Have you ever thought about the beauty of the word sometimes? 

Sometimes is a great word. It’s so much more honest than always or never. 

I know this because black-or-white thinking is one of my not-so-super superpowers. “So & So is an asshole.” “I’m a total success.” “I’m a complete failure.”

It seems like extreme thinking is a teenager’s superpower too. Just last night, I overheard the following examples from our teenagers at home, “I totally failed that test.” “I’m always awkward around other people.” “I never know what to say.” “I’m an idiot.”

It made me wonder, Is our tendency to exaggerate making us feel sad and stuck? If we were more honest with our words, could we be happier?  

In Lori Gottlieb’s book, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, there is a single paragraph about the word sometimes that I’ve been savoring like the last ripe berries of the season. 

Gottlieb writes, “[The word] sometimes evens us out, keeps us in the middle rather than dangling on one end of the spectrum or the other, hanging on for dear life…It helps us escape the tyranny of black-or-white thinking.”

Our brains are wired to remember the negatives more aggressively than the positives. We may feel like we are always blowing it, but the truth is we are crushing it more often than we think. So now I’m teaching the teens in our home to try it (complete with eye rolls).

“I’m awkward, sometimes.” 

“I don’t know what to say, sometimes.”

“I act like an idiot, sometimes.”

I’ve been practicing as well. It works like an alarm to wake me up from catastrophic thinking. 

“I succeed sometimes.”

“I fail sometimes.”

“So & so is an asshole, sometimes.”

The little word “sometimes” that I may have judged before to be too average and dull now keeps me from falling off the cliff of extremes. There’s relief knowing it’s not always or never. 

It’s a simple way to build compassion in the world for ourselves and for others. “Sometimes” is also a tool to stop beating ourselves up so we can show up real. Because we want to show up whole and human, always.

Love,

Susie

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I’m baaack coaching and speaking again! I’d love to help you thrive amidst all the unexpected changes in your life. I’ve also crafted a 45-min keynote on how people and organizations can thrive in turbulent times. Do you know an organization or conference that needs this message? Get in touch with me.

What is the experience of having our expectations turned upside down? 

I was supposed to have major surgery on my spine. The doctor was supposed to remove a tumor balanced between two vertebrae in my neck. And I was supposed to wake up tumor free. 

But just thirty minutes into a pre-operative procedure, they discovered something no one had predicted. A tiny blood vessel (like a tributary of a river) near the tumor is one of the only blood supplies to my spine. The telltale sign of this is a hairpin turn in the bloodflow. This led to a hairpin turn in my plans. The risk of severing this blood vessel during surgery was too great to go forward with the operation. In the future, other blood vessels may take over and feed my spine, making the surgery viable again. And since the tumor is not dangerous right now, we can just watch and wait. 

So how does this change feel?

It feels bad. The tumor is still there. Plus, so much psychological, spiritual, and physical energy went into preparing for this surgery. I was fully committed to one experience, and I got another. 

It feels good. I narrowly escaped a fusion from my skull to my shoulders, and the inability to look up or down. I also get to keep the strength in my right arm. And I can trust that I have an excellent, attentive surgeon who is bold enough to back off.

But the reality is not exactly bad or good. Doing the surgery was where I was a week ago.

Watching and waiting is where I am now. We are always just where we are. 

A friend sent me a quote, “Meandering creates the path.” I want to paint it in gold on my children’s bedroom wall. 

And when my kids experience heart-breaking twists in their lives, I hope I’ll say, “Woah. That hurts. I’m with you through this change, and every change.” 

But what were my first thoughts when they told me that the surgery was postponed indefinitely? 

• What?! This is terrible. Let me talk to someone who will tell me what I want to hear. 
• Oh, wait. I get to live. 
• I get to keep all this mobility and all this strength. 
• Oh, but this sucks. It’s not what I planned.
• I am hungry and I want baked shell pasta. 

Then I practically ripped out the IV tube and dashed out of the hospital. I didn’t feel like the woman I was even a day ago, nervous and cautious about what I ate and what I did in case it made the tumor grow. 

I felt like a rebellious teenager who wants the music louder, and her boots taller and angrier. I moved like someone who will not be contained. In preparation for the surgery, I had to face death. Now I want to face life in all its pain and all its beauty. I don’t care whether it hurts or soothes, I just wanted to feel all of it. 

