Durga’s Tool #329: Wonder

Here’s another in my toolbox series of techniques that inspire me to live with joy, compassion and courage, as inspired by the Hindu goddess Durga  – my nominee for patron saint of special needs parents.

I was at a workshop this weekend for people with special needs and their parents, learning about how to advocate. The course leader delivered a short parable that skillfully summed up a key strategy for success.

“Let’s imagine I have two aunts,” she began. “I haven’t seen either of them in a while and so I go to each of them for a visit. At one visit my first aunt desperately says, ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you to visit for ages. I’m so lonely and you never visit anymore.’ The second one says warmly, ‘Welcome! I am so glad to see you. I know it’s been years but I’m so happy we have time to have some tea and catch up.'”

The course leader encouraged us to think about what each of those visits would feel like. She went on to ask: Which visit were we more likely to enjoy? Which aunt were we likely to visit again?

And so it is with this work, that you and I will often have to meet with people to ask for their help or their support. Maybe they are gatekeepers of services for our own families, or maybe they are policy makers with the power to change the playing field for thousands of families like ours. Maybe we meet them in a public meeting, maybe we deal with them by email or phone, or maybe we find ourselves sitting across the table from them at an annual review of services.

In those moments, are we the angry, desperate aunt or the friendly, inviting one?

I think sometimes we special needs parents are getting the wrong message. We’re told that if we want to be effective, we should be the mama bear — fierce and protective. Or the victim, sad and pleading.

The course leader’s parable reminded me that I have other options, ones that actually might be more effective than anger or sadness. I can be friendly. I can be willing to meet someone half way. If I can do that, I’m more likely to get what I need, for human nature is such that we are attracted to the pleasurable and repelled by the unpleasant. That’s just the way it is.

The challenge, of course, is that sometimes we feel really righteous in our sorrow or our anger. On the surface it seems so obvious that we should be angry or sad that to be positive or collaborative would be false or self-obliterating. How can you be pleasant and cheerful when the other person is ignoring the law or hiding behind a culture of bureaucracy and complacency?

In those moments I remember the words of Parker Palmer: When the going gets rough, turn to wonder.

Wonder, as in, “I wonder what could have caused our education system to produce a policy like that. I wonder how I change that policy.” Or “I wonder what is going on with our health care system that makes this person feel like it’s ok for them to treat me this way. I wonder how I change that system.” Or even, “I wonder why I am getting so upset about this that I am willing to abandon my own integrity. I wonder why I am yelling right now.” Turning to wonder for me has often gives me the breathing room to not take things so personally, to continue to see the other person as a person even when I’d rather not.

It’s easier said than done, I know. I forget this lesson all the time. Just this morning I had an interaction with a dental scheduler that could have gone better. But if I’m lucky, I’ll get lots of chances to practice. Until then, I’ll just have to wonder what it would take for me to learn this lesson faster.

Durga’s Tool #2.1: Empty space

Even at the dawn of the Durga’s Toolbox series, I so appreciated the value of decluttering that I made it a seminal tool, giving it the #2 spot.

When I wrote about it then, it was at the culmination of a pivotal year-long stint as a full-time caregiver—for my son and his complex needs, for my father who was ill and passed, and even for myself, as I worked to finally accept the mantle of “special needs mom,” which I had been pushing away for years.

The year had been one of intense change and spending time decluttering was helpful. I wrote then about “the delicious rush of the feeling of spaciousness – physical, mental, psychological and spiritual – that comes from picking an area of my home and then giving a ruthless “buh-bye” to anything I don’t love, need or want contained within it. After decluttering a drawer, a shelf or a closet, I can return for days to gaze at the generous capaciousness, not just the controlled order of the things, but the blank space between the things that reside there.”

The spaciousness brought order and hope to a little corner of chaos. Unexpectedly, it was also an invitation to the creative powers that be to send me a new calling, new professional and personal opportunities. Anyone who’s ever done a good solid clearing before knows that when you make space, the Universe will fill it. (Maybe I shouldn’t have cleared quite so much.) Within months, there was less time to keep up with our “stuff” and the piles crept back, as they are wont to do.

As we prepared to sell our house and pack for  our huge adventure and head out to Sweden next week, we’ve had to take decluttering to the proverbial “whole nother level” to say the least. A trifecta of motivators—a cheer-leading realtor, the understandably high cost of trans-Atlantic shipping and an earnest desire for a fresh start—has lit a fire under our bums and experience has been nothing short of catharsis.

