coaching

Just a Little Bit Scared

Today, my dad would have been 67.

As I typed that, I sat and inhaled. My brain can’t fathom 67. He died at 58. That’s a big gap.

I stared at the sentence, letting the weight of it seep into the virtual page. 67.

I have a hard time imagining what he’d look like today. In the gap, my appearance has changed. I’m softer in some places, and gray pieces of hair grow in where postpartum stole clumps from my scalp. My mother’s hands are changing, while his remain stuck in old photographs. We have a child who didn’t exist when he did. He didn’t get the chance to age.

Instead, our memories of him are aging. We went to breakfast this morning to celebrate his birthday. In the corner case sat mugs of yesteryear – with over ten different styles taking the restaurant and its branding back in time. As we honor his birth, I noticed those mugs and thought there are versions of ourselves that sit and watch, and those that get to keep moving forward.

I don’t think of Dad stuck in the past – he’s present with us in different forms. But sometimes I wonder, how would he have aged? And how have I? What does the new mug say to the old? How much have the windows witnessed as diners came and went, throughout decades of life.

I’m working with a coach lately to get more clarity on what I want to bring into my life next. I’ve got a vision and hopes and dreams. In our call today I told her that where I was sitting, in my own office at the foot of the stairs, is a dream come true. Five years ago I had a vision, and a hope for such a place, but no sure path to get there. Yet, here I sit, talking on Zoom or typing these blogs, in the manifestation of a dream come true. The reminder was refreshing. I know what I want, but I’m not quite sure how to get there next.

There’s a scene in the newest Little Women movie, where Jo is telling Marmi just how angry she is at the state of being a girl. Marmi responds, “I am angry nearly every day of my life.”

Today, when the coach asked me, “What does scared Katie need to hear from brave Katie?” I thought of Jo. I, too, have been a little bit scared, most days of my life. And most days, I don’t let the scared stop me.

I held my daughter on my lap as we ate hash browns in a booth this morning. Her hair brushed my chin as we shared a cinnamon roll. The choice to bring her into the world scared me deeply. Yet, if I’m lucky, perhaps we’ll keep bringing her to the same place where my dad liked to sit at the counter and sip coffee. My hands will change. She will grow. And the story will continue to change.

My hope is that I can be just a little bit scared. And go ahead, and do it anyway. What a beautiful thing.

If you’re interested in following along with what I’m hoping to create next, visit my website and sign up for e-updates. I look forward to growing and aging with you. Scared or not, here I come.

In My Own Little Home

I recently had a coach ask me the question, “Seven years from now, how will you know the choices you made reflect the social change you want to be a part of?”

You can’t answer a question like that in one sitting. There are so many layers to my answers as I think about the next seven years. In seven years I’ll have a third grader. Hopefully there will be a president with a name we have only barely heard of today. Hopefully, we’ll have better care for children and the cost of groceries will go down. It is so easy for me to spin into possibilities of what might be that I miss what is, right now.

What I liked about the question, as mind-blowing as it was, is the reminder that the choices we make today also matter in the large scope of social change. As I spend my Friday afternoons with my daughter, I’m choosing to honor caregiving in a different way. I highlight the myth of work-life balance and sit in the truth that our choices reflect how we want to be in the world. I type. Baby naps. I feel guilty for being away from the office.

A follow up question the coach asked was, “What will you gain by making this sacrifice?” At first, I was angry. I don’t want to have to sacrifice. I want to “have it all” or at least be proud of what I’m giving up, which I think was the intention behind her question. After further reflection I’ve come to my answer – I’m gaining the freedom to live into the social change I want to see.

I want my choices to build spaces where mothers are welcomed and given space to nurture their children and also be valued as employees. Spaces where rest is valued and treasured as much as outcomes and outputs. Spaces where grief and loss and uncomfortable, hard realities are named and held with compassion. Spaces where we hold one another with tenderness and then get back up again, holding hands, to face whatever comes next.

I’ve spent a lot of this week angry at the system – the motherhood tax, the war overseas, the scary political situation that still exists here in the idealized version of America. I get frustrated at a lack of empathy or care for one another. And my anger has told me that, again, it is in our choices where we get to make change.

So, for those of you wondering how to make sense of what’s unfolding for you, I hope you remember you have power in what you say yes to. And power in what you say no to. And power in holding dear the change you are trying to make in your own little world, on your own little street, in your own little home.

And those choices are beautiful things.

And …

“What’s with the ampersands?” I asked our client as she sat across from us at a high-top table. After a successful client engagement, this leader told me about her small earrings in the shape of an “And” symbol.

She shared about how in leadership, particularly in public service, we have to live in AND spaces. Choices we make help some AND may harm others. We want communities to thrive AND we don’t have infinite resources to do so. We plan for the future AND respond to the present. She said the symbol has become her mantra, a constant reminder that we often live in the gray.