We have no idea how life is going to play out. And yet we worry as if worrying helps. And we make our lives smaller, more cautious, in an effort to avoid uncertainty. But that only gets us stuck in the land of disappointment and regret when an unexpected change arises. If we want to say yes to life, we have to take this journey with all the hairpin turns and forks in the road. We have to feel it all.

It’s like that well-known essay “Welcome to Holland” by Emily Perl Kingsley, the parent of a child with Down syndrome. She describes the shift in her life this way: It’s as if you planned a fabulous vacation to Italy. You bought the guide books and learned some phrases in Italian. You dreamt of hand-made pasta and riding a gondola in Venice. But when you land, the flight attendant says, “Welcome to Holland.”

“Holland?!” you say, shocked and disappointed by the change. But, as Kingsley writes, “It’s not a horrible place. It’s just a different place…”

So Kurt and I practiced saying, “It’s just a different place” as we put away the clothes we’d no longer need, cancelled our lodging, and all of our plans. Then we did what felt right. With my brother Derek, we took our 79-year-old mother out to a rock concert. 

The future is hidden from us. We only get to see little bits of it revealed, like a flashlight that only shines so far. We make the best decisions that we can, one fork in the road at a time. And we respond to each hairpin as well as we can. We grieve what was supposed to happen. Then we stretch our imaginations and our dancing muscles. And we eat whatever we want.

Love,

Susie

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I’m baaack coaching and speaking again! I’d love to help you thrive amidst all the unexpected changes in your life. I’ve also crafted a 45-min keynote on how people and organizations can thrive in turbulent times. Do you know an organization or conference that needs this message? Get in touch with me.

***

image credit: Olle August

This is Kurt, Susie’s husband. The surgery is postponed indefinitely. This comes as a huge surprise to all of us.

Today Susie underwent a surgical procedure to do high-resolution mapping of the blood vessels in her neck. We had a similar procedure done in CO but the facilities here are much more powerful, so the surgeon wanted to repeat it here to help plan the operation. Today’s results indicated that surgery is not advisable at this time.

The two main facts supporting this are:
1) the tumor is not imminently dangerous now. Obviously we want it out, but it’s not urgent.
2) the blood vessels are actually still supplying critical blood flow around the tumor site. This was surprising to everyone and is exactly what today’s study was looking for. Over time, the body can reroute blood flow through other vessels and this is what everyone assumed had already happened. Today’s study showed that this isn’t fully the case. Therefore, there is more risk to the surgery.

Dr. Gokaslan decided to postpone the surgery because these two factors make taking the tumor now more risky than it’s worth. When we planned the surgery, we didn’t have the full picture of the risks. Now that we do, it’s a different situation, hence the different path forward.

Instead of an operation now, we will go back to close monitoring of the tumor (every 3 months). Susie may need to do this surgery in the future, but now we want to wait longer and see how things develop. We expect that over time the blood flow can reroute and reduce the risks in any future surgery Susie may need. We meet with Dr. Gokaslan tomorrow and will learn more details.

Susie was so hungry after today’s procedure (and foggy from the anesthesia) that she insisted we go straight to an Italian restaurant from the hospital. Never mind that she was in her pajamas. She joyfully ate enough for three people, and is now cozy in bed. She pivots easily, so is not too disappointed, just a little stunned.

We both feel grateful that our surgeon is bold enough to cancel a surgery when the risks are too high. And we are super thankful for your powerful, positive visualizations.

Susie’s mom, Lyn, and her brother Derek, are coming to town tomorrow anyway. We’ve decided to turn this into a celebration. We’ll likely spend a couple of days here before heading home. After we meet with Dr. Gokaslan tomorrow, we’ll share with you what we learn about what happens next.

Maybe we light the candles anyway, and visualize the tumor staying the size it is or shrinking, and therefore giving Susie a long and happy reprieve.

We cannot thank you enough. Your support has been incredible.

Love,
Dr. Kurt

Doesn’t it seem like everyone has more challenges lately? Our thirteen-year-old daughter thinks so. She says she has no one to sit with at lunch. She wishes she knew exactly what to say to get the other kids to like her. And I feel her pain. I remember those days. Can’t we fast-forward middle school for her? Can’t we shortcut her suffering and get right to the learning?

There is no shortcut. Suffering is the middle school of life. We cannot go straight from elementary school innocence to high school swagger without the pain of those years in between. We have to go through middle school. We can better it, sure. But we cannot skip it all together. 