Every manner of item unused, unwanted and unloved was tossed, given away, sold, donated. Old resumes, a prom dress, craft projects, broken toys. Books from old jobs, clothes that don’t fit or flatter, things with plugs that won’t work for us anymore, gone. Taking inspiration from the minimalist movement, I asked myself only two questions:

  • Do I love it? (save it)
  • Do I need it? (save it)

What I didn’t allow myself to ask were these questions:

  • Was it a gift?
  • Did I pay a lot of money for it?
  • Will someone think I’m silly for getting rid of this?

The questions make the decluttering easier and faster. They really do.  And the results are astounding. It’s easier to move around, to clean up, to see what’s beautiful. Why wasn’t it like this all along?

It’s not just among my physical possessions that I’m decluttering. Email newsletters, newspaper subscriptions, catalogs, memberships, they’re going too. Those gift cards I’ve been carrying around in my wallet—time to spend them down. It’s luscious.

The final frontier to declutter, and of course the most difficult one to tackle, is the clutter of the mind.  The sabotaging habits, the outdated tapes and scripts, the unwanted labels—I’d love to leave some of those behind as well. There’s no way to toss them into a recycling bin or trash bag. I’ve been struggling with this a bit.

While writing this, I started wondering what the equivalent “questions for mental decluttering” might look like. A neuron fired and I recalled the Byron Katie‘s powerful The 4 Questions and realized that they might just be what I need. Check them out if they resonate with you, but here’s a teaser:

  1. Is it true?
  2. Can you absolutely know that it’s true?
  3. How do you react, what happens, when you believe that thought?
  4. Who would you be without the thought?

I can feel the space opening. Who would I be without the thought? Who would I be without the thought that I am not enough? Who would I be without the thought that this is too hard? Who would I be without the thought that there isn’t enough time? Who would I be without the thought that it doesn’t matter?

Stay tuned.

Durga’s Tool # 637: Love, even when it’s hard

Another installation in my series of tools that helps me parent with compassion, courage and joy, inspired by the goddess Durga, who has always got my back.

Lisa Belkin at the Huffington Post did a wonderful story on me, my family and my Care Map on Friday. So many good things are coming out of it: new friends, new thought partners, new mentors, new opportunities. In some ways, the impact is easiest to capture in the stats: 9,000 visits to the blog, 4,000 Facebook likes, 1500 Facebook shares, 300 email shares. Impressive, unexpected, energizing. These numbers are connections, and it’s in our connection, in our community, that our message for inclusion and celebration of all people grows and thrives.

One unexpected consequence of the article was the public comments it would generate. Most of them were wonderfully supportive. Some were hurtful though, suggesting all sorts of things: that my son should never been born, that our society is harmed for having him among us, that we should stop investing anything in him, that I should stop whining. Even that my daughter’s name is dumb. I know, I know, the internet does strange things to people, making them feel invisible and invincible, free and even obligated to say whatever comes to mind. But ouch. It really hurt.

It hurt so much in fact that my first impulse was to label them as Jerks, to dismiss not just their opinions but their souls. To not only disregard them, but to wish them ill. Then it was to disengage–to stop reading the comments altogether (even the good ones, sadly) because I knew nothing good would come of it for me. Reading and responding would only perpetuate the toxicity of it all.

Author and visionary Oriah Mountain Dreamer once wrote: “Show me how you turn away from making another wrong without abandoning yourself when you are hurt and afraid of being unloved.”

Yes, show me how. How do I not abandon myself in this moment? Some guidance came this morning via illustrator Nathanael Lark‘s inspiring cartoon, How to Change the World.

How to change the world

It’s easy to consider another person a jerk when they hurt you. No one would blame you. And in this wonderful work of parenting a child with special needs, there are lots of opportunities to turn your hurt into hate. The problem is that it doesn’t change them, and it doesn’t change the world. The only way it changes you, if at all, is to make you smaller.

Thank you NLark for reminding me that even when I don’t love the messages, I can still love the messengers.

Durga Tool 7: Getting into the driver’s seat

Here’s another in my toolbox series of techniques that inspire me to live with joy, compassion and courage, as inspired by the Hindu goddess Durga  – my nominee for patron saint of special needs parents. 

In my 10 years as a parent of a child with significant medical and developmental challenges, I had significant “a-ha” change in my level of consciousness just a couple of years ago. So significant that it almost deserves a personal equivalent to the B.C. and A.D. of our Western calendar. That’s how big a deal it feels, even now.