I’ve been thinking about AND spaces for myself lately. The suffering AND the beauty. Straddling a fence of understanding business needs AND wanting, deep within, to change our environments so humans can be seen and heard. When sharing this frustration with my boss today, he shared, “Maybe we can get off the fence, and find somewhere else to sit instead.”

This week a friend lost a baby. I watched and I prayed with hope and can’t begin to understand why something like that happens. We watched horrible headlines and numb ourselves from the suffering across the world.

AND

I stuffed my kiddo into a puffy pink snowsuit as she ate snow for the first time. Snowflakes fell, flirting with orange pumpkins, and we make plans for costumes, and candy and community gatherings.

We suffer AND we celebrate. We plan AND we respond.

To move beyond survival, and towards thriving, I’m embracing the AND. Both are true.

And this week, the AND space is a beautiful thing.

PS. If you’re wondering how to explore your own AND space, let’s have a conversation. For a limited time I’m offering two coaching sessions for $75 as I work towards my ICF coaching certification. These spots will fill quickly.

Keep Pedaling

On a rare afternoon not sprinkled with rain, I found myself walking the loop behind our small office. As I circled south back towards an afternoon of meetings, I heard a woman and a companion cycling behind me. 

“Keep pedaling”, the woman encouraged on repeat. “You’re almost to the top of the hill. You need the momentum to get to the top.”

I walked, they pedaled, and I kept my face forward, anticipating a small child to pass me before I reached my office again. 

Instead, I heard the woman again, saying, “Keep pedaling, you’re almost there!”

As I crested the small hill, my feet hitting grass instead of pavement, I turned, expecting a little boy to be within reach. Instead, a young man with different challenges was pausing on a trike to catch his breath. 

I smiled at the caregiver, and turned again to finish my loop. I was surprised by the story I was creating behind me. Something I imagined was entirely different, and in the difference was delight. 

We all need encouragement as we pedal up our hills. We all need tools designed to help us succeed. And we all need someone guiding us, reminding us that one more pedal, one more push, can help us get to the top.

This year has been one of transformation. I’m seeing things in ways I hadn’t before. Motherhood has given me a new perspective on the ways our world expects us to operate. I care less about outcomes and more about the journey. 

I’m now passionate about the pace at which we move and the space where we allow ourselves time to pull of the trail and catch our breath. I care more about the types of encouragement we give and the unique ways we learn to ride the bike than what’s at the top of the hill. 

In my learning, I’ve also been privileged to go through a transformational coaching program and I graduate at the end of June. If you’re looking for a new partner to join you in whatever transition is bringing you, let’s have a conversation. 

I can remind you to keep pedaling, and that what you strive for at the top of the hill is important, but how you travel, and when you pause to take a breath is just as nurturing. 

Getting on the bike is the brave thing. Welcoming encouragement from others; just as beautiful. And a mid-day afternoon reminder that it’s how you travel, rather than where you end up, beautiful too. 

Every Seven Years?

A friend recently told me that the human body regrows every cell within seven years. As March approaches, yet again, with a large flashing seven over the 18th, the day of Dad’s death, I started to wonder, “Has every part of me replaced itself since that day?”

A quick Google search helped me conclude, it depends. Some cells re-grow quickly. Those found in human hearts are said to lag. And in our brains, some cells never replace themselves. More on the science here.

Head. Heart. Body. Three domains we will live and experience the world in. I’m comforted by the fact that cells still in my heart were around when Dad was still with us. And in neurons and tissues in my head, memories linger for a life time.

There’s that old Gershwin tune, reflecting on lost love:

“We may never never meet again, on that bumpy road to love
Still I’ll always, always keep the memory of

The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No, no they can’t take that away from me
No, they can’t take that away from me.”

Sure, this was meant as a love ballad, but for me, I’m starting to worry about the things that seep away as we keep moving forward.

Skeletons take eleven years to regenerate. Parts of my bones still know him. And the metaphors we humans use to try and comprehend our human experience sink into my essence and pass on to my daughter.

She has eye balls and ear balls. That’s what Papa would have told her. Those eyeballs take on the shape of her grandfathers.

We carry in our bodies living systems of memories and wants and aches and our humanity. And when pieces of that human experience get lost, we turn our attention to what we can grow instead. Why must transition be so ladened with sadness? Why do we focus on what can be created to fill in the gaps?

In a recent coaching session, my coach asked “What if you can hold both? The grief and the growth?”

A strong image came to me of a small sunflower, bravely lifting a heavy center surrounded by pedals unfurling. The flower turn its head a different direction. The sun isn’t over there anymore, I thought.

In order to hold both, in my little growing pot, I need to turn my head to a new source of sun.

I’m growing, regenerating, creating life and seeking nutrients. And still, pieces of me remain the same.

I suppose the both-and is a beautiful place to be. A lagging heart. A brain that holds memories. All beautiful things.