our own internal voices are fucks.” The key is to realize that you don’t need to solve the world’s problems right here, right now, in one fell swoop. That’s a surefire recipe for failure. Whether it’s a job or life choice, we’re all WIP (Works in Progress). Simply begin to take steps. Little wins lead you one step closer to the end goal. 

4.     Lay back and dream. As big as you can. Again, not the kind of advice I expected at a new business conference. There is a reason people like Alex Bogusky or Steve Jobs achieve unfathomable heights of success while so many others wallow in mediocrity. They’re dreamers. Disruptors. They challenge the comfortable confines of the status quo. He proposed an exercise: Describe your ideal environment. Ideal collaborators. Ideal role. Even if it’s only a dream now, the mere fact of articulating it crystallizes it into something real and tangible to strive for.

5.     Do your little projects. You know, the ones you keep putting off, that you never have time for because they’re just “hobbies.” In advertising we are literally driven, often into the ground, by clients and deadlines and demands on our time. Every profession has its version of pressure or paperwork or pet peeves that drain your energy, rob you of precious time you wish you could be spending on things you’re actually passionate about. Make the time. Whether an escape or coping mechanism for your current state or an actual step, however small, toward the life or career you want, do it. Those “little things” go a long way toward making you a happier, well-balanced, more fulfilled human being.

6.     “Success.” Bogusky left advertising at the pinnacle of “success.” In describing his career trajectory, he talked about the relationship between his core values and the size of the firm where he worked. “Small” was exciting and entrepreneurial, but stressful in terms of actually building a profitable business. “Medium” was a sweet spot, with just the right amount of creative freedom and fun, balanced with the sense of doing really “good” work for clients. Yet as the company started to grow, it became harder to find “goodness” along with “bigness.” In his words, the values had changed, enough to inspire him to leave. In society, success is generally gauged by title and dollars. But once you throw other factors into the mix: your health and well-being, stress levels, impact on your family relationships, what is the true measure of success? I think we all have to define what it means for us personally and challenge the notion that money or things equate to #winning in work or life. 

7.     Death goggles. Bogusky actually opened his presentation by telling the audience a very personal story about his mother who had just passed away. With voice quivering, he looked out into the audience and said: “When you think about what you’re doing in life, do you ever ask yourself the questions: Do I matter? Does what I do matter? When I die, and people are gathered for my funeral, what will people say about me and the impact I made?” Again chills. Heavy stuff for a morning keynote session. The question pretty much cut through to my core.

I thought about my own mom who had passed away years ago. She worked her ass off for 30 years—healing patients in order to fund private school, college, med school and law school tuition, helping family members with medical bills and miscellaneous expenses. Based on her staunch religious beliefs, sense of moral obligation, and desire to give her children all the things she never had, she felt this was her role in life. But the trade off: the romantic ideals that I only saw in glimpses from old photo albums of her glamorous, carefree travels with my dad— that she left behind the minute she donned the white coat and the title of “doctor.”

Her one dream in life was to go to Rome. To stroll the streets like Audrey Hepburn, who she watched on the big screen as part of the triple features in the air-conditioned movie theatres of the Philippines, long before she achieved “success” in the U.S.  What did she get instead of her ultimate “Roman Holiday” after a lifetime of working hard? Kidney failure during retirement, excruciating rounds of dialysis, and a ticket to the Philippines for a transplant that ended in tragedy.

Such a harsh reality, but also an important lesson: Whatever path you choose in life, whatever decisions—big or small—make them count. Make sure that what you do matters: for yourself and those around you. Evaluate your priorities. Find “your thing.” Own it and live it, fearlessly…because it’s all you’ve got. 

forgive yourself

i’m only 53 days late for my new years resolution. and the xmas cards, which for the last few years have become the new years card, this year, officially became the facebook post.

i have a perfectly legitimate excuse. i left the company i’ve worked at for seven years—a job and people i know inside and out—and took a new post at another agency. better title, bigger challenge, a world of new opportunity…and a heaping helping of additional stress… all while juggling parenting, two kids, household chores, and the myriad of annoying little tasks that make up daily life.

