Articles
climbing back into the box
Remember Paddington Bear?
The marmalade-loving, welly-wearing bumbling sweetheart found by the Browns at Paddington Station with a “please look after this bear” note?
Yeah. He was my main squeeze. Literally. I was given him at the age of five. Maybe six.
I loved that he was soft and gentle and sartorially splendid in said yellow rubber boots (that you could actually take off!), jaunty red bush hat and blue duffle coat. I loved that he loved elevenses and enjoyed two birthdays a year, “just like the Queen”.
But most of all, I loved our adventures.
We had a big cardboard box that transported us everywhere. We'd fly to the mountains of Nepal, the badlands of South Dakota, the outback of Australia and the moon. Obvs. At the end of every adventure, we’d cry “tally ho to Darkest Peru”. (Neither of us knew what the hell it meant. Which was more than fine.)
It felt cruel and unusual to hoard such delight from my loved ones, so Paddington and I would often reenact our adventures on the stage that was the living room after dinner.
Into the box we would climb and regale (ahem) our audience of friends and family with the sights, sounds, smells of our escapades and keep them rapt with our witty repartee (he was the naïve sillyheart to my sage straight man). And, always knowing how to keep ‘em satisfied, we’d ask them to shout out where they’d like us to go next. To Marrakesh! To Mimico! To Miami! And we’d see what we could see and get ourselves into scrapes, as only a bear and a little girl in a box could.
When it was clear that the audience had had too much of a good thing (my mother's wrap it up gesture and the guests' glazed-over countenance were the telltale cues), we’d “tally ho to Darkest Peru”, take our bow and retreat to my bedroom where I’d remove his boots, hats and coat (long since lost), and we’d rap about the performance and plan for the next day’s adventures.
In short: my parents were the most excellent kinds of parents.
They fostered my uniqueness, encouraged my creativity and celebrated my desire to express what was mine to express.
They engendered in me an inherent belief that whatever was being created in that box was good and valuable and worthy of witnessing. No matter how rambling, drawn out or, if I’m being brutally honest, entirely aimless it was.
I was worthy of their time and attention.
I’m thinking about my mother in advance of mothers’ day, as I always do. Missing her and her unconditional love. And I’m thinking about the kind of love my father had, and still has for me. And feeling completely and fully blessed.
And. This.
Even with the creative colostrum of support they nourished me with at such a young age, somewhere between that last “tally ho” and now, I had lost that innate sense of worthiness. I started to believe that there were rules I would never be able to fully grasp. That I was missing the heart of the artist. That it wasn’t my job to do. That creativity was for others.
Somewhere along the line, with the compositions, then essays, then theses, then proposals, then pitches, then video scripts, then sales copy then editorial calendars, then posts all written from a deep and earnest desire to be useful and helpful and heard, I lost the delight, the flutter, the adventure and the wonder I felt in that box, with my beloved bear by my side.
No where is this more apparent than in my book writing process.
I currently have 63,129 words written for my book on the Imposter Complex. Good, thoughtful, smart, helpful, useful, insightful words.
Words that defend the answer to the question: Who am I to write this book?
(The question is both internal and external. Agents want to know. Publishers want to know. But more viscerally, my own Imposter Complex wants to know, sneeringly derisively in the asking.)
So yes. Every last word is good and smart.
But I’m writing them from the wrong place. I’m writing them from my bubble.
It’s from my BOX that I need to write from.
Back to where I knew that innate sense of worthiness.Where I knew the enduring power of what’s possible.Where I knew that my heart had more to say than my head.Where I knew that joy wasn’t a nice-to-have. It was everything.
So that’s where I’m going now. Climbing back into the box. Ditching many of the 63K words and starting fresh.
Undefended. Leading with my creativity. Knowing that this is where the magic happens. And where there is magic, there is flight.
(Say hey to my newest writing partner, and oldest pal, Paddington.)
Check out my free training on the 5 Shifts Our Clients Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact
Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.
Twelve
Dearest L – You are twelve. You are TWELVE.
Unlike my letters to you on your eighth, ninth, tenth and eleventh birthdays, I choose to start this one with an apology.
It came to me over the weekend as I tidied up the mounds of stuffed animals you hauled out for your girlfriends in advance of your slumber party (just in case they forgot theirs). I had an immediate pang that maybe next year, you wouldn’t be quite so concerned about such things as stuffies.
And I did a quick mental scan of all the places that pang was so familiar. Worrying about what next year might bring as you move into middle school. Worrying about what the summer might bring if you choose (or DON’T choose) overnight camp. Worrying about all the worrying.
And of course, in doing so, I have been trying to hang on to your youth. An exercise in futility, to be sure, on every level.
