Category Archives: Feeling Well

Me, too

Because I wouldn’t see him until show time, my spouse hugged and kissed me and wished me good luck last Thursday morning.  He asked, “Will this be the biggest crowd you’ve ever spoken to?” I responded quickly, “No. But it will be the biggest crowd I’ve spoken MY OWN WORDS to.”  I was going to share a slice of myself, just a sliver of a very rich story, with 700 people.  But I wasn’t nervous.

I wasn’t nervous until I saw the other twelve women I got to share a stage with.  Until I saw my name on my seat.  Until I caught glimpses of my family and friends waiting in line outside the door.  Strangers, fine, but ohmygoodness, MY people are here! I became nervous not for the speaking, but for the revealing.  Because even the very closest people to me, the people I share every part of my heart with, don’t know all the story.  And forget the people who don’t know my heart at all, who are new friends I volunteer and occasionally drink with.  They certainly don’t know my story.  But truly everyone has a story, and the beauty is in the telling.

I remember our first cast rehearsal.  We took pictures and read through our pieces.  Photos first, and in the waiting (each woman had individual shots taken before our group shot), we chatted.  We shared pleasantries, “Where are you from? What do you do? Do you have kids?”  The questions women ask.  Then we heard each other’s stories.  And we suddenly knew each other one hundred times better.  I had a lengthy conversation with one of the women about her work and hobbies and passions, and then BAM! I find out she almost died. Because even though we talked for twenty minutes, that didn’t come up.  And gracious, you don’t lead with that!

I’ve been leading with part of my story for a few months, though, because of our circumstances.  A conversation typically goes like this:

“We’re moving this summer.”

“Oh, wow! Where?”

“To my hometown.”

“Oh, how fun! But why? Did you or your spouse get a new job there?” (Commentary on why our lives should not be ruled by our work another time.)

“No, my mom died last fall, and we’ve decided to renovate and move into her house.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.  It’s good, though.  Really great decision for our family.”

“I’m so sorry. But happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

And then we usually change the subject.  Because sometimes stories are so HARD in conversation.  People don’t know what to say or ask, what is allowed, rude, or intrusive. So, actually, the stage is kind of the perfect solution.

My smile is so big because my spouse is photobombing my selfie. Man, I love him.

I got to share my story, or a small piece of it anyway, to a crowd of 700 people, about 40 of whom I know and will see again.  No awkward conversations necessary.  Except by choice.  Because after and still (via email and DMs and in person), women are telling me, “Thank you for sharing your story, it’s my story, too.”

That’s the power of storytelling! Nothing connects us like the power of “Me, too.”  One of my friends said my story was one of the most relatable, and I totally get that.  My story had few enough details to be somewhat generic.  Few enough extraordinary circumstances for more people to say, “Me, too.  Ohmyheart, me, too.”

I was nervous because of the revealing, not the speaking (though I was surprised at how little eye contact I was able to make, how much I needed to keep my hands down instead of gesture, for fear of shaking), but then it was indeed the sweetest part.  Life is too short to keep our hearts concealed.  Awkward conversation and stage fright and embarrassment and all the hard things.  Sweet, sweet stories, no matter how difficult, are what sustain us.  Stage or no stage, I hope you find a way to tell yours.

“We figured you knew!”

I have two unique physical features.  That’s my positive spin on “flaws.”  What do you think? Parent of the year worthy? Uplifting language approved? Good.  Let’s be done with it.

I was thirteen when a friend lovingly made fun of the way I said, “reps and sets [repths and setths, in case you needed that]” in the weightlifting unit of eighth grade gym class.  It was in good fun.  He was my friend, but I was indignant.  “I do NOT have a lisp!” He insisted I did.  In fact, he was pretty surprised I didn’t know I had one.  His making fun of me was not to point out my flaw, but just to poke fun.  Surely, someone with my self-deprecating humor and good sportswomanship wouldn’t actually be hurt by his comments.  I was, but only because I had never realized I had a lisp.  He was sorry.  It became a joke between us; he wrote it in my yearbook when we were seniors.  We are Facebook friends now.  It’s all good.

But at the time, it certainly wasn’t.  Why the hell didn’t I know as a thirteen-year-old girl that I had a slight speech impediment? And why did I have it? First, I turned to my other friends.  Yes, they all agreed, “We figured you knew!”  I mean, who says to someone, “Do you know you have a lisp?” or makes fun of it or even points it out.  It’s NO BIG DEAL, so they all ignored it, as they well should have.  But I was completely in the dark.  Now that I had 100% confirmation from my squad that I was indeed speech-impaired, I asked my parents what the hell was the deal? “Oh, yes.  They wanted to pull you out of first grade for speech therapy, but your dad refused,” my mother told me.  What to the who?!?! “We decided it was more important you remain in the regular classroom all day.  We didn’t want you to feel singled out or get behind in other work.  It was such a small lisp, it didn’t seem to matter.”  Well, mission a-frickin’-ccomplished, because this girl was clueless.  (I was also in the top 3% of my class, so maybe their strategy worked.)