yet somehow, the voice inside my head refuses to cut me some slack. i have this nagging sense of guilt. my conscience wags its critical finger, chiding me for all the failures i’ve racked up during this time of transition. cousin xmas gifts—finally in the mail, just shy of march. photo canvases and family albums—a mere figment of my time-zapped imagination. best friend phone call five months overdue thanks to the barrage of homework and nightly bedtime rituals. closet purging—suspended in my room, halfway done in once-organized piles that get a little more messy with each morning’s mad dash to get dressed and out the door. spring cleaning—yeah right. talk to the tornado whose name starts with “L” and ends with “ogan.”

i feel like a wimp for even whining about it. like the “dog ate my homework" excuse, it seems like a cop-out. “sorry, all of you fabulous friends who managed to go see santa (another mandatory ritual i also missed this year), crank out ten batches of cookies AND send out cards on time (hell, at all!)… i just got too busy so i opted out this year. and to make matters more egregious, i refused to confess my failure on facebook to make a point, if only to myself.

a couple friends who are also fighting the good fight, spinning, twirling and treading to get through each day, actually apologized to everyone for not getting cards out in time. this really broke my heart. i completely understood the sentiment… but it just wasn’t right. i know i certainly wasn’t holding a grudge. and i’m sure none of their 500 other frenzied friends weren’t either. 

i saw this photo on instagram many months ago and saved it because it just struck a chord. in this day and age, we’re all over-worked, over-stretched, sometimes just plain “over it.”

maybe, just maybe, it’s time we give ourselves a break. maybe it’s not all of your friends on facebook, posting perfect posts and curating catchy captions, that are judging you. maybe it’s actually YOU. trying to live up to an ideal of perfection that is just that: an ideal. a cosmo or stepford or cinderella myth—meant to make you feel bad for failing to live up to the unrealistic standard of perfection you hold yourself to.

i came to the realization recently on report card day. that one time nine years ago when i only had one kid and time to actually read parenting advice, i read an article in new york magazine about “the power (and peril) of praise.” it was both interesting and counterintuitive. my parents focused on grades. “all A’s…or else.” the outcomes were of supreme importance. but no, in this article, the preeminent authorities on the subject gave a very important directive: to set your kids up for success, you have to praise the effort, not the end result.” by focusing only on the outcomes, they fixate on failure, start buying into the narrative that they don’t measure up, find themselves lost, and lack the resilience to push through adversity.

sound familiar?

my resolution for 2015: follow the advice i constantly tell my kids. “as long as you try your best, that’s what counts.” as long as you’re in the moment during the times that matter, that’s true success. not the final grade. or your goal weight. or whatever it is that motivates you—and drives you mad.

all of us overachievers are gunning for the A+: holding ourselves to too high standards, trying to execute flawlessly, berating ourselves for all the things that didn’t go exactly as planned. instead we should be celebrating the little wins, daily victories. a kind gesture. a gorgeous sunrise. a good laugh with an old friend. a perfect hair day. a pat on the back for a job well done. or even, on some days, simply getting up and out of bed when all you want to do is hide under the covers until it’s safe to come out.

and even when you do hit the mark, no matter how high, at the pinnacle of so-called “success,” you may feel like an imposter, a fraud. but guess what? we all do. the truth is: we’re all winging it. “nobody knows what the hell they are doing.”

two cases in point:

the late maya angelou, one of the greatest writers of our time, once said: “i have written 11 books, but each time, i think ‘uh-oh. they’re going to find out now. i’ve run a game on everybody and they’re going to find me out.’” 

similarly, david carr, a highly acclaimed reporter who covered the intersection of media and pop culture for the new york times, recently passed away. one of his most famous quotes echoes the sentiment. “i now inhabit a life i don’t deserve, but we all walk this earth feeling we are frauds. the trick is to be grateful and hope the caper doesn’t end soon.”

so just keep pressing on. stop comparing. start living. trust your instincts. be true to you. remember that everyone’s shiny facebook highlight reel isn’t the full picture of what’s real. and gratitude, rather than self-loathing, goes a long way.

most importantly, believe that your best is actually good enough. because it is.

riding the wave

i can remember the first time vividly. the blue beneath our feet looked harmless enough, light ripples in the sunlight—not a hint of warning about the turbulence to come.

when the steamy, translucent gates parted, we waded in slowly, gradually ascending the heights until we reached a point of statis. terra firma. level ground. the vibe was chill, relaxed, even inviting—especially for a first timer—but we stuck close together as his eyes enlarged to take in the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and ever so peculiar smells engulfing him.

i thought it would be an amazing adventure: his first bus ride. and when we boarded, his excitement about embarking on such a reviled mode of transportation amazed me. i handed him the crumpled dollar from my purse and did my best to flatten out the bill, smoothing it between my fingers to ensure it would get accepted. he fumbled a bit, hurriedly trying to stuff it into the narrow slot as the bus driver watched blankly. finally, on the third try, he found his mojo, staring intently with delight as george washington’s face got sucked up ever so smoothly into the machine.