I’m sorry for that, Darling One.
I’ve been trying to bottle perfection, you see. It seems that every birthday that comes around, I am struck by just how ideal you are. Right here. Right now. How can anything be better? And yet, every single year, you manage to top yourself.
You deepen into your humour, your brilliance, your wisdom, your generosity, your bravery, your power and your creativity. You expand your capacity for love and acceptance and independence and kindness. And you challenge the ideals of perfectionism that I seem to be so hell-bent on capturing.
On this last point. Every day in my work, I see the effects on people who have spent their lives in the painful and elusive pursuit of perfectionism.
I am glad you are questioning the world around you. I am glad you are questioning me. I am glad you are finally seeing me for the flawed human being I am. That Daddy is. That (gasp!) your friends are. And, even, that YOU are.
This will serve you well.
You can be entirely wondrous and imperfect.
It’s a beautiful thing.
My Mama told me when I was around your age that I would set the world on fire. It was intended as a blessing, to be sure. How could she have known I’d spend a good part of the next two decades trying to live into a concept I didn’t fully understand?
So I will do my best to not assign you any ideals to live into. Just be you, okay? Perfectly flawed. Perfectly you.
I know I say to challenge “always” and “never” as the lazy all-or-nothings of our belief stories, but forgive me once again as I use them to underline the absolute truth as I know it in the very nuclei of my cells:
I will never withdraw my love.I will always be your soft place to land.You will never go wrong if you are always yourself.
Twelve years ago today, the moment I saw your fingers, your face, your eyes, I was wrecked with love that, still to this day, I can't put into words. I try. But I fail. And that’s just fine.
I am celebrating you today, and every day, Sweetheart.
Because…you.
xx/Mama
Check out my free training on the 5 ICONIC Shifts Leaders Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact
Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.
I'm Gonna Go Ahead and Skip the Middle Part
Respect your uniqueness and drop comparison. Relax into your being. – Osho
It’s probably true. I’m wanting to reinvigorate my yoga practice, so when I had the chance this morning, I probably should have done the WHOLE yoga practice.
That would have been impeccable of me.
But my mind was restless and my heart was only half in it and my lungs had checked out and my body was bored and asking for more. Much more.
It wanted to shake and flail and release and stomp and pound and that’s how I ended up dancing (more like flailing clumsily) for 30 minutes, starting with Spirit of the West’s "Home for a Rest." (A mainstay of all Canadian wedding receptions everywhere. Turns the dance floor into a raving mob of high-stepping lunatics. Guaranteed.)
So I should have deepened my commitment to my practice and I should have worked on my arm balances and I should be well-deep into savasana by now.
But I didn’t. And I’m sweaty. Like... really sweaty.
Over the past ten years that I’ve been doing this work in the online space, I’ve been thanked for being approachable. Accessible. A model of grace in imperfection. I deeply appreciate the gifts of every last acknowledgment.
But I’m not gonna lie: every time I get thanked for the last bit, a part of me bristles.
The part that wants to be perfect. Impeccable, even. Committed to her yoga practice. Shiny-haired. Polished.
The part that still believes after all this time that those things matter.
Because that’s how the patriarchal system has worked, you see. For thousands of years. (Being the best mother, friend, sister, daughter, wife, careerist, etc. whilst looking impeccable wins all. With extra points for glowing, not sweating.)
And every time I bristle, I am surprised. Of COURSE I am. I know the system’s bullshit. You know it's bullshit.
And then I have to go through a process of all my own tools, including the one where I forgive myself for wanting to be impeccable.
It’s exhausting. And, frankly, just like my wise, wise body was bored of my yoga practice, I’m bored of it.
I spend a lot of time talking about the Imposter Complex. Because what’s happening is that people discount their gifts, attribute their successes to outside influences, and internalize their failures as proof of their incompetence. Fear of being found out means they stop short. They opt out of situations and opportunities that would have them living up to and into their potential.
Yeah. Painful.
But the other part of the story, of course, is that when we CHOOSE to don the mask (consciously or otherwise), then we ARE acting out of integrity. We ARE showing up as frauds. Because, well, we’re not showing up as we really are.
Here are at least two things that DO.NOT.WORK:
“Be the person your client wants to buy from.” → and live in fear that they’ll find out you’re a fraud and the trappings are a façade.
“Fake it ‘til you make it.” → this may get you out of the house (a good start, to be sure), but it doesn’t get you off the hook of being your self.
So I’m gonna go ahead and skip the middle part where I continue to half-heartedly don the weighty mask of perfection only to discover (once again) that it doesn’t fit, if it ever did.
And go straight to the place where I can do my best work. Unencumbered by expectations of what is or isn’t perfect and reveling in the appreciation for the many, many gifts I have been given. Rooting into proof-positive about what IS true about my skills, talents, and capacity. And activating from there.
