22: The hard way

When I was a kid I loved learning about pioneers. I mostly hated reading but I devoured real-life accounts of wagon trains and gold miners and the Donner party, especially. I remember climbing the paved roads through the snowy Sierra Nevadas in our family mini van trying to picture the journey 150 years before. I wondered whether I would have made it through the winter or died of something like dysentery, miles earlier on the trail. I was captivated by the toughness and the struggle and the miracle of it all. I was particularly moved by stories of female heroism and survival, young girls who became wise, old women once they made it out west. The weirdest, most fascinating part of that piece of history was the terrible decision-making that shaped it. Ambitious settlers aware of the many challenges and abundant, life-threatening obstacles standing between them and the pacific ocean could not be deterred.

At least as far as it’s retold in California public schools, the story of westward expansion is one of few, intermittent successes strewn together by many more complete failures. Every person that left the middle of North America to find the west coast had to believe they were special in both physical and spiritual ways. They must have been convinced of their uniqueness and superiority and used some pretty powerful self-talk to motivate their journey.

Or, it’s possible, that all the advice and insight and experience of others is powerless against the will of the self.

The morning after I injured my right knee, I walked to get a latte at Peet’s coffee, seven blocks from my house. My entire right leg was swollen to twice the size of my left one and I couldn’t bend it, or move it, in any direction. I had the presence of mind to swap my well-worn flip-flops for a sturdy pair of tennis shoes, but took no other precautions. I dragged my right foot behind my more mobile left one as I limped and hobbled down the street. It was the week before daylight savings and the sun wasn’t up yet and when I went to cross S street I had a few, fleeting thoughts that I might be in danger as I’d struggle to get out of the way of even the slowest on-coming traffic. I looked both ways, just in case, then continued on as fast as I could.

Day 1 was the worst expression of my old-west stubbornness but the twenty-eight days since have unfolded like American history in the 19th century: small victories emerging from patience and self-discipline scattered among a greater number of difficult set-backs, brought on by my ego and lack of self-acceptance. When I think about the other episodes of my life, especially the challenging ones, it’s clear this one is more a continuation of, than a departure from, those that came before it. I’ve spent a lot of time, on my couch, reflecting on my lifetime refusal to embrace obvious lessons, and adjust my behavior to accommodate their truth.

I picture the first week of law school when I knew, without question, that I could never be a lawyer. I remember crying, inconsolable, on the phone with my mom early in my second semester, feeling like, already, I was trapped. Back then I had twenty-thousand dollars and six months committed and felt completely daunted by the idea of abandoning my career path. When I finally surrendered, four years later, I had one hundred eighty thousand more dollars and forty-eight more months invested. The weight of my financial and emotional debt was magnified by the haunting feeling that I could have pushed open the escape hatch, years before.

There were the four years, or approximately one hundred dinners, where I refused to give up the idea that my best friend was, any minute now, going to realize he was in love with me. Tiny glimpses of (mostly self-generated) hope were sprinkled among many overt, and even more subtle, signs that he wasn’t. Still, it took a four-hundred mile move, a year of intense self-development and nearly destroying our friendship before I finally had the conversation I’d been rehearsing in my head for almost half a decade.

When I was a teenager, I starved myself, nearly to death. The not-eating and eventual purging continued through multiple useless interventions from my mom. She’d beg me to start counseling and book unproductive appointments with any doctor who would see me. My body got skinnier and my lies more elaborate until suddenly I felt winded running, when I shouldn’t be. I started eating again, just a little, after I caught myself staring at a pale, scrawny, ghost-like classmate in the bottom corner of a group dance picture and realized, it was me.

It’s not that I didn’t know better. Acting better was hard.

Today I’m reliving the anxious looks and cautionary words of every person I’ve encountered since my injury. The anecdotal warnings and explicit instructions and the familiar fear in my mom’s voice as she hesitates to suggest I get help. I tend to believe I’m outside the influence of conventional wisdom and experience, that I am somehow special in both physical, and spiritual ways.

A week ago, when I struggled and squirmed into the driver’s seat of my car -short winces of pain followed by decreasingly persuasive reassurances of my wholeness- I cracked open, just a little. My left eye welled up and I could feel the pressure from the surge of tears my last bit of will power was barely holding back. I called my mom, a temporary release valve, but as soon as she answered, the crack deepened, and everything came pouring out.

Three days later an MRI reveals all sorts of injuries I’d been fearing, and denying. A revelation that felt less like a surprise and more like an unpleasant, forced acceptance

I’m trapped in a high-altitude blizzard, I all but knew was coming.

Since then, I feel a mix of relief and deep depression. Grief waves in and out, swirling together with hope and dread and regret. Where I would be slathering on the “I told you so,” the people in my life are compassionate and understanding. Where I want to be grateful and optimistic, I am mostly resentful and angry and worried.

Where I try to be patient and present for the lesson, I find myself wishing that I learned it, already.

But then, I remember, the learning is often the hardest thing, for me.

Before it’s even begun, I can tell recovery is the type of teacher who holds up a mirror in silence and let’s the reflection do the talking. I see that in this process, there is no escaping myself.

21: Three-legged dogs

I’m moving. Again.

It’s Saturday and the sun is still down and I’m bending over boxes in my kitchen wondering where I put my keys. I’ve been out of bed for less than five minutes and already I feel behind on my day. Coffee is a 15 minute drive from here and the tools I need to make my own are sealed behind flaps of cardboard in one of the five boxes I’ve marked, with lawyerly precision, “kitchen.”

