Self-Trust: One Candle at Target at a Time

Earlier this week, I heard an incredible episode of We Can Do Hard Things, a new podcast launched by one of my favorite authors, Glennon Doyle, along with her sister Amanda Doyle and her wife Olympian soccer player Abby Wambach. In the episode, Glennon & Abby interviewed Simone Biles and Laurie Hernandez. Both Simone & Laurie made headlines when they spoke out about the world of gymnastics and stood up for their mental health. This fall, they are part of the Gold Over America (GOAT) tour. 

In the podcast episode, called "How to Say No," the gymnasts shared their journey through self-doubt and emotional gaslighting until reaching a breaking point where they finally said, "No." The intent of my post is not to recount the podcast episode for you -- you really should just listen to it yourself. 

Instead, I'd like to focus on a common theme that wound its way through both Simone & Laurie's stories. Each young woman said something along the lines of, "It took me a long time to learn to trust myself." Laurie said she had to start very small, like trusting herself to buy a candle she liked at Target without seeking approval from anyone else. If Simone hadn't learned to trust herself, she would not have had the courage to speak up when she knew she had the "twisties" during the 2021 Olympics. 

Long after the episode finished, I found myself returning to the idea of trusting oneself. Simone and Laurie are elite athletes whose bodies perform impressive feats of physical strength and agility -- and yet, they didn't trust themselves. As women especially, we tend to doubt ourselves and our instincts. I am happy to report that while I am woefully average physically (I mean, I can still do a cartwheel, but that's about it), I don't really struggle with trusting my intuition in decision-making or mental tasks. I am a "go with my gut" kind of girl. 

But, there was a reason I kept lingering on this idea of self-trust. It occurred to me, that I -- like many, many women (and men, actually) -- have been told repeatedly not to trust my own body. Think about it. The global weight loss and diet industry is currently a $254.9 billion market, according to PR Newswire. It is projected to grow to $377.3 billion in five year. That means there are a LOT of people who don't trust themselves enough to know what to eat and how to exercise. That's a LOT of people who don't trust their bodies enough to listen to them. 

Like many American women, I have been a chronic dieter. You name it, I probably tried it or at least thought about trying it. I have actively sought out other people to tell me what is best for me and my body. Millions of Americans (maybe even you?) have done the same. All because we believe we can't trust ourselves or our bodies. Instead of self-trust, we must waste time and money and energy trying to follow the cookie-cutter advice of the so-called "experts." 

Aside from dieting, we don't listen to our bodies when they try desperately to send us messages. Oprah Winfrey likes to say that "life speaks to us in whispers," and that when we don't listen, life will speak by throwing a brick at our head. This happens all the time. We ignore that we feel unusually tired one night, perhaps. We ignore the stiff joints or the headaches. We ignore the whispers, and end up in the ER or in the doctor's office with a serious concern. The brick will come eventually. 

This week, I started paying attention to the way I treat my body, including the ways I tune it out. Here's a short list of what I noticed. I have a feeling I'm not alone in these habits. 

* I tend to eat and drink in auto-pilot mode. I drink coffee while driving to work; I eat at my desk while answering emails. At dinner, I'm often blessed with the boisterous company of family and friends, but the side effect is that I can't hear my body over the din. 

* I tend to take care of everyone else better than myself. As I said in a previous post, I showed up at work with no lunch. I make sure my children take vitamins. I am passionate about my students learning healthy coping strategies that I don't put into consistent practice myself. 

* I don't always talk to myself in the nicest way. Anyone else way too hard on themselves? If someone spoke to one of my kids the way I talk to myself at times -- yikes! And the things I am hard on myself about are petty and superficial and have no lasting significance. Like, guys. Guess what. I have gained some weight. Who honestly cares? Why do we hyper-fixate on such drivel? Ah, right. Because we are bombarded with messages that our worth is linked inextricably to our appearance. Messages sent by the $300 billion (with a B) diet industry that only has our best interest at heart. 