(Flailing clumsily as the case may be. Which is its own special kind of impeccability.)
Because the systemic issues that have contributed to the creation of this phenomenon boggle the mind in their vastness.
We will need our hands free from holding up ill-fitting masks so they can tear down the system. Brick by gilded brick.
Skip the middle part with me, will you?
Check out my free training on the 5 Shifts Our Clients Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact
Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.
My Hour with Rosa
It was the only fish shop open in Toronto on Good Friday. I was waiting for my purchased red snappers to be cleaned by the fishmonger, lost in thought about how to cook them for the Easter dinner feast.
I felt her energy before she joined me at the counter with her dozens of teeny fish. Sweet little old Italian woman. You can already picture her, right? Four foot nothing, standing solidly in sturdy, practical black shoes, nude stockings, mid-calf skirt, black coat, short curly hair, and glasses that amplified her loving eyes and have clearly seen their share of babies born and relatives passing.
I asked her what she planned on doing with all those fish. She did her best to hide her surprise at the insanity of my question, but recognizing my lack of understanding about Old Country ways, she told me patiently, but in great and elaborate detail about the soups she would make, the frying she would do, the stocks. But most of all, the frying. Her Antonio, her son, and her grandkids liked it best. And it’s Good Friday after all. (Here, she made the sign of the cross.)
And just like that, I fell in love.
She told me that this was her second trip to the fishmongers in two days as they had sold out of the fish yesterday - the day of a freezing rain storm. The day that saw me fall on my ass not twice but thrice on the slippy, drippy, trippy sidewalks. I asked if she had fallen. Just once, she said, but she was so short she didn’t have too far to fall. She laughed.
She had no car (judging by the thickness of her glasses and her age, I suspect if she ever had her license it had been revoked some time ago), so she took multiple buses and subways to get the fish.
She asked where I lived, and I told her. Of course. So she asked for a ride to the subway. Her morning wait for the bus had been 30 minutes because of the holiday. I have never in my life been so delighted to say yes.
But first, of course, we had to wait for her millions of teeny fish to be gutted and de-headed. Which, as you can imagine, took some time. So we talked. And then we talked and talked and talked some more.
As we got into the car, I turned on her seat warmer and she scoffed that her butt could take the cold. It had endured far worse, she assured me. I well-believed her. (But kept the warmer on just the same.)
I learned about her Italian home in Bari. Her good man. Her son and his decent wife (who’s Sicilian, but that’s okay, you see). About her 11 sisters and brothers. About what she knew to be true from these 89 years the good Lord has graced her with. (It’s only love that matters.) And about other things I think I’ll keep between us.
Just before she got out of the car, I remembered to ask her what the name of the fish was. "Acciuga" she said. "I don’t know in English. Look it up on the phone."
She got out of the car, said she loved me and that she would look forward to seeing me in the next life. I said the same.
I miss her already.
The truth is this: Angels are everywhere. And when they speak, we need to share their words.
Like:
It’s only love that matters.
Yes.
That’s just true.
Love,
Check out my free training on the 5 Shifts Our Clients Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact
Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.
Mean People Suck
She was maybe six years old when she said it. Young enough to not necessarily know what "suck" meant, but old enough to know that it fit the bill. The age at which I ought to have called her out for her language. But her eyes... her eyes were so filled with hurt and confusion and pain that I let the PG-rated near-curse slide and made a silent prayer to take all the pain and hurt and confusion from her so she wouldn't have to feel it. But more importantly, that she wouldn't have to know the truth that she already knew:
Mean people suck.
In truth, I can't recall how what happened next. If I offered any advice or simply a soft place to land. (I hope the latter.)
I was thinking about this last Thursday night when I went to see Amy Cuddy speak here in Toronto. You've likely seen her TED talk on power poses and the body-mind connection.
Her new book speaks to what lives on the other side of the coin of power. If powerlessness is HERE, we would surmise, powerfulness (why is this not a word?) is THERE. Not so. She says it's presence, which is quite appropriately the name of her book.
I respect and admire her work (and HER presence) and reference both in my work on the Imposter Complex, so I was delighted when asked to hear her speak and then join her party for dinner afterward.
My date, a talented and big-hearted columnist who has received more than her share of vitriol, and I often talk about handling snark and trolls and she was curious to hear what Amy had to say on the matter.
Similarly, during speaking gigs where I walk people through my Step into Your Starring Role process (and we "meet the critics"), I usually get asked about how to handle everything on the wide spectrum from critics to asshat bosses to haters. (Happened again on Saturday when I spoke at an event for 70 women in engineering - and a couple of brave dudes.)