Before this shift, I was naïve, in denial and passive. After this shift, I was empowered and engaged. It was as if after years of being a passenger in my son’s care, when doctors, early intervention professionals and teachers had been driving, I decided to take the wheel.

So what happened? Health care workers would say that I got activated. Educational experts would say I got engaged. Family leaders might say I became an advocate.

I would say that I finally understood that when it came to my son’s life, the buck stopped with me. I understood that no matter how respectful or knowledgeable the experts were, they couldn’t connect all the dots of my son’s needs. They didn’t have the knowledge or resources to. To ask them to was unrealistic and even unfair. And the healthcare and education systems that I assumed were always looking out for the best for us…well, if feels almost foolish now to say that I did think things worked that way.

Suddenly, I got it. And that realization pushed me to gain so many new skills, so much knowledge and confidence. Some might call it grace. It sure feels like it.

I don’t have any answers as to why I was lucky enough to want to get behind the wheel. I do have a lot of empathy for those who don’t. It probably depends on many things—in my own case, my own personal and cultural views on both authority and expertise, a lack of access to a peer who had been through it before, challenges coping with fear and anxiety, anger at feeling that life had dealt me a bad hand, but to name a few. Mostly, I think, it was a bone-deep sense of overwhelm, a false assumption that there were too many questions, too few answers, too much bad news and not enough me to go around.

Since then, I’ve become passionate and curious about what makes one person “wake up” to the idea that they are in the driver’s seat of their own and their child’s well-being, and another person assume that the professionals caring for them can know what they need better than they know themselves. If I could wish for one single miraculous insight for others, it would probably be this acceptance of the absolute need for personal responsibility. Without this, nothing else will get done.

In the health care world, professionals talk about family or patient “readiness,” or our openness and ability to make a change.  Before we “wake up” or become what they call an activated, engaged patient, we must spend time getting ready for that change. Maybe it’s not a switch that gets flipped, but a series of awakenings, of small changes that slowly builds our confidence in our own ability to lead.

Yesterday I got the chance to observe an intervention at a waiting room in a health clinic designed by an organization called the Right Question Institute. A medical student, armed with a simple pamphlet and a friendly way about her, approached patients waiting to see their doctors and coached them through a brief activity that helped them prepare three well worded questions for their doctor.

Is this the grace I have been wishing for others? Perhaps so. After so many years of trying to support others to get in the driver’s seat by enthusiastically telling them they could do it, I watched a few folks learn how.

When did you figure out that you needed to be in the driver’s seat? Did you always know? How to you encourage others to take charge?

See you out there on the highway…zoom zoom!

Surprise, surprise

Where to begin? Life has not lent itself well to blogging lately. Too much living and not enough time to write about it. Maybe that’s the way it should be.

I find I am content. Satisfied. Friendly toward myself even. And that doesn’t make for great subject matter or inspiration.

I spent last week on a meditation retreat, cupped gently in the hands of the verdant rolling hills of New York’s Hudson Valley and two skillful and nurturing teachers, the lovely Jon Kabat-Zinn and Saki Santorelli, and surrounded by a community of new friends and fellow travellers.

Stepping so far away from my day-to-day, away from not only work and family, but also my smart phone and computer, my patterns and habits, from TV and even reading, that I felt like I had taken a blow torch to some mental and emotional cob webs, set them alight, watched them burn and maybe even let them go. Yes, Shiva the Destroyer—and Durga’s consort—was in the house.

While the inner machinations of my own mental process is fascinating to me, I doubt it will be to you, so I won’t bore you. But one surprising thing did come up that I wanted to share.

It is this: this label, this story that “I am a parent of a child with special needs” is … changing. Feeling less precious, less necessary.

In the moments of stillness and silence of the retreat, when I expected it to appear like a gale force wind, it was merely a quiet breeze.

How strange. Surely, after these last couple of years, there could be nothing else worthy of my ruminations? But not only were there plenty of other thoughts to watch—most notably my profound and continuous striving to be someone other than who I am—I found that it just didn’t come up much.

By the end of the week, when I came out of silence to my first intimate conversation about what I had seen, I noticed that I didn’t even bring it up. It simply wasn’t part of the story. After years of demanding that there’s got to be more to life than this…I find that there is.

I don’t know how I feel about the possibility of letting go of this identity, or if I’m even ready to. It has been a liberator and a jailor, a lightening rod and a scape goat, a shield and a veil, a pulpit and a gallows. That’s a lot to let go of.