My friend, Deb Rubin, who leads fabulous mother-daughter workshops, insists that middle school is supposed to be difficult. “It’s about learning to deal with discomfort. When your child comes home complaining about not having anyone to sit with at lunch, the only thing you can do is be curious. You cannot fix it. You can show up confident that things will change. You can relax because you understand that discomfort is a necessary part of the growth process. Then you can ask questions that help her to identify and feel her feelings. How is that for you? Tell me what you are feeling. Oh ouch, how did you respond? 

We have to stop wishing discomfort away. We have to give up the false idea that others have it easier than us. Not to mention, we need to let go of the false hope that if we just knew the right way to behave, we’d have it easy too. Far better to put our challenges on the table, under a bright light, to look and feel them.

This week, our family went on a short retreat and did a small fire ceremony. We wrote down what Fear was saying to us on small slips of paper. Then we burned them. It felt great. Since then, I keep talking back to Fear, the voice in my head. I say, Thank you for your concern, but I am built for this. Life is about facing tough challenges, not running from them. We are all hard wired for resilience. We just don’t trust that truth. 

I feel all of you in my corner. I’m in your corner, too. And I can relax knowing that our daughter’s challenges are building her up, making her stronger, and helping her to discover who she is. She is built for this. We all are.

Surgery challenge accepted. I’ll return home in a month different, but better.

Love,

Susie

Remember what Dr. Liebsch said to me? “What you have is a chronic illness, like diabetes. It will never go away, but it can be controlled and managed.”

Well, it’s time to control the spot of tumor that has been on my neck since the beginning. So, here we go again…

I need another, smaller surgery. Tentative date: November 6th, in RI.

This is not an emergency. It’s just time. We’ve chosen Dr. Gokaslan, one of the leading experts in spinal tumors, to resect as much of it as possible. He works out of Rhode Island Hospital.

Kurt and I hope to go to Providence on Nov. 3rd. Surgery on Nov. 6. Recovery is one week in the hospital, then two-three weeks in the Providence/Boston area. We found places to stay! Thank you. Not sure yet if I’ll do radiation right after or wait until spring.

Kurt will be with me from about Nov. 3-14th. After that I’ll likely go stay with friends in Boston. The kids will stay home. My oldest brother Jake is coming to stay with them while we’re gone. They’re lucky to have him!

To remember:

1. This is spinal surgery, not skull or brain. The operation is only ½ day.
2. My spine will be fused from my skull to my shoulders afterwards. This is certain. I am sad about the loss of rotation, and grateful that Cole is able to chauffeur me around now 😉
3. Because of where the spot is, there’s some risk to a nerve that goes down my right arm. My surgeon says it is possible, but not likely, that it will be damaged. I’ve been taking this part hard and grieving the potential loss of strength in my writing hand. But after weeks of feeling blue, I’m trying a new approach. I’m learning to dictate, and I’ve come up with a series of challenges to strengthen my non-dominant hand. Want to join me?

How to help: 

1. On Nov. 6, picture the tumor sliding off
   the bone and nerve easily, smoothly
2. Imagine me healthy, strong, and home by Dec. 7, in time for Kurt to play lead guitar in his rock band’s first gig (details to come), for Cole to get ready to go to the Mountain School, and for Hazel to perform in the Nutcracker, dancing in the snow scene ‘en pointe’
3. Do the non-dominant-hand challenges with me! This week: Brush your teeth with your other hand.

As Dr. Al-Mefty (my skull surgeon) said, “Susie, you are a fighter. This is not the end, nor is it the beginning of the end. It is just another challenge, and you are good at those.” 

What makes me “good at challenges” is that I don’t feel like I’m alone. Thank you for being there with me every step of the way. We all have our own mountains to face, but I firmly believe that together, we can do anything!

Love,

Susie

#braveoverperfect #joyoverfear

 

When I first heard the news of Jennifer Ridgeway’s passing, I went to the garden, to be surrounded by sunflowers, marigolds, and cosmos. As a river of memories rolled by, I heard a whirring sound and looked up. I noticed that I was not alone. More than a dozen dragonflies floated above me and the flowers.

In almost every culture, dragonflies are a sign of change and transformation. 

The dragonflies’ liquid-blue bodies flew in a tight group with powerful, rhythmic ease. Their wings looked like they were made of tiny stained-glass windows. Their enormous eyes reflected the sun. 

