Category: NEXT: An Empowerment Series

I stopped attending art openings. I took up lifting a kettlebell, staying inside instead of going out to the gym. I was unsure how long before it would be over and whether life would ever be the same again.  It wasn’t a winter with coronavirus.  It was the last winter of many winters of John living with cancer. Ten years ago, the rooms of tea parties with macarons and brunches with bubbly became a home hospice and I became the gracious hostess greeting guests arriving to say their goodbyes.   The same sofa to which John trekked to and from each day from our bed—proving to himself and the world he wasn’t quite ready to leave— became a place of rest again this winter after my son Benjamin had two limbs crushed in a head on crash. The walker, the pillows,

“I had no idea there’d be such an outpouring…I’m not used to being on the receiving end.” Tears started to stream down the face of the child turned man whose blue eyes matched his hospital gown. My first-born Benjamin gave his first Facebook thanks two weeks after a driver on I-80 crossed the median at full speed, hitting Ben’s car head-on, crushing his limbs and his hopes for the year ahead.  Ben’s friends had been eager to start a GoFundMe to help. He was reluctant. Being white and male and educated he knew his privilege. What he did not know was the duration of his healing journey and the high cost of not being able to walk or work or open a jar.  Ben is both

As a 10-year-old, I took my promises seriously, at least when it came to trying to be a good girl in a Catholic culture. For Lent, I’d commit to give up candy or to place any coins –my only income at the time– into the slot of the little yellow cardboard box shaped like a church. For 40 days I would strive to help the children of Guatemala and to develop a form of discipline that today helps me to hold my promise to intermittently fast until 11 a.m. These days I capture promises on my iPad where I keep

It’s easy to feel grateful, given my charmed life. Excellent COVID-free health, a successful law firm, a loving life partner. End of day entries in the gratitude journal flow:             Morning dancing             Incredible coworkers             Bills paid Even at the end of a challenging day, there’s plenty. What doesn’t make the list:             Wind chill of twenty below             Power outage to start the day             Double booked appointments I fail to feel grateful for the events and circumstances that invite me to look at the ways I’m being, that I’d rather not see. Like these:             Entitled: “I

The bitter cold of the pre-dawn dark stung my cheeks. The bag on my shoulder heavy with the Sunday edition Omaha World-Herald, I trudged along the snow packed sidewalks making my deliveries. Nose dripping, I stifled my silent weeping as I approached the corner where I’d meet my brother delivering his section of the route.  Perhaps it’s this childhood memory that makes me averse to even the thought of being outside in the Nebraska winter when temperatures fall to single digits. Despite my beautiful vintage coat, warm red boots and collection of gloves, as this week’s cold goes from a

“Your hair’s getting long,” he said, noticing my coronavirus coiffure. Gerry has such an eye for beauty and style that the home he and Bob share was once featured on the glossy pages of the Inspired Living as one of the loveliest in the city. I held my breath, sensing he was about to be honest with me. “You look younger,” he said.  I smiled. I thanked him. I didn’t tell him it wasn’t my hair. I was about to turn 65 and I was getting younger.  Now there’s no denying that the laugh lines in my face have deepened in the last decade, but for years I have

“How are you?” she asked with sweet sincerity.  Should I say? Should I be truthful? I pause ever so slightly.   “I’m good.”   I pause again.  “Really good,” I say, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.  This year caring inquiries have come from cousins across the country and Facebook friends not seen for years. An extrovert, I’ve lived long enough to amass an abundant army of people who want to know how I’m doing because they care. Sometimes I don’t want to share.  I hesitate to tell them that this has been one of the best years of my life.  Who wants to hear that?  Who wants to hear my happiness when they are anxious

“You use gratitude like cocaine,” she said. Her observation was as calm as if she were saying “The sky is blue today.”  My mentor often shared wisdom I eagerly embraced. But the suggestion that I had been sticking the numbing needle of thanksgiving in my veins silenced me.  Gratitude has long been my great go to. I had just shared what was going well in my life. My busy law firm. My healthy children. My meaningful coaching career.  But my mentor could see beyond my rosy report. While my kids were okay, my sister was intermittently suicidal. My husband’s latest test results were encouraging, but the prognosis remained terminal. Reciting what might have been a good gratitude journal entry did not change the truth that

I stride past the multitude of campaign signs, the one red, white and blue one that says “Polling Place Here.”  A handful of men pace away the cold with hands in their jackets as they wait for the doors to open. I immediately spot the inspector. A short woman in a red polo, she appears in no mood to chat. I make my introduction brief. I assume she’s happy not to hear I’ll be observing. She knows I report counts of voters, wait times, and “incidents.” Outside poll workers measure out the 200 feet of string to mark the boundary

Her words would not leave me. Intended as a compliment, they felt strangely disturbing.                 “You’ve got it all together.” I replayed the words in my head for a week. Was I a source of comparison, envy, or inspiration? My friend, 20 plus years my junior, sees my life in the present and from the outside. My past is outside her range of vision. While now with few financial fears, I can still feel the tension in my hunched shoulders from when newly divorced I obsessively checked the next due date of my credit card bills. Today she sees me