And “letting go” is too active a verb to describe what’s happening. I’m not doing anything. It’s doing itself. It’s letting go of me. Or maybe not letting go, just melting, melding, or pulsating between itself and something else.

Durga Tool #7: Google Scholar, as symbolized by Q

Here’s another in my toolbox series of techniques that inspire me to live with joy, compassion and courage, as inspired by the Hindu goddess Durga  — my nominee for patron saint of special needs parents.

Back in the day, when my son’s medical symptoms and developmental delays started slowly revealing themselves one by one, I received the following advice from several of his doctors:

Don’t start Googling.

While this advice may have been given for job security or to prevent a lot of “needless” requests for referrals, I think it was grounded in some compassion and consideration for my mental health. Medical information on-line is often: 1. hard to decipher, 2. dire and distressing, 3. contradictory, 4. controversial and predatory, 5. just plain wrong, and sometimes 6. all of the above. They suggested I take a more concierge/secret agent approach, bringing my questions to them and letting them feed me info on a need-to-know basis.

For years I was happy to comply. I was in full-blown denial, dysfunctionally optomistic, busy and exhausted caring for two small kids. The less bad news, the better. Consciously, I reasoned that they were the experts and if there was something worth knowing, they would tell me. I sensed that I could lead them down the wrong path and I didn’t want to be a distraction. But mostly I was in denial and content to stay that way.

But as my son grew and the picture got more complicated, the doctors started sending mixed messages. They’d start sentences with, “You’ve probably seen this on-line…” and “I’m sure you’ve already read about this on the internet….” What happened? It was as if policy had shifted and someone forgot to send me the memo.

At some point it finally hit me: I am ultimately culpable for my son’s well-being. No matter how many experts I recruit to our team, I am the one who will be held accountable and everyone else is assuming that I’ve got the big picture. (This insight is a blog post — or book or lifetime of practice — in and of itself.) I couldn’t stay away from the internet any longer, and a few years ago I finally gave in and started poking around.

You know what I found? Absolutely nothing useful. While medical websites can be slightly helpful when you know what to look for or if you have a very common diagnosis, my searches brought forth no fruitful results. I knew there had to be lots of academic papers from reputable journals out there, but my searches seemed to take me to useless sites that all seemed to be cutting and pasting information from the same vague source.

This fall, I finally learned about Google Scholar, a Google search engine that only searches academic and scholarly articles. I learned of it in a completely roundabout way; no doctor had ever shared it as a resource. (Why were you holding out on me, docs?)

In that moment, I felt like James Bond being given the cool gadgets from Q, the hidden camera in an average looking pen, the undetectable knives that shoot out from the wheels of my car when I press the cigarette lighter. And now, I give it to you.

What we do with that research — how to decipher it, how to judge its worthiness, how to not get overwhelmed by it — is information for another day. But in the mean time, here’s another tool for the toolbox.

Any other resources out there for evidence-based, sound research? I wouldn’t be surprised. If so, please share!

Durga Tool #6: Synchronicity, Luck or Fate (whatever it is, I’ll take it!)

Here’s another in my toolbox series of techniques that inspire me to live with joy, compassion and courage, as inspired by the Hindu goddess Durga  — my nominee for patron saint of special needs parents.

Well, it’s official. The blood test results are in and my son does indeed have a new gentic diagnosis as I wrote about suspecting a couple of months back. It feels weird. I’m not going to go into the details of which arm of which chromosome has been duplicated or deleted here because what interests me more is the universality of the experience of parenting a child with special needs, not the symptoms or their specifics. More unites it than divides it.

What I’ve been reflecting on instead is the event that made this diagnosis possible: the mother of boy who also has this incredibly rare syndrome happened to be sitting in the same waiting room of the same office at the same moment as me and my son. Despite years of being examined, poked and prodded by experts, it took another mom just a moment to look at my son and see some spark of recognition that led us to the truth. A different doctor, a different day, a different area in the waiting room, and we would have spent who knows how many more years in the dark. Do you have chills? I do.

Some people would call it Fate or maybe even Divine Intervention. Out of all the appointments of all the neuropsychologists in all the suburbs of the world, that we should meet is such a statistical improbability that only a divine hand can have played a part. “Things happen for a reason” is a common mantra of special needs parents and I suspect a lot of folks would say that to us in this instance as well.

Others might call it Coincidence and chalk the shivers that are still running up and down my spine to apophenia, or the human propensity to see connections between two unrelated events. I mean, it’s not really that odd that we’d be seeing the same doctor (there aren’t that many of them, probably) and the appointments involve multiple long visits. The chances that we would meet seem small but aren’t impossible.