So, I've made a pretty radical decision (for me at least), and I think you should, too. I've decided to listen to my body and trust myself. I've been eating more slowly, without doing anything else but eating. I'm obviously not going to eat in seclusion without my friends & family, but I'm going to be more attuned to my body's cues. I am going to make myself more of a priority, even though that feels foreign and hard to me. And, dammit. I am going to be more kind to myself. I'm truly doing the best I can, and I really need to give myself a break every once in a while. 

I would be willing to wager that I am not the only one in need of doing this work. That's why I am (over)sharing on my blog. Maybe knowing you aren't alone will help you try one of these small steps. One day at a time, sometimes one hour, one minute at a time. One candle at Target at a time, ya know? 

An Open Letter to Wegmans

 Yesterday, I received an email from Wegmans. It was your typical advertisement email, but the subject line said something like, "Which type of Thanksgiving meal planner are you?" At least, I think that's what I read before frantically hitting "delete." 

You guys, it was October 28. 

I get it -- Thanksgiving is less than a month away (gasp), but let me tell you what kind of Thanksgiving meal planner I am:

1. I don't have candy to hand out on Halloween yet. (Note to Self: get candy before Sunday.)

2. My "meal plan" for last night was, "Screw it, I'm ordering pizza."

3. I arrived at work today without my lunch and without a mask. You know, the state-mandated mask I should have at work every day. That mask. (Fortunately, previous Denise has a cabinet stocked with extra masks and food. She's pretty awesome.) 

So, Wegmans -- get real. It's the end of the marking period, the end(ing) of football season, the end of soccer season, the end of October. I can't deal with Thanksgiving right now. What stands between me and Thanksgiving break?

1. Sending marking period letters to all my virtual students and all the students taking credit recovery classes.

2. Sending my first three chapters of my dissertation to my committee, after (im)patiently waiting for my chair to read the 78 pages I've had written for months. 

3. Serving as an adjudicator for our local high school theatre awards program (which means attending as many fall plays as I can in about 2 weeks).

4. Rehearsing for and performing in a show at our community theatre. 

5. Two 12-hour days, to allow for parent-teacher conferences, which are not heavily attended by virtual families. 

Then, and only then, will I turn to my husband and say, "Shit. Did you buy a turkey?"

Ok, ok. It probably won't be that bad (again) this year. After all, I have Weds. Oct. 24 off, so that should be plenty of time to put a meal together. 

In short: back off, Wegmans. I am spinning enough plates right now, and I don't need your Thanksgiving shame-gram. 

Love, 

Denise 

PS -- Thank you for participating in Instacart. I'll hit you up this weekend, bestie. 

"Tell Me a Little About Yourself"

 “Courage, the original definition of courage, when it first came into the English language – it’s from the Latin word cor, meaning heart – and the original definition was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart.” -- Brene Brown

These words aired on a Super Soul Conversations podcast, in which Oprah interviewed professor/researcher Dr. Brene Brown about her book, Daring Greatly. The title comes from the iconic Theodore Roosevelt quote about the man in the arena:

I love everything about Roosevelt's words. Far too often, we let the Internet trolls and their anonymous comments carry much more weight than they are worth (which is zero worth, by the way). Brown tells a story of a time when she put herself out there into the world, and while her work was overwhelming appreciated, she allowed the nasty comments to get under her skin. She came across Roosevelt's quote and decided that she would never again accept criticism from anyone who is not in the arena, doing the work, taking the risks. 

When I heard Brown define courage -- to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart -- I was reminded of a time I took a colossal risk in telling my story. 

After I completed my K-12 principal certificate, I began applying for assistant principal positions in the region. If you have ever pursued a specific career role, then you know how grueling the process can be. In school leadership, the job hunt is a bit like chess. A job will open, and a candidate will be selected. That candidate's position then opens up, so you apply for that position, and so on. While education is experiencing a national shortage of teachers, finding an administrative job within a specific geographic region is tricky, not to mention political. 

I am grateful for every interview I was granted -- sometimes, just being considered as a candidate can be gratifying, especially if the district is highly competitive. I also learned so much about the interview process in general. I was rarely nervous for an interview; I came to the point where I was merely curious about what the interview would tell me about the culture and values of the school district. In one district, I was interviewed by the entire school board -- not one professional educator asked a single question. It was very clear who runs that district. 

