Monthly Archives: June 2021

Uncategorized

A Love Letter to My Mom – Exploring Fun, Joy, and Sports

A few days ago, I listened to a recent episode of the We Can Do Hard Things podcast hosted by Glennon Doyle and her sister Amanda Doyle. (Side note – you should listen to this podcast if you aren’t already. It’s amazing.) The topic was fun and Glennon’s wife Abby Wambach was a guest. The episode was interesting in a hundred different ways, but mostly I was fascinated by how perplexed Glennon and Amanda were by the concept of fun and purposelessness. Abby defined fun as experiencing joy, oftentimes without knowing what the outcome will be. Merriam Webster defines fun as “what provides amusement or enjoyment”. Glennon and Amanda shared how they didn’t really understand fun, and Glennon went on to say:

“Can we just get deep for a second? Because I was talking about this with a few friends recently and it made me feel better. Babe (Abby), you were there. We were talking to Karen and Jessica and none of them also understood what fun was. And so I thought, wait, why do women not understand fun? Right. So we’re talking about, is it because we’re mothers? Is it because we’re caretakers? Is it because we have so much to do that we always feel like something has to be productive? And then we decided no, that it’s earlier than that. It’s part of it. I’m not saying all of it. But part of it is being raised as girls in this culture where first of all, a lot of people find sports. You’re talking about competitiveness and sports. People find fun in that, but girls are kind of teased early out of losing themselves in sport. We’re kind of, you run like a girl you’re, you know, you’re teased and you start to feel self-conscious. That girls are trained to care about how we appear to other people or whether we’re looking desirable or looking attractive, or are we fitting in? And I think fun does require some kind of being unselfconscious, does fun require losing yourself and like not worrying about how you appear. And that is what is trained out of girls so early.” 

And with that, I was ten years old, wearing catcher’s gear that was MUCH too big for my small frame, covered in dirt, playing a sport that I loved so much with my friends. A sport that my parents introduced me to as soon as I was big enough to hold a softball. Mom loved to play and even if we girls didn’t enjoy it as much as she did (it would turn out that we did), as she was not about to have daughters that “threw like a girl”. 

1986 Little League Champions. I’m in the second row, second from right.
1986 Little League Champions. I’m in the second row, second from right.

My childhood was largely defined by sports. We didn’t have a lot of money, but bike rides, road races, and sports were fairly accessible. I started playing softball early in grade school, basketball in fourth grade, track (and running with my dad) in sixth, and volleyball in seventh. Of the many lessons I learned through sports as a kid, one that I hadn’t recognized until listening to this podcast, was how to have fun. My childhood was filled with fun. I learned to get dirty, to play hard, to compete, and I witnessed my parents – especially my mom – having fun, which was probably just as important. My parents ran road races. They played volleyball at the Y and my mom played in a women’s league when I was in junior high. I occasionally went with her to practices and would silently plead from the bleachers to be invited to play. She also played softball. I remember going to her games and playing with the other kids while our moms were on the field. One game in particular stands out – there was a storm coming and everyone’s hair stood on end, which us kids thought was really neat. But without lightning closeby, the game pressed on. Then my mom went up to bat, in the clean-up spot as always, and just as her bat connected with the ball, lightning spidered across the sky. The game was called before she could cross the plate for what would have been a home run. I didn’t know the term “bad ass” back then, but it was so bad ass. In addition to playing softball, she coached my 13-15 yr old travel team when no one else would. We also camped (not always fun) and took vacations, often to places my parents thought we’d enjoy. I had a lot of books and no shortage of material with which to make art. I borrowed my cousin’s clarinet and started band in fifth grade and ended up playing through my sophomore year in college. So much of my childhood was doing. Doing and being and having fun. 

Until listening to this podcast, I didn’t realize what a gift it was that I had parents who showed me how to have fun, who allowed and encouraged me to have fun. That I had parents, a mom and a dad, who let me see them having fun. Joy wasn’t something we had to earn in my house. As a result, I grew into a woman who never felt that I had to earn the right to have fun. I am not confused by the concept of doing something just because. But so many people are, especially women, for many of the reasons Glennon mentions in that quote above. (As well as trauma, which I’m not discussing here. That needs its own post. I’m probably not the best one to write it.) I don’t know how we help women learn to re-inhabit their bodies, or learn that they don’t need anyone’s permission to have fun, or learn that not everything we do has to have a purpose or an outcome. I don’t know how we help women access the joy they’ve been denied for so long, the joy that was conditioned out of them as kids.

But when I think about the consequences of this fun deficit, perhaps even a pleasure deficit, for all of us, I urgently believe we need to figure it out. How will today’s kids, especially girls, learn how to have fun when they don’t see it modeled by their own parents and the other adults in their lives? I would argue that productivity culture, diet culture, and fat phobia have not only stolen fun from adults, but they’re also stealing from kids. This obsession with outcomes, getting stuff done, being “productive”, being thin, being seen as attractive to others, is sucking the life force from all of us. 