Still others who fall in between the two extremes of the religious-skeptic spectrum might give credit to Synchronicity, or meaningful coincidence. They might even go so far as to say I attracted this mom to using Synchronicity; just weeks before, I had become very clear about wanting a rock-solid diagnosis for my son, re-arranging my life to focus on his needs, and trusting that the answers would come.

Who knows? Who cares? Whether it’s because of some divine conductor or damn good luck, I’ll take it. While it would be nice to have a definitive answer about the big questions of life, I’ll settle for the little truths. Certain ambiguities — like whether there’s a force out there looking out for me — I can handle. Others — like having a proper and accurate diagnosis — not so much.

P.S. I love a good Coincidence/Fate/Synchronicity story. Share one if you have it!

Embracing Special Needs Parenthood…same great taste, but juicier

There’s a change I’ve been putting off for a long time because I didn’t want to confuse anyone, but I just can’t hold back any longer. Not being able to stop one’s self is either a sign of an incredible lack of impulse control or a wonderful burst of creativity that simply won’t be checked. Hopefully this is a case of the latter.

Depending on how you’re viewing these words (in an email, on-line, on your iPad or e-reader) you may notice that the blog formerly known as Embracing Special Needs Parenthood  looks completely different and has a new name and address, Durga’s Toolbox.

I’ve been writing about Durga for a while, why she inspires me, how I enjoy looking at this crazybeautiful life as a blessed opportunity to grow my capacity, to acquire tools and most of all, to live life fully awake. Durga reminds me that I can invite life to “bring it” and that it’ll take more than the usual skills to stay present, to stay open, to stay in the middle.

Not all entries will be about Durga’s toolbox. I just wanted to refresh the look and find an easier domain name to share. I’m also hoping to add a page about some academic research that might interest folks and I’m contemplating whether pseudonymity suits me.

P.S. To all the generous folks out there who’ve taken the time to click a “follow” or “subscribe” button: I have no idea how this address change will impact you and whether you’ll continue to get content in the way you’ve chosen. I hope it’s still coming. If not, I’ll try to find you. Your companionship means a lot.

 

Durga’s Toolbox #4: My gut

Another tool in my toolbox series that helps me live with joy, courage and compassion, as inspired by the Hindu goddess Durga.

In 10th grade business class, my teacher Mrs. Goldstein taught our class a model that promised to make us more successful in life. When faced with a difficult decision of whether or not to do something, she counciled us to execute the following strategy:

  1. At the top of a sheet of paper (this was the 1980’s, so no, there was not an app for that) write down the a potential course of action to address your problem. Below it, create two columns called “Pros” and “Cons,” and brainstorm what each of them could be.
  2. Review the list and after careful consideration, select the proper course of action.

Although I can’t say I (or many teenagers) went to the trouble of pulling out paper and pen when faced with a tricky decision, but the exercise captures the essence of a very Western approach to decision making. I put a lot of stock in what my intellect — my “head” —  had to say about things and had faith that sound reasoning and reflection alone would lead to a positive outcome. In the special needs worlds of evidence-based medicine and education, Data is King.

But there are other internal sources of information available to us. Marketing managers everywhere know that we unconsciously make decisions based on our emotions and then find intellectual reasons to justify our decisions. We often refer to our heart as being the seat of our emotional wisdom, as reflected expressions like “he followed his heart,” or “she has a lot of heart.” As a parent, my heart is often the governor for much of my behavior, both good and bad — affection and yelling to name just two. As a special needs parent, letting my heart take the reigns too often can lead to excessive worry or guilt and make my behavior very risk aversive.

Lately I’ve come to appreciate a third kind of intelligence as a complement to my head and my heart: my gut. Why? When I look at a situation through the lens of my intellect, I focus mostly on quantifiable facts, and my field of vision is fairly narrow. Looking through my heart, I often take the decision which will provide short-term relief of pain but may not provide a long-term solution. But when my gut is the lens with which I view a situation, suddenly I have access to all sorts of information — in addition to my head and heart wisdom, murky hunches based on connections with past experiences and insights that my intellectual memory can’t quite put its finger on get equal say. It’s as if my gut has superior peripheral vision, able to read and react to a complex situation quickly, the way a quarterback can read a play in progress and know exactly where to get the ball.

