I began my day just as I did last year, with a swim, and then getting the kids to school. Today however was different, as I set out with intention and purpose. On this, the anniversary of what I now fondly refer to as “my stroke” I can honestly say I have nothing but gratitude for the event of February 27^th, 2018. At first, admittedly, I felt frustration and annoyance when my left arm and hand went numb and a faint tingle shot up and down my left side, books spilling from my arms as I rearranged the shelves in my sons’ room. Shrugging it off as a weird migraine, I took some Excedrin and went about my day. There were two little boys to take care of and get to school, errands to run, and a parenting class to attend. Later, when the numbness persisted and I was directed to the ER, I still felt mostly frustration – this was not what I had planned to do with my day! Finally, when the doctor informed me that I’d had a stroke, I was met with disbelief, tinged with fear, and lots questions. My first question, “Can I still run the Boston Marathon?”

I’m sure many of you are thinking “That was your first question?!” Yes, yes it was indeed my first question. I had run 10 marathons to achieve a qualifying time, and I’d been training for months. This little “incident” was also not my first when it came to medical oddities and achievements. As I was informed I would be in the hospital for tests and observations for the next couple of days, frustration and anger quickly set in and pushed all other emotions to the wayside. I don’t like being told what to do and I hate hospitals. I’m a terrible patient with an inability for accepting help. My anger quickly turned to rage as doctors and nurses talked at me rather than to me, treated me like a stereotypical stroke victim when I was anything but, and the fear of being trapped had me acting like a caged bear.

I refused to take the medication that was doled out to every patient on the stroke floor where I’d been placed with a cohort of elderly patients – blood thinners and other stroke meds.  I was not one of them! I was a healthy, athletic, nutrition-conscious, previous personal chef, and a 37-year old mother of two boys, not an 80-year-old with most of my living behind me. I didn’t smoke or drink or eat foods high in fat. I didn’t consume loads of sugar or avoid the gym like the plague. I did all the right things, I was only 37, and I ran marathons for heavens sake!

I didn’t get any sleep as the monitors went wild every time I dozed off and my heart rate fell below 40. Have I mentioned, I was not the typical stroke victim and I was frustrated by my classification as such? I explained multiple times that night why my heart rate was low – “I am an athlete, not a bed-ridden 80-year-old.” Why was no one listening? Why was no one taking the time to see me as a unique individual???

The doctors later discovered I had a hole in my heart and determined this was the reason for my stroke. This was not a satisfactory conclusion to me. If I had a hole in my heart now, I’d always had a hole in my heart, so shouldn’t the real question be “why are clots now floating around to head on up to my brain? Why now?” At the moment, however, no one else seemed very interested in answering this question, and I really just wanted to get out of there. Having had two brain surgeries and an emergency appendectomy as a child, I had no doubt, I’d be just fine, and I needed to get home to my husband and kids. Two little boys needed their mama and certainly they would be the best physical therapy I could get. I needed three hands in all honesty; I couldn’t afford to be down to one hand for long!

I quickly recovered function and obligingly went to my follow up appointments, one with a cardiologist. I expected we’d discuss more about why this happened, why there were clots, and maybe even what I needed to change about my lifestyle to ensure there would be no more clots. This was not the case. This appointment was a sales pitch for a medical device he wanted to use to close the hole in my heart that just a week ago had remained undiscovered and unproblematic. At one point when I asked about why there were suddenly clots threatening my life, he looked at me and without skipping a beat, informed me, “Well, you’re a 37-year-old woman who has had two children, so obviously you have varicose veins, and obviously you have hemorrhoids, and so obviously you have clots and are at risk for a stroke.” I was speechless! Shouldn’t I know if I have varicose veins and hemorrhoids?! He had never even examined me and he knew all this about me just because I was a 37-year-old woman and had two kids?! I was so taken aback, I fled that office vowing I would never return and finally set out to do some research. Anger served its purpose!