Most interviews start with, "Tell us a little about yourself." I typically presented a bite-sized portion of my 15-year career, highlighting the impressive parts of my resume. 

Then that damn Brene Brown released an episode of her podcast Dare to Lead in which a prominent, successful leader said that to truly know who you are as a leader is to know your story and to tell your story. He had a mentor who made him write an autobiography of sorts, which led him to understand why he became the type of leader he was. I thought about my past, about the experiences in my childhood and early life that influenced who I am as a person and a leader today. I decided that at my next interview, at a fairly progressive school district where I was sure people would be familiar with the work of Brene Brown, to answer the opening question in a different way. 

When the superintendent prompted, "Tell us a little about yourself," I did. I told them how my grandmother's deterioration into being deaf and mute inspired me to learn to read and write at age 4. How I learned early on that every voice matters and deserves to be heard. How having a hard time moving at age 9 helped me to value community and to welcome the stranger. 

You know, that sort of thing. The sort of thing no one ever says at an interview. 

In all, I probably took between 5-7 minutes to share a few moments that helped to shape my core leadership beliefs. 

Little did I know, the interview was strictly timed, and I "wasted" time on the first question and had to rush a bit through the remaining questions. (In my defense, I waited for almost an hour past my scheduled interview slot until I was called in, so how was I supposed to know they were running such a tight ship when all evidence was to the contrary?) 

Spoiler alert: I didn't get the job. 

The feedback given when I asked? I spent too much time on the first question and they had experienced candidates apply. My reply? "I appreciate your response. Previous interviews I have been asked to have lasted between and 1-1.5 hours, so I misjudged the time I spent sharing important elements of my leadership philosophy. Every school has a different process, and I’m also finding that the assistant principalship is moving beyond the realm of an entry-level administration position. It seems like I lack experience, but I can’t seem to get experience until someone sees my potential."

Thanks a lot, Brene. 

In all seriousness, I wouldn't change anything about that interview. I learned a lot about that district through that experience: they value efficiency over taking the time to truly get to know people, for one. And honestly, while I too value efficiency, it will never take precedence over authentic story-telling and listening. I told the story of who I am as a leader that day with my whole heart. 

Courage doesn't always equal landing the job or winning the contract. Sometimes, courage simply means you walk away, knowing that you told your truth with your whole heart. 

Not Much Has Changed

As I was going through a box of old documents and photos, I came across my nursery school report card (yes, that was a thing in 1985), and my kindergarten report card. After careful review of my early academic transcripts, I have come to the following conclusion: Not much has changed. 

First, my nursery school (aka preschool) teacher must have been pretty difficult (dare I say impossible?) to please. From November 1984 to April 1985, I did not earn a single O for Outstanding from the woman. Not even for "I participate in class discussions" or "I enjoy listening to stories." Humph. I beg to differ.

It gets worse, friends. I could only "express my feelings" and "add creative thoughts to discussions" at a satisfactory level, despite a year of Mrs. Parsons's guidance. And, the final nail on the coffin? I have "Needs Improvement" for the following skills -- Skipping, Galloping, and . . . wait for it . . . Tying My Shoes. 

In November of 1984, my teacher noted the following: 

"Denise is a very socially-minded girl. [Oh, really? Is that why I didn't get ANY Outstanding marks under the Social Skills category?] She seems to enjoy school very much. [Doubtful!] Denise has trouble attending to what goes on at circle time.  She interrupts others, sings loudly, acts silly, and lies down." [Listen, Linda. It's not MY fault that your circle time was LAME, and that my peers clearly had nothing of interest to contribute, forcing me to bear the burden alone.]

By April 1985, she had this to say: 

Denise has become a much better listener [Still not OUTSTANDING, I see.] and wants to add to group discussions. [Read: takes over group discussions.] She is a very loving girl and interacts well with other children [Awwww....]. She has progressed well in all areas and needs confirmation for work well done [my emphasis added, due to the stinging accuracy of this statement]. She is blessed with a sense of humor [But, unfortunately, Sense of Humor was not on the rubric.]. I wish her the best in kindergarten." 