So when Amy was asked a question from the audience about how to deal with people in power who try to subjugate you and make you feel powerless, we both leaned in. (Get it? Imposter Complex humour.)
"Don't try to out-alpha the alpha dog," was Amy's response. AND:
"Stand your ground (literally and figuratively). Try to stay open. And above all, if at all possible, try to find a touch of compassion for them."
Simple, smart, sane, and challenging. Of course. How could it not be challenging?
There is, of course, no one-size-fits-all approach. But I have yet to come across another way. It's generally a feel-your-way-into-it variation on:
Feel what you feel.
Know who you are.
Try to imagine why they do what they do. (They generally know not what they say, nor do, nor their impact.)
Integrate what you need (from their criticism — assuming we're not talking about trolls — and release the rest.
Surround yourself with the best and brightest and love your lovers.
Try to find a bout of gratitude for the teachings they have offered in their own inimitable, asshat-esque way. (You know, like, I'll NEVER manage anyone like that.)
A day or so after my then six year old's declaration about mean people, I circled back and asked her how things were working out with that grade school meanie.
"Fine," she said, entirely unruffled. "She is still calling me names, but I'm not going to let it bother me."
"How are you managing to do that, love?" I asked.
Well, you can imagine how my heart swelled when she responded with:
"My power is my happiness and no one can take that away from me."
You heard that, right?
NO ONE.
All love,
For more, I recommend Maria Popova of Brainpickings curated this wellspring of resources on managing haters. Specifically: Benjamin Franklin’s trick for handling haters, Vi Hart on how to tame the trolls, and Daniel Dennett on how to criticize with kindness.
Check out my free training on the 5 Shifts Our Clients Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact
Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.
The Truth of It.
I don’t like to write on my blog while I'm in the thick of processing.
When I’m processing, I’ll write in my journal or I’ll write pieces I only share in my sacred writing group, but here? This is different. We have a different understanding, you and I. Or, at least, I have a different understanding of how I am here to serve you.
Something happens in my realm. I roll it around on the counter - inspecting it, poking it, prodding it, walking away from it, coming back to it, and then sticking it into my oven of understanding where I crank up the flame of transmutation and out comes some fresh-baked perspective for me to offer you in the hopes that it nourishes and supports you in your process.
That’s how I see it.
And so, while I’ve been wanting so much to reach out to you, to speak to you, to share with you, the truth of it is that I’m still in the mess of processing some challenging life stuff. Poking, prodding, rolling it around.
The truth of it is that my father has been sick. And though today is still not the day to say more about that, I know it’s time to offer you some of what I do know to be true.
The truth of it is that the most days end with heart in my throat and a phone charged bedside just in case there’s a call, but the added truth of it is that I leave it on my husband’s side of the bed because that extra three feet of distance gives me space to breathe.
The truth of it is that I’m struggling to stay focused. I continue to bring my full self to my coaching clients, to my daughter, and to my father. But all else gets about 60 scant percent of my attention.
The truth of it is that I have dropped many plates. And am certain I will drop more.
The truth of it is that I don’t quite know where to direct my anger, so I shout a lot in my car when I’m alone.
The truth of it is that I’m doing a lousy job keeping people up to date because I am tired of having finding new ways to say: time will tell.
The truth of it is that I am scared.
The truth of it is that I want to write about release and I want to write about grace and I want to write about peace and life and love and transitions. But the truth of it is that none of this process has passed through that purifying flame of transmutation. Yet.
So the truth of it is that I can only share what I’ve always known.
When someone offers you support, accept it.
When someone drops by with food, cherish it.
When someone brings you a new meditation to explore, do it.
When someone suggests alternate nostril breathing, try it.
When someone sends you a video of them singing a Norwegian lullaby, embrace it.
When someone repeats Julian of Norwich’s words ‘All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well’, believe it.
The truth of it is that it will be hard. Because your heart won’t trust it even if your cells do. Your muscles and your adrenals will raise hell and fight you tooth and nail. And the stories you will concoct about what “well” means will keep you up at night.
So allow me to tell you the truth of it.
Well won’t mean pink light and roses and sparkles. Necessarily.
Well won’t mean like you planned or saw. Well won’t mean there won’t be worry. Well won’t mean that there will be control. Well won’t mean that there won’t be tears and prayers that reach far into the night that never get finished because you’ve fallen asleep (at long last).
Well will mean that the faith that you have cultivated and the relationships that you have nourished and the love that you have listened for and the light that you connect with will sustain you. Well will simply mean okay.
And okay will be well enough. For now.
That is the truth of it.
As I know it, deeply and intrinsically.
Check out my free training on the 5 Shifts Our Clients Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact
Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.