“third time’s the charm, bud!”

beaming with a sense of accomplishment and relief, he followed anxiously on my heels to see what was next. we slowly shuffled forward—you know the move: barely lift your feet and slide several inches, right-left, right-left, following behind the person in front of you, close enough to be able to slip into an empty seat if you stumble upon it, but far enough away where no bodily contact happens. ever.

his eyes opened wide as he scanned the strange surroundings. seniors, tweeners, hipsters and homeless people.  he was clearly fascinated by the array of colorful commuters he witnessed as we made our way to the middle of the bus. per usual, i scanned the rows for an opening while simultaneously avoiding eye contact of any sort (a skill honed and perfected after years of taking the dank red line subway).

nothing.

he looked up at me nervously.

“don’t worry, honey.” i pulled him close and showed him the shiny silver pole by the center doors. “just hang on to this and it’ll be fine,” i reassured him, intentionally leaving out the sordid images popping into my mind of the dregs of humanity, and all the grimy hands that grasped the metal lifeline throughout the day, even seconds before ours. “bring on the purell,” i muttered under my breath.

“huh?

“it’ll be fun, i can tell!” i articulated loudly, earnestly trying to reinforce his genuine anticipation.

he wrapped both hands around the pole, and readied himself. it was a white-knuckled grip for sure—not because he was scared, but simply due to the fact that he didn’t know what to expect. i, on the other hand, had wrapped my jacket-clad arm around the pole to stabilize myself while avoiding actually touching the cootie-laden structure. (i figured this was an intermediate lesson, a trick i could teach him on ride #3 or 4, after he had successfully completed this maiden voyage.)

the doors slammed shut, and as the bus began to move, it melted my heart to see the corners of his eyes wrinkle up when he smiled—just like mine—a giant grin that radiated happiness, though he was trying to play it cool to blend in with the crusty commuters surrounding us.

for the next few stops, he was in the groove, letting go of his vice grip as he started to get the hang of the ebb and flow. he clearly found comfort knowing the trusty old pole was there if and when he needed it. a safe base. the novice was getting his bearings. my little jedi in transit training.

things were all well and good…until we got to chicago and milwaukee, where the subway and bus stops converge. by the time we had arrived, it was rush hour and the mass of bodies pushed forward when the steamy glass doors swung open. unlike the nirvana of literally minutes before, we were packed in like sardines.

helpless to resist the momentum, we surged forward, slowly shuffling again, only this time with bodies pressed up against our backs. he paused to look up at me with a combination of slight curiosity and sheer terror.

“everybody move back! make way for the passengers boarding the bus!” the driver yelled sternly.

“keep moving until you can’t go any further.”

i nudged him forward until we were firmly wedged between a few fine specimens of the CTA variety, only to find ourselves in the worst possible predicament: caught completely adrift, with neither a pole to hang onto nor a place to lean against.

“oooh this is not good.” i thought to myself as i put a hand on his shoulder, regretting this brilliant maternal decision to subject my kid to the gruesome tortures of mass transit.

the doors struggled shut, then the bus hurtled toward the intersection. the amoeba of people that included us poor souls with no pole morphed with the abrupt forward movement. the rough jerk sent us flying, and we both reached for the invisible bar (also known as thin air). it was futile. with nothing to stabilize, we flailed. i grabbed onto his shirt and kept him (barely) upright.

“mommy, HELP! what am i supposed to do now? i am going to fall if i have nothing to hold onto?”

with each successive stop, he’d tense up, his entire body bracing for the impending wave to hurl him about like a piece of driftwood tossing about at sea. he’d look around, embarrassed, worried. hating the lack of control. dreading the possibility he’d fumble, step on a foot, bump into man, or worst of all fall flat on his face.

i leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “ok buddy. listen to me. you’ve got to stay loose.”

his face contorted. the sweet adoring “i love you, mommy” face was instantly replaced by an indignant “wtf are you talking about, lady??” look. “stay loose when i’m about to dive headfirst into this mass of scary humanity?!”

