No More Hiding

Over the past few days, I've written this post several times in my head.  Each time with a different title or slightly different angle.  At first, it was going to be about "putting on big girl panties," and well, sucking it up and doing things that I need to do, but don't really feel like doing--like getting up early to get my workouts in, eating my vegetables, keeping track of business expenses, sticking to a budget, putting away laundry and paying bills.  That morphed into a treatise on "self care"--eating well, working out, sleeping, writing, oh yeah--and remembering to breathe.

And then, well, life got a bit more complicated.  Two very special people in my life went through major crises last week.  And suddenly, I grew tired of my own petulance.  Bitching about not being able to sleep in anymore just seemed inconsequential and downright childish in comparison to real problems.  Nothing like a crisis to bring about clarity.  Suddenly, the "shoulds" don't seem like "shoulds" anymore.  They are blessings.  An opportunity to live and live well.  To become a grown-up.

I don't want to hide any more.  From the pain and joy and the full range of emotions that come with living an open and honest life.  We all use crutches--food, alcohol, sleep, bad relationships and a range of unhealthy things--to cope.  To hide.  To numb the pain and the hurt and the exhaustion and overwhelm that is life.

If that means up at 6am to get a run in, giving up my afternoon nap, or forgoing that evening cocktail, I'm all in.   And I need to know what is real and raw and honest--without distractions or crutches or burying my head in the sand.  Please hold me accountable.

Running on Empty

So, I have something to confess.  I slept almost all day yesterday.  Maybe it was the red wine, maybe it was the allergies, maybe it was the hormones, but mostly, it's because I'm exhausted, and I haven't been taking proper care of myself.

Nearly two weeks ago, I hurt my calf during a routine Saturday morning run.  I didn't have my phone, so I limped nearly three quarters of a mile down Peachtree Battle to a friend's store to call my husband for a ride home.

If you know anything about me, you know that I get depressed and cranky when I can't run.  And when I'm depressed and cranky, I don't eat well.  I indulge in too much cheese dip, chocolate and red wine.  I forget to work out.  I don't sleep well.  I lack energy and focus.

To top it off, I've been horrible about managing my schedule.  I'm overbooked, exhausted, running on empty and have no one to blame but myself. 

I usually prepare for the upcoming week on Sunday afternoons--cheery, optimistic and organized.

Four days of endless proposals, meetings, calls, events and late nights later, I collapse in a heap on the sofa, lacking the energy to even return a simple email.  I become paralyzed.  Disillusioned.  Every.  Damn.  Week.

Something has to give.  I can't keep up this pace, or I'll never make it through marathon training this fall or build my business the way I want to.  I need to take better care of myself.  I need to learn to say no.  To trust my gut more.  To delegate.  To give in to the exhaustion and go to bed at 9pm some nights.  To give myself time to breathe and reflect and write and dream.  To spend time with my husband.  To recharge.

Because this pace is unhealthy, it's not smart, and it's making me crazy.

Moving On

So, my ex-husband got married again this weekend.  It's been just about two years since our divorce was finalized, and since I remarried over a year ago, it's not surprising that he's moved on too.  What IS surprising is just how emotional it's made me.  Not because I didn't know he was getting married again (googling took care of that several months ago), or because I want him back, or because I don't want him to be happy.  But because as much as I talk about my journey and my truth, I rarely talk about this one: that after nearly a decade together, I wasn't truth for him.

Yes, I was the bad guy.  I left.  I asked for the divorce.  I refused counseling or reconciliation because I was done, because I knew those Hail Mary-type efforts would only prolong the inevitable.

But I didn't leave just because he wasn't right for me, but because I wasn't right for him.  Sure, he thought I was.  But I couldn't live up to his ideals, his expectations, his illusions of who I was and who I'd come to be.  And I became resentful.  Bitter, angry, withdrawn, sullen.  Not myself.  And no good to myself or to him as a partner.  I did and said many, many things I regret.  I thought I'd made my peace with it a long time ago.  But I really haven't.  Because it's hard to acknowledge that I played a role in the marriage's demise.  That it wasn't just him.  That it was also ME.  And that there's someone out there that can do a better job at being a spouse to him than I could.

"She will love you more than I could.  She who dares to stand where I stood."

- Missy Higgins

It's Not Always About Being Liked

You Like me!  You Really Like Me!

I like people.  Well, most of them.  And I like being liked.  I was never the popular girl in school (except when people needed help studying for AP exams) and have always been quite shy, which I think has only fueled my desire to be well-liked.  To fit in.  To conform.

And even though I've been willing to step out every now and again and say or write things that may be unpopular, to live my own life and not one predetermined for me, I still haven't let go of one thing--being liked.

Being liked feels good.  It's validating.  It's comforting.  It's comfortable.

But life isn't always about comfortable. 

I try to be kind and compassionate and friendly.  But sometimes, people aren't going to like me.  Or what I say.  And it needs to be okay. 

Life isn't always about being liked.  It's about LIVING.