Now, I have been a teacher for 15 years. I know what "I wish her the best in kindergarten" means. It means that Mrs. Parsons went straight to the liquor store after work that day and bought herself a bottle of wine to celebrate that she survived teaching me all year.  

As I examined my kindergarten progress report, it became abundantly clear that when Mrs. Parsons stopped to buy that bottle of wine in the April of 1985, she ran into her dear friend Mrs. McCardell and shall we say, vented to her about a particularly chatty, yet funny student with untied shoes and a domineering disposition. Why, you ask? Well. The evidence will speak for itself. 

In the 1985, Mrs. McCardell gave me 3's on the following skills:

* demonstrates appropriate attention span

* works efficiently alone and in groups

* pursues and works through a task independently

* uses time to good advantage

* follows rules of group and school

Before you think this GOOD news, my friends, allow me to explain that a 3 means -- you guessed it! -- Needs Improvement. 

It is perhaps worth mentioning that I received a 1 in "demonstrates self-confidence" and "accepts responsibility for self and behavior." Oh, and by the way, a 1 only means "is competent." Outstanding wasn't even an option. Alas, the short-sightedness. 

In the second conference, Mrs. McCardell noted:

"Denise has the ability to do very well, but is not always a good listener. She often rushes through her work and could take more pride in it. [Ouch!] She must be reminded of the rules often."

By the end of the year --

"Denise continues about the same. [Double ouch!] She needs to listen more and take more pride in her work."

By the skin of my teeth, I was promoted to the first grade. It's a wonder that I ended up holding a bachelor's, a master's, and alllllmost a doctorate in Education, of all things. 

In all seriousness, as I read through these comments, I couldn't help but think of my youngest son, who was asked to (ahem) leave not one, not two, but three preschools. That's a story for another day, but suffice it to say that he would have received a report card quite similar to mine. Now he's in the 5th grade and he's doing just fine. His grades are great; he is polite and respectful. He needed, like I did so many years ago, a chance to grow and mature. 

I titled this post, tongue-in-cheek, "Not Much Has Changed." Hopefully, my early-recognized sense of humor shines through. In all honesty, I would like to formally apologize to both Mrs. Parsons and Mrs. McCardell for rudely interrupting their carefully planned lessons and circle time activities. I also know, as we teachers do, that they most likely didn't mind me at all and couldn't wait to see where life would take me as I had the chance to grow and mature. 

So, in that sense, the title sticks. Teachers still love kids, despite their annoying habits and untied shoes, and see their potential, despite their interruptions and antics. Not much has changed, indeed. 

On Tap: Or, The Joy of Being Completely Terrible at Something

In the fall of 2017, I was accepted into a graduate program to earn my doctorate in Educational Leadership. My Monday nights were soon occupied by 3-4 hours of classes, and my early mornings were consumed by studying and writing. Because of the time commitment, I began to trim down on other activities such as music, blogging, and theatre. Sad, but necessary decisions were made and many "I'm sorry, but I can't" messages were sent.  

I am now in the dissertation writing phase of my program, and while it is but a pinprick, I can see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. About 6 months or so ago, I decided my schedule had room for a different kind of weekly class -- Adult Tap Dance. 

Many, many years ago, I took one year of Jazz class, and if there is a God, the photo of me in the recital outfit has been destroyed. I did a brief stint in color guard in high school marching, when I came to my senses after quitting band (and the flute drill was already written for our competition show). I've learned simple musical theatre choreography for shows, and I love to dance, but I would never, ever call myself "a dancer." I'm the life of the party at a wedding reception, but only if there are no "real dancers" on the guest list. And, I have never tapped before. 

What on earth possessed me to take an adult tap class? For starters, my youngest son wanted to take tap, and the studio (operated by a friend) is two blocks from our house. But beyond that, I really, really wanted to try something new without any expectation of being any good at it. 

And so, I did. The class is filled with talented, welcoming women who all have some range of experience (because who just starts tap at age 41?). Terms fly around the room that at first meant absolutely nothing to me -- "Shuffle, hop, step, falap, dig, spank, ball change..." I'm slowly learning to speak tap, but I'm not worried about it. I just watch the instructor's feet and hope for the best. 