Because, of course, I’m moving.

Again.

An hour and a half later I’m speeding from east Sacramento to my new home in midtown, wondering why everyone drives the speed limit on H street. I’m ahead of schedule but assuming I’ll be late because the smoothie making at my favorite shop is executed with all the speed and urgency of a desert tortoise on a hot day. I mentally run through the parade of consequences that follow from my inevitable tardiness: My dad has to meet my new boyfriend without the aid of my social orchestration. My best friend has to run interference on my divorced parents and fails to keep them apart just long enough for one or both of them to be pissed off for the rest of the day. My dad surveys my packing job and takes out his frustration on Amy’s defenseless husband who has been his unofficial sounding board during my last, four moves.

I come back in to the moment just in time to notice the sky is darker than when I left my house this morning and that there are  droplets forming on the windshield. It hasn’t rained in Sacramento since before Christmas so naturally, it’s raining today.

It’s become apparent that I am, as we say at lululemon, below the line.

Below the line is that place where everything I think and say and act on is a negative interpretation of my environment. It’s the land of judgement and ridicule. Ego and frustration. I typically take up residence there when I don’t get my way or something (or someone) interferes with my plans. When I feel out of control of my own schedule and routines or my expectations are left unfulfilled. I like to think I have a high threshold of misfortune before landing there, but once I’m settled in, it’s difficult to get back up.

Today, I’m moving. But I feel stuck.

Resigned to a late arrival and a bad attitude, I dive in to my mental to-do list. Somehow it’s three times as long as it was two hours ago and just as I start to wonder how someone else is adding tasks to my imaginary agenda, my attention is pulled away.

To the left side of the street where a jump-suit clad couple is walking their three-legged dog. There he is, small and white and blissfully happy. Floating down the street with such grace and ease  that it takes me more than thirty seconds to notice his missing hind leg. His bright, sharp teeth are showing, signaling the pride and joy he feels in his early morning routine. There is no sign of struggle or resistance. He is scampering along, completely un-phased by his disability, maybe even unaware of it.

I roll my eyes and slink lower in the driver’s seat.

“I feel like an asshole.”

I love dogs more than just about anything else in the world, but I love dogs with deformities and disabilities the most. I spent hours and hours in law school lectures scouring the internet for pathetic rescue dogs with severe physical limitations. I dreamed of having a whole farm of rehabilitating animals who would daily remind me of how good I have it.

I shake off the shame and recommit to gratitude and remind myself of the four, working limbs I’m blessed with and the countless other fortunes that shape my insanely happy and abundant life.

Here’s the thing about three legged dogs: They don’t just hobble dejectedly through their lives until they see someone, or something who is worse off than they are. They leap to their three feet with every opportunity to move their bodies and are happy and content no matter what the circumstance. They don’t need a reminder to be grateful and open and loving. And I’m guessing, though, I’ve never asked, that they don’t ever question how and why they ended up with three legs when their friend down the street has four.

A day later, I’m flat on my back on the sideline of my adult, co-ed soccer game sick to my stomach. Fifteen minutes earlier I’d put my entire, tiny body behind an aggressive tackle and wound up in tangled mess on the turf, shocked and scared.

Because I always bounce back up.

This time, I was slow to my feet and a little disoriented and I had just enough sense to think, “I need to sub out.” Nothing feels right and this could be bad and holy shit what if I never play soccer again? The stream of anxious thoughts continue as I struggle to the sideline to take a seat. And collect myself. Trying to figure out what’s next.

Everyone is looking at me with fear and hesitation because, I always bounce back up.

When the shock subsides, the nausea sets in and the only thing that makes it tolerable is to lay flat on my back. So that’s where I go, and stay, until the game is over. Ice packs and tylenol seem to be helping and when I finally stand up I’m hopeful I’ll feel bouncy and recovered. I stand on my left foot and drag up my right and the feeling is, devastatingly, worse than before.

The anxious narrative comes pouring in again and my only defense is forced, deep breaths. I want to cry and call my mom and I just keep cringing, doing my best to hold it together. It’s only been 60 minutes since I came off the field and already I’m frustrated and I want my old body back.

That was 12 days ago. And I’ve been been able to do, pretty much nothing*, ever since. There’s a deep indentation in my couch where my butt lands when I put my legs up the wall. There are three blue ice packs in my freezer and half-full bottle of Motrin on my kitchen table. I’ve taken more pills in two weeks than I’ve taken the rest of my life, combined. Everyday tasks of coffee-making and laundry-doing take three times as long as they usually do and I’m fiercely impatient even though I have all the time in the world to do them.

I feel angry and frustrated and can’t quiet the voice repeating my new favorite mantra, “is this over yet?”

I’ve cried only twice in 2015. Once when I left my team in Roseville, and once when I read my mom my blog about my nephew to my mom. I’ve cried about my knee, at least once a day, already. I’ve cried about the immediate pain and limitations of my injury. I’ve cried out of fear of the permanence of my condition. I’ve cried because I’ve lost control of what’s happening and all I want to do is get it back.

I’ve cried during repeated, failed attempts to channel the three-legged dog.

In the struggle, I am aware of how ridiculous I am. I think about my brother who is highly functioning and rarely in complaint despite losing the use of his right arm entirely, eight years ago. I think about the heroic Sacramento woman, a victim of the Boston marathon bombing, who, just weeks before my Sunday afternoon collision, decided to amputate her right leg in order to live her life with more peace and comfort.