Productivity culture should not be confused with Type 2 fun. Type 2 fun is fun in retrospect. Type 2 fun comes from an activity or experience that is miserable in the moment but provides deep joy and satisfaction later or when it’s complete. Something like training for (or racing) a marathon, or learning a new skill which is often torturous in the beginning, or hiking a steep trail. Type 2 fun is still fun. Racing around to check every item off a to do list, or wearing busyness as a badge of honor is not fun. Type 1 fun can be a bit more accessible as it is fun in the moment. Things such as attending a concert, eating a delicious meal, or snuggling with a pet are all type 1 fun. Both types are important. And both require a measure of presence, a willingness to be fully within one’s body. 

I wonder if simpler pleasures, simpler types of fun would provide a safe way for women who live with a fun/pleasure deficit to begin to explore being fully embodied, to relearn what it means to experience joy. Savoring a good cup of coffee in the morning or cuddling with the dog might feel more accessible than louder/bigger experiences of fun, or fun that involves a lot of physical feedback from the body (anything athletic or physically challenging). Little pockets of joy and pleasure might make it easier to reconnect with a younger version of ourselves, the one who knows how to have fun. Little permission slips can become big permission slips with time and experience. 

This week, I’m going to marinate in those moments of joy, be grateful that I can see them and experience them. Be grateful that because of chronic illness, I’ve divorced myself from productivity culture and recognize that by just being a human in the world, I’ve earned the right to experience pleasure and joy. The too-strong coffee while I write in the morning (early morning coffee = type 1 fun, writing = type 2 fun), the runs in the summer sun (type 2), watching my puppies play in the yard (type 1), the decadent breakfast I made for myself (cooking = type 2, eating = type 1), reading the four books I’m in the middle of (type 1), and so on. I am going to savor every little bit of fun. And perhaps see if my mom wants to play a game of catch.

This piece was originally posted on my new blog earlier today. This will be the last post on this site, but I do hope you’ll join me over at https://www.juniperuscoaching.com/blog. Same stuff, just a new location. Thank you, thank you for reading these last five years!

General, Reflection, Transformation, Uncategorized

Square One: Or the Time I Poured Gasoline on a Raging Fire

It was about midnight on a Tuesday. After a few fitful hours of sleep, I awoke to my heart racing, feeling like it was about to flutter right out of my chest. I glanced at my Garmin and saw 100 for my heart rate. It’s usually around 60 when I sleep. I checked the monitor to see if the puppies were still asleep and they were, curled up tight against each other into one little fur ball. We adopted them five days ago from a local rescue and my body has been in full rebellion since the second day. That night, I was up running to the bathroom every few hours with what I thought was a digestive bug, but by Monday it was apparent something more sinister was at play. I couldn’t eat and my gut was still a wreck. Add in the periodic episodes of tachycardia waking me up at night and something was clearly amiss. I worry the puppies are too much, and text M as much in the middle of the night.

We talked for almost an hour, with me being as quiet as possible as I didn’t want to wake the puppies. Being so young, they’d soon be up to go outside and I wanted to put that off as long as I could. I don’t understand what’s happening to my body and am worried about what’s going to happen in the three+ days until M gets home. He’s only been out for a day and it’s already a shit show. I wonder if we should contact the rescue, but he thinks he can get home early. He will make some calls first thing in the morning and I will do my best to keep my head above water until then. As someone who’s always prided herself on having her shit together, I hate that I need help. I hate that this is too much. I hate that my body is rebelling in such an obvious way that it cannot be ignored. I deeply resent that after everything that’s happened in the last three months, that now my body is like a wildfire raging out of control.

It’s June 11, 2019. Just over three months after my dad died from pancreatic cancer. Not yet three weeks since my old-lady dog Abby died unexpectedly. Adopting the puppies was supposed to be a bright spot in what has been an incredibly shitty year so far. We’ve lived with at least one dog since we got Sadey, our Lab, in September 2001. She was with us until August 2016. We rescued Abby in October in 2004, and with her passing that chapter of our life officially came to a close. Sadey and Abby brought so much life and joy to our home. Sadey with her love of naps in front of the fan and Abby with her gentle scolding when the popcorn I tossed her didn’t land to her liking. With them gone, M wanted to take a break from having pets. But with him away for work as much as he is, a quiet house in the midst of this dreadful year seemed like a miserable idea. So one adult dog became two puppies after our dog sitter reached out when these two came into the shelter. It’s one of those moments that when I look back on it, replays in slow motion as I scream at the woman to stop and pay attention.

I navigated my dad’s passing fairly well, all things considered. He lived with pancreatic cancer for 3-1/2 years, which is practically an eternity for that particular cancer. As with a lot of terminal cancers, there were warning signs those last few months that suggested we were running out of time. Which is to say that while his passing was tragic, he was only 65 and we should have had much more time with him, it was not unexpected. What was unexpected was how much time we had following his diagnosis. When you expect someone to be gone in less than a year and one year turns into 3-1/2, the extra time feels like a tremendous gift, even as the ending is the same shitty ending. Three and a half years is a lot of time to acclimate to what’s about to happen. I started grieving the minute we got confirmation of his diagnosis. Which isn’t to say that a tsunami of despair didn’t accompany his passing, but I was prepared for it.