i smiled reassuringly. “I’m serious,” i said in a gentle voice. “at the next stop, just watch me carefully.”

his response: a hearty huff and eye roll (the latter another lesson he regrettably learned from the best…me).

as we approached the stop, i got into position, exaggerating my movements for dramatic effect. i planted my heels (all 4.5 inches of them) firmly on the ground, as wide as they could get in the 12-inch square block of space i had to work with. i bent my legs slightly and got ready to ride the wave.

he was intrigued now, watching me intently as i assumed the position. i cracked a big smile and winked at him.

the brakes screeched loudly as we pulled up on the next stop, and i rode it out, shifting my body weight subtly back and forth to counter the momentum. he watched in amazement as i maintained my balance, only hesitating once to grab onto his arm when the jostling got a hair too extreme.

the furrow in his brow slowly morphed into a grin of his own.

he whispered into my ear. “that was awesome!”

“i told you bud. i know what i’m talking about. whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

the grin transformed into an ear-to-ear smile. “i wanna try!”

he couldn’t wait test out the technique. as we approached the next stop, i watched his lips recounting the steps, and his body motions working in unison. he was ready.

“look mom! no hands!” he squealed.

and that was it. on an unremarkable wednesday, in the middle of rush hour on the CTA, i taught him an invaluable lesson about surfing…and life.

“whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

beast of burden

being a working mom involves a lot of schlepping. while i’ve got more than a few cute purses in cool shapes with fancy hardware, for the every day grind, you need girth—a bag big enough for the 13-inch mac, moleskin, munchies and assortment of random crap you cart around “just in case”: pens, printouts, receipts, lip balm, umbrella, kleenex, kitchen sink.

because the term “mom” is generally synonymous with pack mule, you get used to the weight—on your mind and on your shoulders. taking care of messy noses, raspy voices, dirty hands, making plans. carrying it all around because hey, that’s your job.

and speaking of work, sprinkle on some deadlines and the general cadence of meeting and juggling and spinning, and each day brings with it the pressing weight of life’s responsibilities.

recently i have been traveling a lot for work, and while i’ve pretty much got my rituals down to a science (the travel baggie full of pint-sized products, one carry-on, shoes and all, backpack for laptop, and swivel wheels for shuffling through the long airport lines), i had a curious feeling on a cross-country trip late last year that something felt unusual.

i was headed to costa rica for a team summit. my backpack was stuffed with the typical travel gear: computer, power cord, phone charger, moleskin and snacks. the only thing missing was my usual stash of trashy, in-flight gossip mags—no time for distractions as i had a date with a powerpoint deck for the long trip down to the tropics.  

it wasn’t an excessively long trek: one layover in houston, a sprint to catch a connection, and finally to our destination…but when i finally got to my hotel that night, my shoulders and back were sore.

“what the hec is in this bag?”

as i mentioned earlier, random items in my bags and purses are not an uncommon occurrence, but i started pulling out the contents to figure out why it felt so heavy.

a pile of change, yup. a brush, ok….wait whu??

i dug deep into the bottom and felt a smooth, cold object. and then another. and then a few smaller ones. i grabbed hold of the big one and pulled it out. it was a rock that my boys had collected on a summer trip to michigan. “it’s a heart for you mommy! it means love.” over the course of our vacation, the boys had picked a random assortment of heart-shaped rocks, plucked from the beach, and lovingly bestowed on me.

when we got back to reality, they proudly set them out on the table, and every morning hounded me to take them to work and put them on my desk as a reminder of our happy place and of them. and every morning, i’d scurry around, getting ready, searching for outfits, barking about being late, and telling them they’d be too heavy to carry in my backpack that day.

apparently they decided, on this particular trip, to take matters into their own hands. i schlepped these rocks four thousand miles down to costa rica and back. and though the burden was heavy, my heart was light.

a couple months later, i went to new york for another work trip. backpack was clean and only the essentials packed. yet again, when i got to my hotel room, a rock had found its way into my bag. only one this time. but one was more than enough.

as a parent, it can sometimes feel like you’re buried under the weight of all that you carry. but it’s also grounding, purpose. it’s bedrock—tangible reminders of love so pure and real that you can’t fathom what life was like without them. when you’re busy carrying on with dinner and homework and activities and obligations, never lose sight of the fact that those smiles and squeezes and random little gifts—and yes, even rocks— are the little things that can carry you through.