She, was a soccer player, too.

I pile on shame and disappointment and judgement to the mounting volume and variety of discontent I’ve been dwelling in at the big piece of land I purchased way below the line.

I am aware that my gratitude practice is missing. That my ability to breathe through challenge is missing. That grace and patience and acceptance, are all missing.

My entire yoga practice, all six days a week that I “do it”, is missing.

The lessons from facing the ceiling with my right leg in the air for the last 192 hours are many. I am learning how to be still and uncomfortable and soften around my resistance. I am learning how gratitude is not a daily or a weekly practice, but that it is cultivated in every moment that I choose it, or not. I am learning how much more work I have to do on my yoga mat and seeing, for the first time in months, that “doing it” requires more than just showing up to the yoga studio and moving through the poses every day.

I am learning what it feels like to: walk slowly, with intention, from place to place. Experience life without a packed agenda. Watch the light get dim in my living room as the sun sets every night. Read more and move less. Be still. Be grateful. Be graceful, patient and accepting.

To find peace and comfort in this body, in this life, the way it is, right now.

*By nothing, I mean on day 3 I went to yoga and on day 4 I tried spin. Everything felt “fine” because from a seat of pure denial everything feels exactly how you believe it does. When, on day 5, my knee swelled to the size of my head, I consulted a doctor and I’ve been (mostly) flat on my back (again) ever since.

“Please do not feed the fears”

It’s Monday, I think.

What used to be my life has deteriorated into a repetition of sun-ups and sundowns wherein my tiny, soft cotton shorts are increasingly stuck to my ever-sweaty skin. Los Angeles is hotter than normal and I am grumpier than usual and for no real reason at all, I refuse to use the air conditioning in my apartment.

My apartment. Where I’ve eaten, slept, studied, read, cried, practiced yoga, called my mom, baked cookies, and devoured family-sized packages of pretzel M&Ms, pretty much without leaving, for three months. I recently read an article about the complexities of life at the international space station. How everything feels and moves and acts different in “zero G.” How the adjustment period for an astronaut is sometimes six months, even when their mission is three. How they have to re-learn how to do everything earth dwellers take for granted and even after years of preparation some of them, never adapt.

My life, studying for the bar exam, is orbiting in space.

By Friday, I’ll be back in the gravitational pull of the ordinary- brushing my teeth upright and sleeping flat on my back. Eating more than one meal a day and spending fewer than eight hours at a time in front of a computer. Crying only during Oprah’s Lifeclass and the occasional youtube video my mom sends me about a heroic service dog.

All day I’ve been simultaneously wanting to speed up time and stop it entirely. Torn between the intense anxiety of the impending exam and the anticipation of relief when it’s finally over. I’ve developed this habit of mindlessly looking at social media when I need an escape from the many sensations in my body.

“Please do not feed the fears.”

My friend, mentor, attorney-goddess and pro-bono life coach, Anne Collins posted a picture on Facebook of the above words, just in time. Just in time for me to abandon my newly formulated plan to blow off the exam all together and spend the next three days in Disneyland charging churros on my mom’s credit card and watching back-to-back showings of Captain EO, while contemplating whether or not my J.D. will help or hurt me in landing a gig as a Jungle Cruise skipper.

The fears have been creeping in on me all summer, but accelerated their approach about three days ago when I blanked on all  112 of my criminal procedure notecards during a mid afternoon review session.

“I’m going to fail this exam.”

I immediately retreated from my bedroom into the kitchen where I set out to bake three dozen chocolate chip cookies and plan the rest of my life.

“Maybe I’ll go to culinary school.”

I’ve been perfecting this pattern of (anxious) thought, (dramatic) reaction, since I was five years old. An uncomfortable experience or conversation sends me into a spiral of doing and fixing. My contingency plans have contingency plans and I can re-route my entire life purpose in seconds. I’d get in a fight with one of my girl friends and have the next five years of my social life mapped out before she even realized we were fighting. My dad swears when he looks at x-rays of our family members we have prehistoric bone density. For 31 years I’ve been navigating life like a cave man cornered by a saber-toothed tiger. I worry that it’s in the genes.

My fears are relentless, hungry beasts. They travel in packs, sometimes in disguise. They hunt me day and night and I am especially vulnerable when I’m alone, sitting still and quiet, for an unusual length of time.

I move around a lot.

After almost a decade as a single woman, adjusting to a new relationship sometimes feels like a space station mission I didn’t get to prepare for. Like my life was training for six months on a submarine and without warning I’m hurtling through the galaxy wishing for gravity to pull me back down to earth. I am upside down and backwards and helplessly trying to grasp at a  vacuum dried sandwich that’s floating in mid air.

There are moments where it is calm and easy, but then, even a small challenge launches the fears into the orbit of my imagination.  When they land, I’m in survival mode, swift into action on my plan to eradicate the sensation before it can settle in. I feed them old stories of disappointment and heartbreak. I toss them my self-sufficiency and complacency with being alone. I give them a hearty dose of how easy my life is without a partner and let them feast on my discomfort in feeling vulnerable and opening up.

The more I feed them, the more powerful they become.

Sometimes, in the frenzy, I hesitate. I pause to consider that the conversation in my head is not an accurate reflection of my reality. In my mind, I’ve been running, with my head down, as fast as I can move without looking up. When I pause, my legs stop, then I shift my gaze up and my eyes meet the warning sign I’ve been ignoring.

“Please do not feed the fears.”

