My day dream was interrupted when I suddenly found myself right smack in the middle of a large group of young women and their high energy toddlers. I was surrounded like a bowl of warm milk in a kindle of stray kittens.
I’ve been a professional almost finisher. Whether it’s decorating, organizing, or reading a book, I usually get to “almost finished” and then, I stop. I don’t call it quitting because I have every intention of going back to the task at hand. It’s usually around mile 14 of 16. Not during lift off, not half way. I almost always stop right before the best part. I see something shiny which gives me an excuse to not finish. To not fail. Perhaps it’s a twisted way to keep myself from experiencing the satisfaction of seeing a finished work. Who knows, but either way, I usually don’t finish projects. I put the project on a shelf of sorts in the library of fear and perfectionism and immerse myself – CONTINUE READING
As I was purging, sorting and organizing our basement clutter I saw my kids’ first five years in the form of artwork, journals and keepsakes. It slowed me down for a bit. It actually grabbed me by the guts and knocked me on my seat. It was as if the hand turkeys and laminated lists of favorite things were whispering, “Stop, Momma. Stay awhile. Remember when I made this for you?” I had no desire to rush to the next task on my to do list. All I wanted to do, all I could do, was slow down and take it all in.
I fondly replayed moments like holding, feeding and bathing my babies for the first time, doing Caroline’s hair for her kindergarten pictures, dropping Julia – CONTINUE READING
For no reason, I was in a slump today. Tons to be grateful for, too many blessings to count, yet just off. And although I felt I couldn’t jump into my cocoon fast enough, just before kicking off my Chucks and climbing into my comfy escape I bellied up to my computer. Within a minute, my eye caught a Facebook post and my internal compass screamed “GO THIS DIRECTION.” And so I did. “It’s Monday! Time to get our Hussle on! 6 am club! So passionate about my life.” This was attached to a meme that read “You can either sleep with your dreams or get up and go after them.” I’ve heard this before. You have, too. Heck, I’ve likely said it. But then again, I – CONTINUE READING
I grew up in the 70’s in a home where volatile arguments between the big people were as common as Flintstones vitamins, bologna sandwiches, Tab and shag carpet. It was the only normal I knew. It was like living in a house with a foundation built on quicksand. Always predictably unpredictable. We learned to be on guard at all times, to get through the school day on little sleep, to accept not having friends over unannounced and we got really good at ignoring the deafening silence between our parents. When they weren’t fighting they were in separate rooms. Staring. Thinking of an escape plan. Regretting their choices. Mom sitting in a dark room with the only light being from the end of her cigarette. Dad staring – CONTINUE READING
Olivia Palermo is a fashion Goddess to me. I’m her in my head. A legend in my own mind. And yet in reality I am lightyears from her unapologetic take on style. Lightyears. I don’t follow trends, unless I can hide that I’m doing it. I also don’t take big risks…just small calculated risks. If “everyone” is wearing something, I’m the last to embrace it, but boldy original I am not. I’d love to tell you that it’s because of my unique sense of style, but it’s equally my “you can’t make me” attitude showing up. I like being different and brag about being a Fruit Loop in a world of Cheerios yet I secretly want to be accepted so the result is a weak attempt – CONTINUE READING
So it’s pretty clear that comparing ourselves to others serves no one. That it’s a game with no winner. The jury isn’t out on this one. I teach my kids not to do it, I train my team to avoid it, for crying out loud my pinterest boards and FB posts are full of “do not compare yourself to others.” It’s said in dozens of clever and catchy ways with visuals that cause me to confidently say “Damn right…never again. Not me.”
Yet here I am, willingly playing the game. Again. Jersey on, drenched in sweat, sitting on the bench. Exhausted, and beat up after a brutal game of “why am I not that?” all because I was unwilling to shift my mindset before getting trampled. Who – CONTINUE READING