One way I my gut shares its wisdom with me is by acting as a little voice or a milli-second of nearly imperceptable hesitation. “Don’t put your keys there or you’ll forget them,” the voice says, or “Don’t hit the ‘send’ button just yet on this email.” The challenge, of course, in this crazybusy life of mine, is to not drown that tiny voice out with distraction and mindlessness. I don’t know how many times I’ve made a mistake — from harmless ones like dropping a glass to more costly ones like trusting the wrong person — and realized that I knew all along it was going to happen but I was in too much of a rush to listen. When I am grounded in my body and present in the moment, the voice is amplified. Pausing and taking a breath, I can reconnect with this voice and ask for its guidance. Perhaps people who seem to have extra-sensory abilities are simply able to crank up the volume of this voice.

I won’t stop using my head or my heart; in fact I think my gut instinct works as well as it does precisely because my head and heart have so much experience. No need to throw the baby out with the bath water. I simply appreciate having another channel of information, one that is often dead on and incredibly quick. But don’t take my word for it — trust your own gut. I’d love to hear your thoughts…or feelings…or instincts.

P.S. In recent years, the research coming out regarding the Enteric Nervous System (the one hundred million neurons embedded in our gastro-intestinal lining) now referred to as “the second brain,” is pretty fascinating. In the same vein but coming from a completely different tradition, many mind-body schools of thought like ones who use energy fields or chakras, consider the solar plexus to be the seat of personal power and will. There’s a lot to explore here if you’re interested.

Durga Tool #3: Pushing my physical body to its limit, as symbolized by my sneakers

Here’s the third in the belabored series on tools that inspire me as a special needs parent to live with joy, courage and compassion, as inspired by the Hindi goddess Durga.

I am not a naturally athletic person. Lest you get the impression from the post’s title that I am one of those people with a vexing bottomless well of physical energy, aptitude or endurance, (though my favorite is Rob Lowe’s Chris Traeger’s character on Parks and Recreation) I must assure you that I am a clutz.

I was a good student in my youth. I felt secure and comfortable in the realm of my mind but completely at a loss when I paid any attention to my body. Growing up I barely completed a season of any sport, most often quitting after the first few lessons or games. My athletic prowess extended to the occasional aerobics class or a night out at the bowling alley every decade or so. I learned to swim and ride a bike years after friends my age did. Oh, I did play softball one season, though it ended with a broken nose and the assistant coach sarcastically yelling, “Look what I got!” on the single occasion I managed to catch a ball during a game.

In my late 20’s I accidentally cultivated a slow-jog habit. I say accidentally because I really can’t otherwise explain how I found myself pulling on my sneakers and jogging while trying to hold steady a very skippy portable CD player during many of the summers of the late 90s. The object was to simply move my body, not push myself too hard – which I was very good at.

Once parenthood hit though, the sheer physical exhaustion and a sleep-deprivation induced fogginess punted that shaky practice right out the window. Finding time to exercise meant getting up early. Sleep was what my body needed there was no way I’d miss a minute of it. Besides, I hardly had enough time or energy to go to the bathroom; why would I squander precious energy on running a loop around my neighborhood when I needed it to unload the dishwasher?

At some point in the last few years though, the sneakers found their way out of the closet and I am just as surprised as you are to find out that I have a pretty decent jogging habit again. I’ve even done a few 5ks in the last year or so, run through the last two winters and I’ve probably doubled my speed – I can run much faster now that I’ve upgraded to an iPod.

What has come as a surprise is the pleasure not rekindling the slow jog ability, but of pushing my body really hard. As I crank up the volume of that perfect heart-thumping track, I’m almost always able to run faster and farther than I believed possible, and with that success comes the insight I am quite possibly mentally and emotionally stronger than I believe. I push myself by choice out on that sidewalk so that when I’m faced with a surprise obstacle in my everyday life, I already have experience of ignoring the voice in my head that tells me, “You have to stop, you can’t do this.” I don’t know how it’s possible that this is the same voice, but it is.

Another gratifying by-product of voluntary exhaustion is the way it can simply shut off my incessant mental chatter and calm my anxiety. Though my mind continually seeks out things to obsess about as long as it’s awake, it does take a little break in the hours after a good, hard workout. I have worked through and integrated some experiences more effectively by simply moving my body than I ever could by thinking about them. Sometimes the body knows how to handle that which the heart and mind simply cannot process. It took an apparently smart girl a surprisingly long time to learn that.

I don’t need to be a jock. I’ll always have my curves and my clumsiness. But I do have a new appreciation for my body’s wisdom, its value and its strength. And now when life throws me a curveball, I might just be able to catch it without breaking something.