I both hate and appreciate the reminder that I’m creating this myself. That there’s nothing wrong and nothing to be afraid of and that even when there is, dwelling in the anxiety of what might happen does not change whether it will, or not. That my version of the future is no more certain than the real one that can only be unknown.

I hate flying because I can’t see where I’m going. From the driver’s seat of my car the road is clear in front of me. And even though I know from both logic and experience that my vision in one direction does not prevent intervention or accidents or the unexpected from coming up on all sides of me, it gives me the illusion that it does.

And I feel safe.

My move to action in a perceived crisis is the same type of illusion. Even, or especially, when I play out the worst case scenario I feel comfort in seeing something even if I don’t like what I see.

My fears are a fuzzy outline of the uncertain. I feed them until they are strong enough to take shape.

Lately, I try to be still long enough to pause, and look up. To catch myself in the reaction before it becomes reality, to me. To sit in the discomfort of not knowing and not seeing. Of floating through zero G. To find acceptance. And peace. To adapt to a new environment. To take it in and take it on and give myself time to make the adjustment.

To know that I cannot keep the fears away from me, but I can open up the space and allow them to leave.

Hungry.

Sisterhood, A Love Story

18.

I count 18 women in the circle.

I dig through my memory, searching for a time I successfully bonded with a group of females this big.

My mind is blank, and then suddenly, my heart is racing. In the wave of panic I feel my jaw and the back of my neck tighten. I focus my energy on appearing calm and content, but am notoriously incapable of concealing my reactions and especially terrible at maintaining a neutral look on my face.

We introduce ourselves, one by one. Before each of them speak, I make a commitment to clear my judgement.

“Stay open. Be present. You’re exactly where you need to be.”

Everything feels upside down, already. It’s been a week and three days since I walked out of a courtroom and the realness of it is just barely sinking in. I already have deep fears and anxiety about finances and career-pathing, and what-the-hell I’m going to tell my dad. I’m worried about the next three months, but also the next thirty years.

What seemed like the easy part: this new team, this new job, this brand new store with its empty walls and open floors, immediately feels like another layer of challenge I didn’t prepare for.

Relationships with women, my entire life, haven’t come easy.

One night when I was in first grade, a woman, the mother of a kid in my girl scout troop, called my house to talk to my mom about an incident she’d witnessed in the parking lot of my school that day. The details aren’t important. She accused me of treating one of my fellow troop members in a way I wouldn’t have at that age, or ever.

I watched my mom patiently listen, then heard her calmly insist that the behavior “didn’t sound like me,” but after repeating herself more than three times, my mom solemnly handed the phone to me.

I was six.

On the other line, I heard the then-unfamiliar high pitch and loud volume of a woman who doesn’t feel heard. Of desperation and anger and other ugly feelings, dredged up from some distance, dark place, and misdirected at a target that is mostly, or wholly, innocent in creating them. In my adult life, the sound became the theme music of my law practice,  an echo in my office, on my voicemail and written between the lines of many a hastily composed email from my clients.

Her accusatory tone shaped the words “bratty” “cliquey” and “exclusive.” I remember saying, over and over, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember any of that.” When the relentless voice became increasingly more aggravated, I stopped defending myself and started to cry. When my mom finally took the phone back, my tears had become full-blown sobs.

And 24 years later, I remember it like it happened last night.

In fourth grade, two of my close girlfriends trapped me in our classroom during lunchtime so they could tell me all of the things they hated about me. One stood on the outside, blocking the doorway, poking her head through the narrow opening, made too small for even my 40 pounds to escape. The other girl was on the inside, doing most of the talking, her face right up to my face.

A year later, I found a stack of note cards stuffed in an old library book. As I read through them, I realized it was a conversation between two of my classmates, written in distinctly female handwriting.  They went back and forth about how I’m not as pretty as I think I am and how they hope I grow up and look like our homely, miserable, angry librarian, Mrs. Cox. This is how young women abused each other before text messages, twitter and snap chat.

I have other, smaller memories, too. Of birthday party invite lists I was deliberately left off and conversations with my mom where she insisted “it’s not about you.” The time when a girl in my seventh grade PE class dragged me into a group of girls and said “look, I found a lost dog” to her friends. Or when a fellow high school senior told me we couldn’t be friends because she still “has beef with me from third grade.”

As I got older, these and other incidents, experiences and feelings came together as a pretty powerful story about my relationship to women: “We just don’t get along.” and “I prefer to hang with the boys.” “Girls are catty, untrustworthy and mean.”  “Women are too competitive with each other, jealous and hopelessly insecure.” “Women can’t deal with my confidence, assertiveness or how aggressive I play on the soccer field.”

And, like most things we believe about ourselves, I moved through my life collecting evidence of its truth.

By the time I found my way to the future home of lululemon Roseville, I had a pile of it, deep and broad and full. I could categorize it by “type of woman” and cross-reference it by age-group, occupation and geographic location. I’d become so agile and adept at mentally cataloguing my experiences, I could leave any interaction with a female and immediately lock it into my imaginary vault, forever.

From my seat on the floor that day, a quick analysis of my invisible lady data told me out of these 18 women I’d be lucky if I connected with 2.

Over the next four days, team Roseville, as we quickly became known, spent close to 70 hours together. Early mornings became late dinners, time collapsing in on itself. We built an entire retail store in a day and a half, slicing through more cardboard boxes than I will likely ever see again in my life. We took countless trips to the mall dumpster and heard “Royals” so many times on Itunes shuffle, it took me six months to get it out of my head.