The class performs at the recital, but I haven't, nor do I really plan on it. (The sign on the studio door says, "A Stress-Free Environment," which I never fail to mention when talk of the recital comes round.) Maybe I will some day (my son doesn't want to perform either, though he is MUCH better at tap than I am).  Who knows? That's not the point. 

My intention in taking tap was to learn something, without a grade or a degree hanging over my head. As a recovering perfectionist, I purposely chose something I had zero experience in. 

And guess what? It feels pretty amazing to be terrible at something. It's weirdly liberating. I was utterly lost in class for weeks in a row, and the world did not end. In fact, it's the most fun 45 minutes of my week. I spend the class thinking about my feet and counting and celebrating the smallest of victories with my dance friends. I am not trying to brag, but last night, I was not entirely awful. For the first time ever. ha!

My humble advice to you, friends, is to try something new. Something that has intrigued you, perhaps. Something that you've thought, "It would be so cool to ________." The important part is to avoid placing expectations on yourself. Don't worry about other people knowing you are doing it, or seeing you do it. Simply experience it. 

My wish is that you, too, will find the joy of being completely terrible at something. 

Listen & Learn

A few nights ago,  I unexpectedly found myself spending time with some former colleagues. I talked to people I hadn't seen in many years, as well as people who were at my house last weekend. The mood was festive -- we were celebrating another colleague's new career path -- but also nostalgic as we reminisced about days gone by. 

I make it a point to do my best to truly listen when someone is speaking. I also like to get to the nitty-gritty level, below the "Everything is Fine!" surface we all tend to present in public. As I made my way around the table that night, I became aware of just how deep the nitty-gritty level is for everyone right now. Because I treasure the precious stories that were given me, I will guard the specifics. What I can share are common themes --

* Grief: so many are grieving the loss of a loved one, or the loss of an expectation they had for their lives or relationships.

* Loneliness: because of various reasons (COVID-19, moving, life changes), many are feeling isolated and alone, as if they are the only ones facing the problems they have, as if they are the only ones having the feelings they have. 

* Anxiety: many are worried about the future -- of their careers, of their families, of our country. Name it, and someone is likely to be worried about it on some level. 

* Frustration: many are feeling helpless, as if their efforts don't matter. Many are feeling invisible, as if their efforts aren't noticed at all. 

Those four themes can be tucked under the umbrella of "Overwhelm." It can all be so much, can't it? And yet, when I first asked my friends how they were doing, the "overwhelming" response was: "Good! How are you?" 

While I did nothing tangible to help any of my friends with the loads they carry behind the scenes, I know that simply asking authentic questions and genuinely listening to their responses made a difference.  I could visibly observe the relief to be heard.  We all want to be validated: "You have been through so much. This is a lot to handle, and you aren't on your own. It's OK to be sad and upset and angry." 

Sometimes, that is all anyone really needs. Too often, sadly, we don't listen -- we merely wait our turn to talk. Too often, we are afraid to go beneath the surface. There is, of course, no place for nosy, gossip seeking. Instead, we need to acknowledge our common humanity, our common struggles. We aren't alone; we just don't always know it. 

Listening to the stories that night gave me perspective on my own life -- I have had my fair share of grief, loneliness, anxiety, and frustration over the past few years, despite having a beautiful family and a loving husband. No one is immune to periods of overwhelm. But, as I walked home thinking about how brave and strong my friends have been, I realized I am too. I don't mean for this post to be about me, though. It is through the specific that we can uncover the universal. 

My observations that night may be part of the answer to my "How Did We Get Here?" post. Could some of the anger and entitlement and downright meanness be merely projection of pain? I am blessed to be know people who look for ways to grow through pain, who choose to empathy and compassion over cruelty. 

May we all be so wise. 

How did We Get Here?

 Disclaimer: This post may be a windy and discursive path that leads to nowhere. I'm trying to untangle a complicated knot in my mind, and I know I'm not alone in the labyrinth, so if you are up to it, let's go together. 

What is the complicated knot? I'm struggling to even name it, but let's go with entitlement for now. 