I remembered Jennifer’s warm eyes, her easy smile, and her sharp sense of humor. I pictured her surrounded by her tight-knit family: her husband Rick, and their children, Carissa, Cameron, and Connor, and their grandchildren, Coda and Rosco, Summer and Sadie. 

Jennifer understood that healthy families make healthy workplaces. Instead of sacrificing her time with family for her passion for work, she integrated the two. As the first director of marketing at Patagonia clothing company, she co-created an on-site childcare center and then published a book about it to inspire other businesses to do the same. Jennifer made it so women and men didn’t have to choose between parenting and working. 

Rare in the advertising world, Jennifer was constantly on a quest for authenticity. She is the reason the Patagonia catalog famously includes real photos from real people. As the company’s first photo editor, Jennifer insisted on including genuine shots of life outdoors. She wanted to inspire us to be real and to get out more into wild landscapes. In the process, she supported amateur photographers, launching many of their careers. 

Dragonflies begin their lives in water as colorless, wingless nymphs. They grow and shed their hard shell many times, never above the surface of the pond. Then one day they crawl onto land, breathe air instead of water for the first time, and grow powerful wings. They transform into acrobatic gliders, able to fly in six directions, and faster than most birds. 

In my twenties, I was fascinated by dragonflies. I spent countless hours in rubber boots, wading in ponds and rivers, holding a net over my head. I wanted these insects to teach me about change. How can they go from water to land to sky so easily?

I knew this species of dragonfly hovering over me now. Green Darner. Anax Junius. A cousin to Saffron Meadowhawk, Wandering Glider, Emerald Spreadwing, Blue-Ringed Dancer, and the 5,000 other species found in the world, on every continent. 

Jennifer often seemed veiled in a mantel of stars and light, like her cherished La Virgen de Guadalupe. Jennifer inhaled your troubles and exhaled forgiveness. She took you seriously, but refused to let life’s seriousness take over. She listened generously, guiding so many of us through questions of love, loss, and relationship. In her presence, you felt the meaning of non-judgmental love. And when Rick traveled to climb the world’s most dangerous mountains on every continent, she kissed him goodbye and waved away our concerns. She steered us all toward trust.

Back then, I studied dragonflies because I wanted to understand metamorphosis. I was about to be married. I craved knowing how to grow into something new. Transitions are natural for a dragonfly. It molts at least a dozen times before becoming a creature with wings. Dragonflies taught me not to fear the unknown.

When I became a mother, I found comfort in their life cycles. Dragonflies have everything they need inside them to grow into confident flying beings. Once, I lifted a dragonfly nymph out of the water and into my hand. I wanted to find evidence of its future ability to fly. I stared at it, but couldn’t see anything. Finally, I found the faintest outline of wings, no thicker than flower petals, folded on its back. It helped me to imagine my children’s version of wings, always there, waiting between their narrow shoulders.

Without Jennifer, there would be no Kurt and me, no Cole, no Hazel. It was Jennifer who pointed me to Rick, who pointed me to Kurt.

When I last saw her, Jennifer was in hospice in her own bed, surrounded by books, photographs, flowers, Art, and all the colors that she loved. Her sheets, covers and pillows radiated warmth in cranberry, saffron, and butterscotch shades. I told her that her family will be held, that she will not be forgotten, that we will be better, are better because of her. I told her that we’ll see her in flowers, in photographs, in the flame of Guadalupe candles, in the laughter of her grandchildren, in all things light and joyful. 

Jennifer’s daughter Cameron sat at the foot of her bed holding her infant daughter Sadie, born only two weeks earlier. Jennifer and baby Sadie slept peacefully. Never before had I seen the bookends of birth and death so close together. I stayed and watched them sleep. I listened to them breathing. When Jennifer exhaled, Sadie inhaled. And I thought about transitions. Entrances and exits. Beauty leaving and beauty arriving. 

The day Jennifer passed, there were news stories in Virginia, Ohio, Pennsylvania, among others about meteorologists misreading their doppler-radar images. What they thought were massive late-summer showers turned out to be an uncommon sighting: a giant migration of Green Darners spreading across the country. What I saw in my garden that day was a small piece of a larger whole: thousands and thousands of dragonflies migrating.

Beauty on the move.

***

photo credit: Chirag Sankaliya/Getty Images