I remember a moment of complete overwhelm, sorting through a pile of running skirts, clear up to my knees.

From the chaos of printed pink, I made my first, real connection. Her name was Lauren, and even now, I think of our conversation as the beginning of my love story with lululemon.

She is tall and beautiful and a decade younger than me but as soon as she tells me that her dad is a lawyer and she wants to be surgeon, I think, “yeah, soul sister. we’re in this together.” Right away we have a pretty intense conversation. She reminds me of my college roommates and through the musk of packing tape and styrofoam, I can almost smell the comfort of the back bedroom in the apartment we all shared together. Lauren could’ve held her own in the feminist dialogue and shared experience of relationship dysfunction in the homes we grew up in. She is strong, and smart and by the time we break for lunch I feel attached to her friendship.

Finally, I feel the angst of the morning subsiding.

In the days, weeks and months that follow I relive that experience over and over again. On the retail floor on a Tuesday morning. After a sweaty yoga class in the slowly emptying parking lot when the conversation makes it impossible for us to part ways. At staff meetings and coffee dates and in the back room on our ten minute breaks. Moment by moment, in different ways with each of eighteen different women, I fall in love.

With their courage and compassion and sense of humor. With the way they love their families, or look out for their friends. I learn about who they are and where they came from and what they want out of life in the next ten years. They are humble, and creative and inspiring. They are all unique.

They make me laugh so hard I can’t believe this is what I do for a living. They listen to me tell my story and ask, almost every day, if I’ve been out on any dates. They stand for my greatness and celebrate my strength and they never once make me feel like I’m too smart or too loud or too intimidating. I feel like they love me not in spite of who, and how, I am, but because of it.

Life is unpredictable and messy and bad shit happens to all of them and they show up for each other with monstrous support and unconditional love. I see them rally behind every goal any one of them declares no matter how grand, or small or strange or inspiring. They are not cliquey and they don’t gossip about each other and when I tell people I work peacefully and functionally on a team of all women they refuse to believe it.

I want to call Bravo about a reality tv show that will re-frame the way the whole world perceives women.

They are that powerful.

And when I think about leaving them my heart hurts in a way it never has.

My team at lululemon Roseville healed so many parts of me, that before them, I didn’t even know were broken. They helped me navigate the unfamiliar, often treacherous, waters of learning who I was without a fancy job and impressive degree. They showed me how to be fearless, and vulnerable, at the same time. They reminded me that my greatest joy in life is to lead a group of exceptional, talented people. They worked their asses off for me. And each other.

They made me a better leader, and a better friend.

They forced, me, so gently, to cut the crap and just go on a date already. And they gave me the biggest hugs and most enthusiastic high-fives when I did.

What I will cherish most is the way they changed my relationship to women. They gave me both hope and confidence that the world, in the future, will be lead by women. And that we will all be better for it. They proved that the story I’ve been dwelling in was nothing more than a collection of experiences I gave meaning to along the way. They shredded a lifetime of evidence, and cleared the space for me to begin my research anew.
This time, with an eye for female collaboration and collective strength. For how we elevate each other, and hold each other up. For what we are capable of when we celebrate our special gifts and individual strengths. When we come together because we know we are better than we could possibly be alone.

We are a sisterhood. All of us.

And I will cherish my team in Roseville, most of all, for both being, and teaching me, that.

Hey, it’s your aunt.

Listen, Oak.

I don’t really do babies. I love dogs, and tiny animals and made a living for many years playing with little kids. But someone whose survival depends solely on the competence of the adults around him is terrifying to me. It’s too much pressure and you can’t communicate and what if I go to answer an important work email and drop you on your head?

When I heard you were coming, my excitement was mostly for the joy of my brother and sister-in-law, and my mom, we’ll get to her, who’s waited 64 years to fulfill her life’s purpose of being the best grandma(rf) on earth. You are lucky, you know that, right? She is going to spoil the shit out of you, claim she doesn’t, then spoil you even more. When, in your adolescence you act entitled and self-absorbed she’ll blame herself entirely, but continue to give you everything you want, and more, for the rest of your life.

Your dad and I will be there to remind her, it’s just a phase.

You were 13 hours old the first time I got my arms around you. The hospital had you bundled in what looked like a million soft, thin blankets, and I could barely feel your tiny body underneath. I touched my fingers on the fabric and imagined myself, in the future, dressing you in lululemon. You’ll have outrageously expensive taste and exquisite style and I’ll have core shorts altered by a talented seamstress so you can rip them to shreds on the youth soccer field.

I bet you’ll be a terror, like your dad.

He was small as a kid, but completely fearless. He’d take on 11 year old boys, with beards, who were three times his size. Shoulder first, no hesitation, his whole body in the play. Sometimes he’d disappear behind the big, gangly body in front of him, then emerge, triumphantly, with the ball. My dad would leap from his seat on the sideline and cheer, with both hands in the air. “Way to go GOBBLER,” I’d hear, then I’d look across the field and see my brother’s whole face light up. Nothing was more important to him than making his dad proud. His teammates called your dad, L.T., after a famous (badass) linebacker who played professional football, a sport I’m pretty sure will be outlawed by the time you’re my age. This won’t be the last time I tell you this, but, I wanted to be just like your dad growing up. Everything he did, and said and believed, looked, and sounded, and was, so much better, and cooler, than I’d ever be. Even now, when I go in for a tackle, I channel my inner “L.T.”