Entitlement. As in, you've been born with a title: Lord, Prince, King, Queen, Earl, Princess, Lady. You've done nothing to earn or deserve the title. You had the good fortune of being born in the right place at the right time to the right parents. That's it. 

Titles are tricky, right? Some in history have used their titles to manipulate and control and extort. Others have used them to protect and liberate and empower.

Here in America, we aren't born with titles . . . exactly. We are born into privileged positions, into socioeconomic subsets that can influence the course of our lives. What I've noticed in some socioeconomic groups is a growth in entitlement, the mindset that others "owe" us. 

(I told you this was complicated!) 

Now, I am not a fan of sweeping generalizations, so you won't find them in my writing. I've intentionally used qualifiers like "some" and "can influence," as opposed to "all" and "determine." To be sure, not ALL Americans in certain socioeconomic groups are entitled. But, some are. I want to share my observations and experiences, and that's all they are. 

Let's go back to 1998, shall we? 

In 1998, I graduated high school. When I was in high school, we were required to wear gym uniforms. They were hideous, of course. I think there was a pamphlet called How to Humiliate Teenagers that was passed around by gym teachers in the 90s, covering topics like uniforms, group showers, and obstacle courses. Our uniforms consisted of a pair of red shorts that came modestly to the knee and a double-sided cotton (read: stifling, unbreathable) t-shirt that could be worn on the red side, or -- wait for it -- the gray side, depending on which team you were on (anyone else picked last every time? I think "Enlisting Popular Team Captains to Further Humiliate the Losers" was a section of the pamphlet). 

So, every time we had gym class, we had to go into the locker rooms, change our clothes in front of each other, and then report to our spots on the gym floor (not kidding) for attendance and warm up exercises. In my memory, gym class largely consisted of an endless unit of volleyball, followed by an unannounced week of "Running the Mile" (another section of the pamphlet, I am sure), and a few weeks of a torturous obstacle course involving attempting to climb a rope to the ceiling. No lie, the entire class watched as one student went through the obstacle course at a time. 

I am entirely aware that this description of my late-90s gym class probably sounds cushy to those who graduated in the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s . . . and probably sounds abusive to those currently enrolled in high school. Perspective is funny, isn't it?

Why did I just punish myself (and by extension you, Dear Reader) with this traumatic trip down Memory Lane? Here is what did NOT happen in 1998:

* My mother did not call the school to complain about my ugly gym uniform and demand a new, more flattering one -- or better yet, the right to wear whatever we wanted. 

* My father did not attend a school board meeting to accuse the school administration of being incompetent because the gym uniform had not yet been changed. 

* No one took to social media to launch a hateful campaign, railing against the ugly gym uniforms their precious children were being forced to wear in school. 

(OK, social media didn't exist, unless you count AOL Chatrooms, but you get the point.)

* My peers and I didn't refuse to wear the uniforms, telling our teachers, "You can't make me." Some didn't dress for gym, sure. They also failed gym. No parents called to complain about that, either. 

I have little memory of the gym uniforms being a "thing." I probably complained about how ugly they were to my mom. She probably said, "Get over it." And I did. We all did. 

Fast forward to 2021. 

Last week, in my hometown, our high school football team ran out on the field in new, bright-yellow uniforms. Our typical colors have evolved over the years to a Michigan Look-Alike: navy blue, with the big gold M that has subtly replaced the Native American Warrior head of yesteryear. Bright yellow isn't what the crowd is used to. 

In line at the game, I texted a friend associated with the team and asked about the new uniforms. I learned they were ordered for the Gold Out game the previous week, which raises awareness for Childhood Cancer. The Gold Out has become hugely popular in our town. The uniforms arrived late, so the team wore them that night instead. I shared this information with those around me in line, and the general consensus was, "Oh, isn't it great that the team wanted to do something for the Gold Out? The color is more bright than I'd expect, but hey! Go Warriors!" 

The next day, I came across a Facebook post made by the Varsity Club, excitedly announcing the new uniforms. Then, I broke my own rule and Read. The. Comments. 

Now, most of the time, I simply roll my eyes at the Keyboard Crusaders. 