When my dad was diagnosed in the summer of 2015, I did the math and realized I was going to be the girl who lost her dog and her dad in the same year. I assumed that dog would be Sadey, as she was 14 years old at the time. Abby was 11. But then my dad and his treatment team found a groove, and when we lost Sadey the following summer, my dad was humming a long just fine. I thought I’d dodged a bullet.

The years clicked by with my dad holding his own, even as we knew it wouldn’t last. By late 2018, it was clear the cancer was getting the upper had. He looked as though he’d aged ten years since the summer and he was sleeping more. Other troubling symptoms started to pop up. The clock spun faster. We had our last lunch together on Monday, February 4th. Exactly four weeks before he died. And I knew it was our last lunch. Just as I knew he had pancreatic cancer when my mom mentioned his symptoms on that July evening in 2015. So when he passed just after midnight on Monday, March 4, I was as prepared as one can be.

What I was not prepared for was Abby’s quick decline two months later. She was so spunky, so full of life for being 14 years old. We knew we were on the short end of her time with us, but it wasn’t until 36 hours before we said goodbye that we knew anything was amiss. And with her passing, a small little fire that had burning in my body since the death of my dad, grew into a bonfire, but a fire I could still ignore. With the adoption of the puppies a few weeks later, I poured gasoline on the fire and it quickly over took my life.

It would take months for me to recover from the aftermath of that June. M did the heavy lifting on so many fronts, most especially in caring for the babies. Part of me resented them, thinking they were responsible for what happened to me. Which of course they weren’t. They were a catalyst, but they weren’t the cause. The cause was my own inability to see what was happening. When the dust finally settled from that terrible time, my takeaway was that when a fire is burning, pull up a chair and watch. Don’t ignore it. And for the love of god, don’t add more fuel.

It wasn’t until last fall when I started my coach training that I had language beyond metaphor for what I experienced that summer. One of the first concepts we learned about was the change cycle. Life transformation follows a cyclical course with four phases, a course that we navigate many times in many aspects of our life. We can be in different phases of the change cycle in different aspects of our lives – Square One in our career, Square Four in our relationship with our significant other for example.

The cycle kicks off with a catalytic event. Catalytic events are a shock, an opportunity, or a transition, and can be good or bad events. The catalytic event sends us into the first phase of the change cycle – Square One. Square One is a time of fundamental death and rebirth. Old identities, old patterns, old versions of the self are shed to make way for the new. It is a deeply uncomfortable stretch of time. Martha Beck’s mantra for Square One is “I don’t know what the hell is going on, and that’s okay.” (For reference, Square Two is for dreaming and scheming, the motto is “there are no rules and that’s okay”; Square Three is the hero’s saga, the motto is “this is much harder than I expected and that’s okay”; Square Four is the promise land and the motto is “everything is changing and that’s okay”. For more information, Martha Beck goes in to detail on the change cycle in her book Finding Your Own North Star.)

As it turned out, I had two catalytic events right on top of each other – my dad’s death and Abby’s death. Then, because apparently that wasn’t enough, I added in a third for good measure by adopting two young dogs. Looking back now with the context of what I know about Square One, it feels like a foregone conclusion that the summer of 2019 was going to be a fucking disaster. There was no other way for it to go. Two of the most important steps for navigating Square One are to stay present and make small moves. Stay present and make small moves = pull up a chair and watch the fire burn, maybe make some s’mores and read a good book. In other words, don’t adopt two young dogs after the death of your father and beloved old lady dog.

For better or worse, holding still goes against our cultural narrative of what it means to be a worthwhile human. We worship productivity culture and resist pausing for any reason at nearly all costs. It didn’t occur to me when everything was going wrong in the first half of 2019 that it was a warning sign, a caution light encouraging me to slow down. In fact, slowing down was the exact opposite of what I wanted do. So I ran head long into a situation that would be my undoing. It took about four months to crawl out of the hole I dug for myself in June 2019, an incredibly high price to pay.

But the next time I land in Square One, I’ll recognize it and know what to do. I’ll know to stand still and wait. To pause as long as it takes for the dust to settle. To let the fire burn itself out. To not make any big decisions, even if big decisions seem like wonderful distractions. They are not. They are fuel on the fire and I know how spectacularly that can blow up.

And while that summer was traumatic (not an exaggeration), we made it thanks to a lot of help from other people. My sister watched the puppies while I showered those first few days. Our dog sitter, the local doggie daycare, and Bob the trainer, who helped us teach the puppies not to be assholes (Jack is still working on this), saved our butts time and time again. I still need a lot of help with the babies, but we’re managing. And when one or both of them curl up on me in the middle of the night, I am so deeply grateful to have not missed out on this. They’ve been my greatest teachers, it turns out.