Your parents, by the way, are insanely hip. Your dad has a collection of shoes and hand-made leather bags that could put you through college, twice. Your mom is the best hairstylist west of the Mississippi and even when she’s in her lounge gear, she makes me feel like I’m wearing a garbage bag. You’ll never have to worry about not getting a date or playing tuba in your high school’s marching band or being a virgin when you’re 25. You are destined for social greatness. You’ll be charming and hilarious and the life of every party and it’ll be a total riot until you’re fifteen and my brother makes me talk to you about having safe sex. It’s all good though, I’m going to be awesome at it. I’ll struggle sometimes when you’re younger but once you hit puberty I’ll be your best friend. I have few boundaries and will let you ask me anything. I will unapologetically offer you details of my brother’s wild-child teenage escapades as a sort of emotional pay back for him being such a fuck-up that I could never do anything wrong myself. Your dad will beg me to be a better role model and partner in his parenting of you and I will tell him he should of thought about that when he was pawning my backstreet boys CDs for drug money, way-back-when.

Sorry, in advance, for hitting on your friends.

Do your best to stay out of any big-time trouble when you’re a teenager. We are not a family of under-achievers. My dad will have you in your first Cal Bears t-shirt before you can walk and we’ll be talking about colleges and career paths at your third birthday party. Try not to get overwhelmed, this is totally normal. There are a lot of doctors in your bloodline and your paternal grandpa will make sure you feel the pressure of it. Nothing can save you from the peril of high expectations, but I’ll do my best to talk you off the ledge when you’re having a test anxiety breakdown before you’re old enough to drive. I’ve been there, buddy. I get it.

Speaking of high expectations, we should talk about grandpa Little. He’s even more eccentric than you realize and it won’t be until you’re way older that you fully understand the depth of his genius, and ridiculousness. You’ll want him to toss the ball around in the back yard and carry you on his shoulders and give you cash out of his bulky wallet for no reason but it probably won’t be like that, most of the time. You’ll see movies and TV shows and maybe other real-life “Grandad” relationships and wonder what’s wrong with yours. It’s o.k. Really. Special, even. He’ll show you he loves you by building you elaborate contraptions you don’t really need but will seem awesome when he describes them to you. He will buy you your first car, and probably your second and take meticulous care of it for you even when you have no respect for it, yourself. On the holidays, he’ll write you a gigantic check and heart felt card. You’ll blow through the cash right away on condoms and comic books, but you should keep the cards forever. I have a stack of them in a bookcase that I look at when I feel like I’m not living up to my potential.

It’s a powerful thing to be reminded that people love you, no matter what.

Your grandma, on the other hand, is a dream come true. She has all of the classic Grandma characteristics but looks and acts like she’s 35. You’ll be chasing her up hiking trails when you’re 13, wondering how an almost- eighty year-old can possibly walk this fast. She will love you more than anyone in the world and make you feel like you’re the only person that matters. Then, you will look around and realize she’s loving everyone that way, and not understand how she does it. She bakes extraordinary desserts and makes hearty, homemade dinners. She spends the annual national income of the entire African continent on Christmas presents and you’ll be the beneficiary of it. Sometimes you’ll lie to your friends about what she gave you but they’ll know right away when they trip over three-thousand dollars worth of action figures when they enter your bedroom. She won’t care what grades you get or what you do with your life as long as you’re happy. If you decide you are an athlete she will be in the front row of every game. If you like to fish, or fence or fancy yourself a writer she’ll seek out a specialty summer camp and pay for you to attend, every year. She will witness every, major moment in your life. You might get student of the week or a minor speaking part in the school play or catch a particularly big lizard on a field trip. She will celebrate all of it. Like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Or her.

From me, you can expect straight talk and spectacular vacations. I will applaud all of your swagger and confidence and encourage you to live into your strengths. I will not tolerate sexism and will constantly remind you how much more money I make than your dad even though I am a woman. I will tell you to be humble but that you’ll have to look to someone else to learn how to do it. I will take you to the great pyramids and the Andes mountains and we will ski together in Whistler, every year. In return, I expect that you grow up to not be a douche bag, an attorney or an investment banker. That you vote democratic and that you try to recycle and that you take good care of your younger sister, if you have one. I’m sorry that I didn’t provide any cousins for you to play with, but it frees up some extra income for your birthday presents and my house is rad, and empty, because of it. You can come visit me whenever you like. Sometimes, when I’m making you breakfast in the morning, you’ll catch me looking at you and my eyes will well up and you’ll ask me what’s happening. I’ll be totally humiliated because I still hate crying in front of people but sometimes I can’t help myself when I’m with you.

Because I just love you so damn much and the truth is, I still can’t believe you made it here. To my home, to my life, to the world that almost took my brother away from me so many times. I used to dream about you when I was little. I could picture my brother with his son, running through a big, open field, teaching him to kick a soccer ball, with a golden retriever nipping at his heels.

But there were years where I gave up the hope, the image, of our future together. Where my imagination filled up with the words I would use to say goodbye to him at his funeral.

When I look at you, I see a small miracle. A reflection of resilience, and strength and courage and love. Of the best friend I grew up with. Of the future we have not yet lived.

My love for you, already, is more than I expected.

I will love you. forever.

No matter what.

20: Being Batman.

My college boyfriend broke up with me twelve or thirteen times. I am fiercely persistent and relentlessly committed to getting what I want. Ending our relationship must have felt like negotiating with a two-year old in the midst of a grocery store temper tantrum.