Memorial Day: Remembering "Mom Mom"

I wrote this two years ago in the Charlotte airport on the way home from my grandmother's funeral.  She died two years ago today, a few days shy of what would've been her 92 birthday.  Even though she wasn't your typical sweet and cuddly grandmother, I still miss her and hope this does her life and spirit justice.

Tonight, I drank a margarita in honor of my grandmother, Elizabeth, whose ninety-one long years of life my family celebrated this morning. Mom Mom, as we called her, wasn’t a particularly big drinker, but I distinctly remember the first time I visited her in her assisted living facility in Florida and asked her what she had done the previous day.  Expecting to hear about Bingo or perhaps an excursion to a local concert or museum, I was surprised when Mom Mom said “drank margaritas at our Happy Hour.”

Granted, the margaritas were probably glorified lemonade and were served in those small Dixie cups, but still—they were margaritas to her, and they gave her something to smile about, something to choose for herself in a world where those choices were becoming limited.

Mom Mom lived autonomously and proudly for the first eighty-eight years of her live, driving herself to and from “rummage” sales, church activities and the homes of far-away friends and relatives even after my grandfather passed away in 1994.  Fiercely independent, “assisted” living was certainly not her favorite dwelling place, though she tried her best to make it her own with her knickknacks, familiar books and pictures of family, all the while referring it to it as “prison.”  She managed to maintain that independence, sending countless staff members running from her room by screaming “get the hell out of here” if they were unfamiliar or didn’t treat her with the dignity and respect she deserved.  She refused to eat dinner if the meals weren’t pleasing to her palette. She selected stacks of books to read and re-read, and at her age, deserved the right to cheat more-than-occasionally during games of Upwards—most of which she could win outright without even bending the rules.  Her brain was sharp to the end, and she had an astounding vocabulary, probably gleaned from her love of literature.  Even in her advanced age and deteriorating condition, she commanded respect and was stubborn, even to the end—holding on out of sheer refusal to go before she declared it time.

These qualities—spunk, independence, and tenacity—probably not considered very “lady-like” for her generation are the ones her daughter, my mother, imparted to me and my sister, and I can only hope I live up to her great example.

La Vie Boheme

Some people have mission statements and goals.  I have theme songs. 

Spurred on by my not-so-inner musical theatre geek (thank you, Glee, for making show choir cool), I chose Defying Gravity as this year's theme song.

Why?  Because I needed to let go of the fear.  

Of success.  Of failure.  Of what people do and don't think of me.  Of the unknown.  Of being unabashedly, unapologetically, authentically ME.

So I closed my eyes.  I leapt.

And with the help of so many of you, I found my way to the truth.  About my work.  About my life.  And yes, it's constantly evolving.  But it's also worth celebrating.

So, La Vie Boheme.*

(And sing along--you know you want to!).

To days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something out of nothing
The need to express, to communicate
To going against the grain, going insane, going mad

To loving tension, no pension, to more than one dimension
To starving for attention, hating convention, hating pretension
Not to mention of course, hating dear old mom and dad

To riding your bike midday past the three piece suits
To fruits, to no absolutes
To Absolut, to choice, to the Village Voice
To any passing fad

To being an "us" for once
Instead of a "them"
La vie boheme
La vie boheme

*lyrics (c) 1996 by the genius Jonathan Larson.  Used only for sing-a-long and enjoyment purposes...

Confession: I hate PR

I have a confession to make: I HATE PR.

To be more specific, I hate being a PR practitioner.

Why?  Because of the unusually difficult expectations I place on myself and the inevitable disappointment; because I hate being pushy, especially with strangers; because in its traditional form, it's dying; and most importantly, because it doesn't feel authentic to me any more.

Which doesn't mean it's not the right profession for others, or that there aren't others practicing PR in new and exciting and pitch-perfect ways.  Because there are.  But I don't want to be one of them. 

When I initially started freelancing, I wanted to be a writer.  But PR opportunities kept falling into my lap.  And I kept taking them, because, let's face it, in the beginning stages of entrepreneurship, any money is good money.

And while my business philosophy has evolved into a more holistic approach to communications, I'm still known as the "PR girl."  And I still feel compelled to take on business that doesn't excite me, just because I can and it pays the bills.

At least I did until two weeks ago, when my oldest paying client and I parted ways.  It was an amicable parting (they are moving on to bigger and better things), and while disappointing, it was ultimately freeing.

I don’t HAVE to be a publicist. I don’t HAVE to take on work that doesn’t excite me. I don’t HAVE to do or be anything I don’t want to do or be.

Which doesn't mean my current clients won't benefit from my expertise in traditional PR and media relations, or that PR won't pay a role in future communications campaigns.  But it's only one piece of a much more comprehensive strategy.  I want to teach my clients how to create their own content and opportunities, to find their unique voices, to become their own best advocates.  I want to be more than just their publicist.

And that is something I’m passionate, excited and honest about, something I would be proud to market and sell to others.   Because it’s MY truth.