But other times . . . I decide to respond.  This was one of those times. 

This was one of those times that the aforementioned entitled voices were becoming so loud that they were drowning out the supportive, reasonable voices. Let's be clear -- this wasn't about liking the yellow color. It's possible to not prefer a shade of yellow without being mean. Confession: I am partial to a more gold shade. But, I am not wearing the uniform. For me, the symbolism of the color meant far more than its hue. 

After posting my thoughts (then making the post public, so as to be shared, as requested), I was glad I jumped into the fray. I've lost track of how many supportive comments and texts I received about my post. I learned even more about the uniforms, about the years of fundraising that went into purchasing them, about the boys' excitement to unveil their Gold Out uniforms for the community. I also learned that the comments that made their way to Facebook paled in comparison to the hate that spewed to the faces of dedicated parent volunteers -- and sadly, to the boys themselves. 

Over a yellow uniform. 

How did we collectively get here? To this complicated knot we are tangled in, with some folks seeing the bigger picture and choosing to send love out into the world, with some so blind that they believe a bright yellow shirt is a serious problem. 

Despite possible appearances, I am a proponent of critical thinking and questioning public institutions. Someone probably should have asked some questions about what was happening in my gym classes. Not thrown a fit about the uniforms, but taken a closer look at curriculum and instruction. We should not be an unthinking populace. We must examine who has power and why, who is marginalized and why. We need to hold leaders and institutions accountable. In fact, my post about the uniforms generated some great questions about the financial elements of our Gold Out and even the complications of ordering mass quantities of personalized uniforms. That's the kind of social engagement we need more of. 

These same people commenting were likely the same people whose mothers likely told them to "Get over it" when they complained about ugly gym uniforms. What happened to them? I'm not asking rhetorically. I truly wonder how we've arrived where we are. 

I typically like to conclude with some pithy thought that ties up all the threads I've been weaving. This time, though, I've only untangled a strand or two, and I can't ignore the rest of the messy knot that remains. Expect me to return to this topic again and again -- more often with more questions than answers. 

Room to Grow

 Two years ago, I was given a small potted plant. I can't remember the official name, but I'm going to call it a daisy for our purposes. (Maybe I should title this blog, "I don't actually know anything about anything.")

Hang on.  Google tells me it was most likely a "Shasta Daisy," or for those who like scientific terms, "Leucanthemum." It looked something like this (thanks again, Google) --  

Pretty, right?

When we moved to our new-to-us house, my husband planted the Shasta Daisy in our garden. We closed on our house in April 2020 (one of the last closings in our county before the massive shutdown), so that means the Shasta Daisy has been in the garden for roughly 18 months. The plant now looks like this -- 

Under there somewhere is a sidewalk. I never expected this plant to grow the way it has. (Experienced gardeners are shaking their heads at my naïveté, and that's totally ok with me. Shake away, my Shasta-Daisy-Know-It-Alls who probably call these things "Leucanthemums.") 

But, really, we never know how much growth is possible until there is room to grow. Think about it: if I had left the plant in its 9-inch pot, it would have served the purpose of being small and pretty for a short time. When given space to spread out and take up its rightful place, becoming a giant in the garden, blissfully ignoring manmade boundaries and blooming away October after October. 

We all adjust to our given parameters. Fish will only grow as big as their tank allows; the same goes for many other animals . . . and humans. We become comfortable in our given space, whether in our professional or personal lives. We can become afraid of change, because, well, it's called a comfort zone for a reason. It can be unsettling to move, to change -- just as my little Shasta Daisy was surprised to find itself out of the pot and in a large garden. Some plants don't survive the shock of transplanting. Some people don't, either, I suppose. 

But, when we take it one day at a time and embrace our room to grow, before we know it, we can become fully who we were meant to be. Sometimes, that requires another change, a bigger garden, let's say. (Hermit crabs come to mind here, exchanging their shells as they grow, but I prefer not to mix my metaphors, so we are sticking with Shasta Daisies.)