I was 20 years old when we met, and instantly captivated by his one-of-a-kind charisma and out-of-this-world intelligence. We were drawn together by the type of emotional magnetism that fills up the pages of trashy romance novels, but that I’ve experienced, just that one time, in real life. Our first date lasted 72 hours. I learned recently that racy, passionate love is my drug of choice. And Rak, was, intoxicating.

Even the thought of breaking-up with him sent me into a spiral of violent withdrawals and clinging desperation.

My most vivid breakup memory is of a 3 a.m. conversation on the hardwood floor of his cold, dusty bedroom after a long night out with our friends. Hours earlier, he’d snuck away from the crowded living room and disappeared behind a deliberately closed door. Not slammed. Just sealed. Forcefully, with intention.

When I squeaked it open, just wide enough to get my body through, I found him huddled at his desk, hunched over his computer with all the lights off. There was a single, red candle burning in the corner of the room and while he was trying his best to appear intently occupied, I knew he was just keeping his fingers moving to fight back the rage.

He looked up at me and as soon as our eyes met I gulped down a deep breath, instinctively bracing myself for the impending blow-out that had become a familiar routine between us.

“There’s only one batman.”

Rak was older than me, taught himself how to speak English watching sesame street and came up out of poverty to be the valedictorian of his high school. He was at UCLA on the biggest, fanciest academic scholarship you can get and got straight A’s with little effort. He knew I grew up privileged, and white and spoiled rotten and he took every opportunity to educate and enlighten me about the complicated ways of the world. He was constantly trying to challenge my youthful and naive perspective.

That night, I learned about superheroes.

On the off chance I can re-direct the war-path, I offer something light-hearted:

“you mean to tell me that you skipped out on the party with our closest friends to catch up on comic book history?”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

I watch his initially calm, mildly dejected facial expression transform. His passive eyes became narrow with anger and his open lips closed quickly, and tightly, creasing the corners of his mouth.

“We can’t both be batman.”

I stuff down a snarky response about it being too early to consider my Halloween costume and try to stay focused.

The next few hours are blurred in my memory by tears, and screaming, and tears again. I accused him of being fraudulent and inauthentic, calling out his shameful, normative gender-role values that undermine his credibility as politically progressive.  He called me obnoxious, and entitled, and immature. I took a swing at his integrity, and masculinity. He came roaring back with my lack of personal awareness and tragically limited life experience.

I told him I wished we’d never met.

He suggested I leave his room, then his life, forever.

Around 5:30, I slumped into a tight, round, ball on the corner of his bed, in silence. When the sun came up an hour later, I picked up my things, and drove the half mile back to my own apartment. Exhausted, dehydrated and indescribably sad.

When we got back together three days later, I knew we were already over for good.

Two years of escalating arguments and roller-coaster emotions ended during a heated phone call the week before he left for grad school at Harvard. He begged me, one last time, to go with him and when I declined- pointing to our inconsistent relationship history and my fear of breaking up, yet again, 3,000 miles away from home- he told me, matter-of-factly, to “fuck off,” then hung up the phone.

Eight years passed before we spoke another word to each other.

In those eight years I had only one, real boyfriend. He emerged simultaneously with the above phone conversation, and for this, and other reasons, never stood a chance. I went on dates here and there, and, especially in my mid-twenties, developed a thing for casually sleeping with guys I was already good friends with. If you’ve read any other thing I’ve ever written you already know about the four year span where I refused to date anyone but my law-school best friend.

Eight years. Zero success in romantic relationships.

Most of the people who are close to me have a theory or two about how and why I remain so hopelessly inept at dating. I have such a natural (sometimes inexplicable) aptitude for almost everything I’ve ever attempted, that the stark contrast in my dating life is nothing short of comical.

and a little pathetic.

A year ago, I attended a three-day self-development conference wherein I was forced to examine the underlying cause(s) of my persistent, romantic failure.

I expected to uncover “issues” with my dad and nascent feelings of abandonment and betrayal from my relationship with my older brother.

Sure, there was some of that. But nothing came up more potent and obvious than an old, tattered comic book clipping I thought I’d buried, long ago, in the past.

There is only one Batman.

A story I’ve carried into every interaction I’ve ever had, with every man I’ve ever met since that night at Rak’s apartment when I was just barely an adult. An explanation for all the times the men I was attracted to didn’t like me back. The reason first dates always ended in a deep sigh of relief (and disappointment) on the inside of my car as soon as I could get the motor running. The subtext of my response to the next-day, hopeful message or email or phone call:

“I’m sorry, I have to be honest, I’m just not into you.”

My attraction to alpha-male, outgoing, assertive types never synced up with the passive, quiet boys who asked me out. In the rare times there was mutual affection, the relationship heated up quickly, and intensely only to erupt weeks later in a fire of incompatibility I always saw coming but never took action to avoid.

There can only be one Batman.

A couple of years ago, I decided that romantic partnership just wasn’t in the cards for me. Like an athletic college scholarship or Olympic gold medal or 36 inch in-seam pants.

Being alone seemed like a decent trade-off for all the abundance and success I had in all the other areas of my life.

“Women just can’t have it all, I guess.”

In the late fall (around the time I first started writing this post), I went to a workshop led by Suzanne Conrad, a female force-to-be-reckoned-with and one of the many extraordinary leaders I’ve had the privilege of knowing through my work at lululemon. She led us through a series of exercises I never expected to impact my romantic life. As usual, my butt was in the seat of self-development to improve my leadership and accelerate my career goals. If I can’t have it all, I want to have as much of it as I possibly can, as quickly as I can have it.

