Category: NEXT: An Empowerment Series

Whether you dread it or celebrate it with everything from drugstore candy to animated emojis, Valentine’s Day is hard to ignore. From our childhood memories of shoe boxes stuffed with cute colored cards from classmates to the 25 billion dollar industry of today, we’re bound to think about love. (And if you’re me, also a bit about the working conditions of the woman in the rose factory outside of Bogota.) Avoiding images of romance is impossible if you own a phone, a television, or a set of eyeballs. Pictures of proposals and candlelit dinners can call forth not just love

I forgot to put my trash out. I hope Christine gets that job. I should have called Pam yesterday. I wonder what’s happening with the impeachment proceedings today. Will the coronavirus hit the Midwest? Researchers claim we have over 2,000 thoughts an hour. No doubt.  I’m a planner, so there’s thinking about whether this is a pearls day, which film to see before it leaves my favorite local cinema, and whether I need to call my accountant. I’m less of a worrier about the future and more of a past dweller. I think about the real reason the client didn’t

“What are you most hoping for in 2020?” I asked sincerely. The pause in her reply made me wonder if another one of my extroverted inquiries had overstepped a boundary.  I’d known her husband for a couple of years, but Emily and I were just getting to know one another. “A year of cancer-free,” she said with a mix of grim and hope on her thin face wrapped in soft waves of blonde hair. For over two years Emily’s husband had been battling an aggressive cancer that had refused to stop at his brain. Multiple rounds of chemo coupled with

The summer of 1969, without warning, a young black girl was shot in the back of the head and killed by a white police officer.  Vivian Strong and her friends were having a party in a vacant apartment, playing music and dancing.  She was 14. I was 13 that summer. I don’t remember hearing about Vivian, despite the killing taking place in my hometown.  I don’t remember any conversation at home, at school, or with my friends about Vivian’s death. I don’t remember anyone explaining why this happened or how the trial of the police officer resulted in acquittal. Vivian’s

Voices got loud. Arms waved. Interruptions abounded. We’d had cocktails with our antipasto and wine with our chicken piccata and pasta. Emotions ran high as the talk turned to politics. Catching a momentary pause in the clamor, Linda spoke. “You know,” she said, pausing for her quiet voice to be heard. “You know, my friends say the same thing about you.” Linda was the lone person at the long table of eight guests at the candlelit table to hold an opposing view.  “Your critiques are the same ones I hear made about your party.” I could not hear any gasping,

“We looked great 20 years ago,” she said with a sigh, reflecting on the eve of the millennia when we gave champagne toasts to the new decade. We’d been invited to a country club and I wore a black velvet floor length gown. We gathered in front of the ice sculpture for our picture. Hopeful, joyful anticipation abounded. Six months later my world changed. The husband I’d kissed at midnight in December was diagnosed with cancer in May.  My law practice moved from its office downtown into the century old building we gutted to renovate in between visits with urologists

“It’ll be different,” she said, the tears filling her eyes revealing what her determined smile failed to hide. This Christmas was going to be painful. “It’s bittersweet,” he said. “This is a hard time of year for my wife.” “Honestly, I dread it.” I’ve lost track of the number of people who have exposed their truth that the holidays are hard for them. A death. A deep dysfunction among sibs.  A distance brought on by addiction, geography, or a history of hateful words. A child they won’t see. For weeks I’ve anticipated the return of my children from across the

How does one escape an epidemic? Loneliness is rising at an alarming rate despite us having more opportunities for communication and connection than ever. Loneliness would have been the logical response for so many seasons of my life.  Not only the divorce from my first husband, but also the years of marriage preceding it when I hid a book on intimate partner abuse under my mattress. I went away to college, and far away to law school, and to Spain on my own for a semester at 19. My youngest went away to college at 15 and today my children

“You deserve it,” he says. I’m awkwardly silent. I feel more curiosity than satisfaction. Why do I deserve it? Would I be entitled to it even if I didn’t deserve it? Does it matter whether I deserve it? Other people deserve it, too, so why didn’t they get it? Am I somehow special? My charmed life means I hear this phrase often, like the time I got Grigio, my little silver convertible. Why the declarations of my deservedness? Was it because I had the income to afford it? Or because I’d lived enough years to be worthy? I wasn’t sure.

By the time I was thirteen I’d concluded that dreaming would not get me that hot pink paisley swimsuit with ruffles on display in the junior department of the Brandeis Department store downtown. I’d been babysitting for years and knew that only money from my summer nanny job and a layaway plan would. Instead of dreaming, I set goals and made plans. Set a goal to go to college. Plan to finish in three years. Set a goal to have a 100 people protest. Plan a march and get them there. Set a goal to throw a party. Plan the