I recently left a secure comfort zone in my career -- a place I had worked for over a decade, a place I loved (and still love). I'm now discovering I have room to grow, to evolve as a leader and educator. While it was difficult for me to leave my former place of employment, after devoting years of my life there, the decision to change positions was a good one. Not all decisions to change are good, of course. But when that happens, we have correct our course, which can be challenging. 

I suppose the moral of my humble tale is that we all deserve room to grow, to become fully who we are meant to be. Don't allow anything or anyone to stifle your largeness. You are meant to expand, not contract. Every time I walk by these Shasta Daisies, I am reminded: You are meant to grow. We all are. 

Walk in Another's Shoes

 Society is a mess.

People are so hateful and mean these days.

Our whole country is divided and heading for ruin.

All everyone wants to do is fight. especially on social media.

Sound familiar? Maybe you'd heard people around you utter these words, or ones like them, recently. Maybe these words, or ones like them, have escaped your own lips lately. I confess to harboring feelings of pessimism despair when I spend any amount of time reading any comment section on any online content. 

Just today, I came across a rant by a parent, accusing a school administration of "doing nothing" about the bullying his child is experiencing at school. Dozens of commenters added fuel to the fire, encouraging the poster to get an attorney and sue. Falling into the rabbit hole, I sent a screenshot of the original post to a friend, asking if she knew anything about the situation. She sent back her own screenshot -- of the parent's public social media page, using the words "f****** r*****" to describe someone being vaccinated. 

Stop the bullying at school, OK? Keep it where it belongs: online, conducted by consenting adults. 

It's ever so tempting to fall back on the trusty statements above, isn't it? 

Whatever happened to walking in another's shoes? Whatever happened to giving others the benefit of the doubt? Whatever happened to choosing to be kind? Despite the multitude of inspirational posters like this,

somehow, we've collectively lost it. 

Wait. Full. Stop. 

Here's the thing -- the angry poster deserves kindness, too. Imagine how you would feel if your child were being bullied and you perceived that nothing was being done about it. You might feel so frustrated and invisible and unheard that you might turn to a social media platform, seeking to be seen and heard and validated. You might look around at the rampant injustice and hypocrisy around you and decide to consult an attorney. Who can truly say, unless they've been in that position? 

The challenge, then, is to not only treat the palatable members of society with kindness, but also the ones who use the "R-word." How do we do this? I don't pretend to be an expert, but here are a few steps that have worked for me (or would work, if I would be consistent. Hey! I told you, I'm not an expert!):

1. Limit your scrolling. I heard mindless scrolling described as a "trauma response" the other day, and at first, I wanted to scoff, but when I really stopped to think about it, "trauma response" may not be far off. What are we doing when we scroll? We are avoiding our real life, our real problems, our real fears. And instead of finding solace, we find vitriol. 

2. Don't read the damn comments. If you are scrolling, don't click on the comments. Just don't. You know why. 

3. Stop and ask, "What else could be going on here?" There are many, many sides to every story. Try to put yourself in the positions of as many players in the story as you can. You may find yourself surprisingly empathetic. You may also find your blood pressure surprisingly lowering. 

4. Counter with kindness. When you come across someone whose words or actions would normally make you say, "What is WRONG with people?" Intentionally send out a prayer or a positive thought for that person. We all know the adage, "Hurt people hurt people," right? Instead of contributing to the pain in the world, contribute to the peace. Yep, sounds pretty "woo-woo," but it works. If you are spiritually inclined, bring this person to the attention of your Higher Power. If you aren't really in touch with a HP, simply offer a positive thought. 

Example? Let's return to the angry poster with the bullied child. Instead of thinking, "Ugh! Why is this person putting all this drama on social media?" think, "Wow, he's really mad. I hope he doesn't allow his anger to cloud his perception of the situation and prevent his child from getting the support they need." 

Will that bring peace to the angry poster? No clue (see non-expert disclaimer above). But, it may bring more peace to YOU, which can ripple out to those you interact with throughout your day. 

So we are clear -- this is not toxic positivity, aka, "Just think everything is great and Voila! It is!" Instead, it's about being aware of how our thoughts about others impact our thoughts about ourselves and the world around us. 

It's about walking in another's shoes, even when we wouldn't be caught dead wearing them.