The details aren’t important because the result was simple. I cleared a space so many years occupied by the superhero mantra I’d learned a decade earlier, and decided I would open myself up to something new:

To previously unexplored possibilities, like that “batman” is not a fixed personality trait or singular way of being. That the list of characteristics I’ve been seeking in a partner were developed in the same era I decided I wanted to be a district attorney, right around the fifth grade. That the biggest reason it hasn’t worked out romantically is that I haven’t allowed it to, haven’t believed it would, and haven’t put down the baggage I was carrying that always got in the way.

It is not easy to undo three, fourteen, thirty-one years of habits and behaviors. It is not easy to let go of lifelong held beliefs that have shaped every aspect of my identity. It is not easy to give up what I know because fear of the unknown is crippling. Scary. An old, familiar nemesis I’ve been battling for as far back as I can remember.

What I’m learning, is that the un-doing and the letting go and the giving up are equal parts of a process. There are days when I am clear and confident that I can be who I am and be in a relationship. There are others where I’m convinced, again, that I’m destined to be alone. There are times when I want to retreat back into the comfort and security of having it all figured out.

But then, there are moments, increasing in number, where I experience progress.

Growth.

I am two months into dating someone and I am mostly terrible at it. Constantly looking for an exit strategy and preemptively living out our demise. He is not who I pictured and doesn’t match the detailed description of the partner I’ve been seeking, unsuccessfully, for two decades. I go over the “the list” that comprises “my type,” then remind myself that for all the listing and typing, so far, it hasn’t worked out.

I cling to the life of a single woman and barely clear enough space for another human being to squeeze in.

I picture the dark room and the red candle and feel the pang of heartbreak in the pit of my stomach.

I take a deep breath, shake off the memory and force myself back into the process.

Of being the me I know and the me I imagine and the me I haven’t uncovered yet.

Being batman. Not being batman.

Or giving up the idea that I have to be anything. And just being, instead.

19: Storytelling

“Before television and radio and modern technology we were all storytellers. We sat on living room floors and huddled around campfire flames and shared our talents and perspectives with each other. We were all poets and all writers and we all had something to share.”

On a June night, five years ago, Dave Stringer shared his love for chanting with a packed house at Zuda Yoga in Sacramento. It was the night I fell in love with the Sacramento yoga community. We sang and danced and sweated our asses off. We held hands and raised the roof and the next morning at teacher training, Bill Prysock reminded us that  “just in case you ever go to another one, Kirtans don’t typically go down like that.”

I felt deeply connected to every, single person in that yoga studio. My dear friends and soul-sister teacher trainees and the total strangers who were dancing inside those four walls for the first time. We shared a heartbeat. Every one of us. When I got out of bed the next morning I had the worst energetic hangover of my life. Like the spirit and beauty of all those people had run straight through me like a big, mac, truck.

Through the blur of moments and memories, it’s Dave’s words about storytelling that remain the most powerful, the most clear.

 

In eight years as a camp counselor, I told hundreds, maybe thousands of stories. I was the best version of myself, crouched low in the fresh-cut grass, with ten or twelve tiny, captivated faces staring up at me, locked into the world, the images, the characters I was creating. It came so easily to me. The adventures and identities and the plot-twists they never saw coming. Sometimes I’d team up with my best friend or my summer-camping soul-mate to add dimension, and detail to the story.

I could spin imagination into words all day long, but when it came to sharing my own, real-life stories, I tensed up, hesitated, and mostly held them in.

And I have a feeling, I’m not the only one.

Somewhere along the way, we all learn to censor ourselves. To edit out the heartbreaking details of struggle and failure and anger and hurt. To fill up the space with “I’m o.k.” and “things are great” and countless versions of what we think other people want to hear from us. When we do share, we choose a beautiful image or a shortened, spruced-up, well-practiced synthesis of what really happened or how we truly feel. We bury the truth in the comfort of politeness and casual conversation. When the story is a good one, we shy away from the fullness of its celebration. Inside we feel victorious and triumphant, but instinctively we limit our outward expression, trapped and constrained by the fear of judgement, or rejection, or a million other made up thoughts about how we’ll be perceived.

Last Thursday night, I stood in front of 300 people, mostly strangers, and told my story.

About fear and anxiety and saying no. About living my life in a tiny box of strict limits and well defined boundaries. About all the ways I was held back by an unwillingness to take even one small step outside my comfort zone. What I didn’t say, is that sharing myself with other people is the biggest, baddest, boldest boundary of them all. That to tell the truth about who I am and how I feel and what I’ve been through, is harder to do than anything else. To feel exposed and unmasked are, to me, the worst of the worst of uncomfortable feelings.

That night I heard eight other stories from eight, beautiful, brilliant, inspiring people. Each of them filled the room with tears and laughter and heart-bursting honesty. Genuineness. Vulnerability. Courage.

The whole place vibrated with connection. We shared a heartbeat. Every one of us.

My dear friend Lyndsey gracefully narrated the event, reminding us, over and over, that we are all the same. That the purpose, the value, the beauty of our sharing is in the opportunity for all of us to witness ourselves in the eyes of the storyteller. To hear our own hurt, our own triumph, our own struggle in the words from the brave mouth of the person speaking. We share to connect. We connect to remember our oneness, in our oneness we are reminded that we’re all this together.

 

We are all storytellers. We are all poets and writers. We all have something special, something important, to share.