I became self-conscious about it.  But the very next year, I joined the high school speech team.  I learned I could control it if I was careful.  I did well in high school speech competition.  I went on to college speech and speech communication as a major.  As a Communications teacher, when I taught or coached public speaking, I was able to use myself as an example for overcoming your speaking fears and impediments.  I enjoy making jokes about it now, especially when I accuse others of making fun of me when they intentionally or unintentionally lisp themselves.  I speak regularly in front of audiences of all sizes as part of my career now, and I still have to work to control it when the situation warrants it.  Other times, I just don’t care.  It gets particularly pronounced when I am excited and talking quickly and eagerly.  Which is most of the time, because if I’m talking about it, odds are I’m passionate about it. I often wonder, though, what would’ve happened if my friend hadn’t made fun of me? Would I still be clueless? Would I have done worse in speech competition, without the awareness and modifications? Might my whole career path have been different!?!?! Maybe I should send him a thank you note.

Two things stand out:

  1. No one had ever made fun of me before, at least not to my face. I survived all of elementary school without ridicule for this. Other things? Sure, probably.  But I was largely unscathed. Kids maybe aren’t so cruel after all.
  2. I was completely unaware of my own flaws. Someone had to point them out to me. (I have another story about my “funny ears,” but I’ll save it for another day.) Was blissful ignorance better? As I look at my own kids, who are of course damn near perfect, I wonder what things will make them stand out.  And will they know it? If they don’t, should I tell them?

Twenty-two years after repths and setths, I can look at my speech impediment with the lens of crown optional.  I can no longer change this unique physical feature, at least not without adult speech therapy, which I have zero desire to have, so I embrace it.  I embrace it with more confidence than I do my round hips and baby-belly, fannypack fat, and I think there’s some kind of lesson there.  Societal body image pressures maybe? Again, another day.  Maybe I’d fix that issue with more rePs and seTs. Thorry. Couldn’t rethist.

A grieving, sleep-deprived, hypersensitive, extroverted mess

Whoa now.  Just hold on.  They told me I’d need to develop a thicker skin if I was going to be more public.  All the books I’ve read about my business told me the same thing.  I’m working on it.  I really am.  Skin-thickening exercises daily. Affirmations and crap.  “I am awesome, no matter what anybody else says.”

But day two?!? Day TWO??? I’m getting hit with insults and negativity on DAY FRICKIN’ TWO? So, here, an unscheduled post (yes, I’m that organized…so far) to follow up about my “health changes and choices” that make me “holier than thou.”

I’m a mess.  A big one.  A grieving, sleep-deprived, hypersensitive, extroverted mess.  I wear my mess on my sleeve.  It goes with everything. I am not trying to be “better than you.”  I am not trying to “make you feel bad about your own choices.” I am trying to live until 100.  I am trying to be happy on the way there.  I am trying to share some of that journey with people I love (and strangers, because I’m also trying to love everybody).

Let’s talk about my health.  I’m really healthy.  Super healthy.  My BMI could use some work, but I try not to stress about that.  You know who isn’t healthy? Basically every other person in my family.  I have no clue why I’ve been so lucky thus far.  My dad died when he was 47.  Four of my eight aunts and uncles have been hospitalized for major illness in the past five years.  My mom died last fall at age 68.  It was her third time with cancer.  You see maybe where I’m going with this? I’m feeling a little doomed.

I have this new life goal, and it’s super simple: don’t get cancer.  Enter health changes.  Because even though I’m awesome right now, I know I might not stay that way.  But I also know there are things I can do to reduce risk.  So, I’m a risk-reducing machine. I read and pay attention, so I know the general idea.  Exercise=reduces risk. Bacon=increases risk.  The list is a helluva lot longer than that, but I’ll let you do your own research.  Because I’m not an expert.  Find the experts, read what they write.  I just know what I want.  I want to live until 100.

If I were a Parks and Rec character, I’d be Chris Traeger, if only for the insane amount of supplements I take.  But I’d also be Leslie Knope, because I stinkin’ love waffles.  Okay, I probably lost a few of you there, but you get the idea.  Maybe I don’t need to take nine supplements every day, or eat organic, or be a vegetarian, but it makes me feel better, even if only psychologically better.  I’m good with that.  And maybe I’ll still get cancer.  Nothing’s a sure thing.  BUT. Here’s the truth of it.  If I DO get sick, I want to know it wasn’t because of anything I did.  I want to know that if I get cancer, people will be surprised.  People will say, “Oh, wow, that sucks.  She took such good care of herself.”

And my healthy living choices are not even close to the most interesting things I have to write about.  But I will write about them.  Because I was 33 when I learned about essential oils, and I was straight up pissed.  I’m trying to love everybody, and I want the people I love to be informed.  So there ya go.  Learn some things.  Ignore me. No matter. You be you.  I’ll be me. It’ll all be fine.  I want you to FEEL good.  If your choices do make you feel good, then you probably wouldn’t have to go commenting on my blog that I’m making you feel bad.  Just sayin’.