Turns out, 25% of the population has a hole in their heart. Turns out, if you did an autopsy on everyone that dies, we would discover all kinds of imperfections, most of which probably had nothing to do with the cause of death. Turns out, that with a little more research and a good doctor, this all becomes less scary and overwhelming. Finally, I could turn to reflecting and healing and remembering I was, and always will be, whole. I turned my attention to what I was really learning from this “little incident.”

Everyone was very eager to ask me what I had learned, and even more eager to tell me what I should be learning and how I should be changing. “You are going to slow down, right? I really hope you are going to slow down” was a common theme that kept emerging from family and friends. I’ve lived most of my life listening to and following the “shoulds”. I “shoulded” all over myself and generally let anyone and everyone else “should” all over me, too. Something this time made me pause – quite possibly just the forced pause of the stroke made me react differently. “No, I don’t think that’s it, I don’t think that is the lesson” I heard myself respond. And for months, I continued to disregard the “shoulds” and to sit in my new reality.

I ran the Boston Marathon six weeks after “the incident” and crossed the finish line in some of the worst weather I’d ever run in, weather that made headlines for the resilience and determination that graced the field of runners, specifically female runners, that day. My time was not my best, but was not my slowest either, and despite my decreased training due to my hospitalization, and despite the winds and driving rains, I crossed that finish line.

This is the part of the story I learned from. I sat with this idea that I am strong and resilient, courageous and fiercely determined. I was built to endure! And I like me, I like who I am! I began to think more about how I got here. Several months later, I was graced with this sense of ownership, of knowing, a new truth, a new lens through which to see my story, my past. Suddenly, I was at peace as I looked back and saw the treasures in the messes, the light in the darkest of times. I had been born six weeks prematurely, sent home, then air-lifted to a bigger hospital; I had my first brain surgery at 6 months old, an emergency appendectomy at 7, and a second brain surgery at 10; I moved way too many times, 14 houses in 13 years, 8 different schools between preschool and sophomore year; my mother and I had plenty of difficulties to overcome and I grew up with a sense I would never be enough. And yet, here I was, and I was enough, and without all these messes I wouldn’t be me. This peace, deep acceptance of my history, and gratitude, genuine gratitude for my story, was beautifully pervasive and transformative, all-encompassing and freeing.

A few months after that, I had the opportunity to attend a women’s retreat focused on finding and using your voice as a woman. Could the timing have been more right?! I tested out my voice and told my story through my new lens. I owned it like never before, and it landed and was accepted and was enough…I was enough. Just a few weeks later while my husband was away in China, I found myself in the driver’s seat at home, flying solo, and wow did I fly high! I spoke at church about my story, I traveled to pitch a workshop, and I returned to deliver a half-day session on Emotional Intelligence, meanwhile I not only took care of my kids and saw that they were in good hands, I actually enjoyed them and all that I was doing.

And poof, another realization came upon me. I was feeling like super woman and realized that 14 years ago, I gave up my plans for med school, I quit nursing school, and I followed a “should” moving in with my college boyfriend, now husband. I married him, followed him to Seattle, had two kids, then followed him to LA, all the while thinking I would find my purpose and happiness in him, in his career, in our family. I was lost and alone and desperately seeking. While he was away, I so clearly saw the choices I had made. I had to own my part. I had given up on me, on my dreams, and I had looked to him to fill the void. Yikes! I had created this 1950s dynamic I so despised. At the same time I had found my voice. Responsibility, ownership, and a call to change beaconed me.

As I leaned into my realizations and authenticity, I began to recognize my voice and my call, and owned the good, bad and the ugly, I saw the opportunity. Action, purpose, connection and joy came knocking, and finally I dared to answer. Just before I had my stroke, I had started a business and a coaching program. As I found my voice a year later, I found my stride and business began to come. Turns out, I like me, and now that I am seeing my value and worth, it is flowing from the inside out and others are seeing it, too.

I look back at this year and think how frustrated, offended, angry I was to be treated like an 80-year-old. Now all I can think about is how grateful I am to have experienced at 37, what seems to be more typical for someone of a much greater age, and to have the gift of time to change my path, to own my story and take charge of my future. This year has been an incredible journey – from listening to “shoulds” to finally learning to hear my own voice; from frustration to peace; from anger to gratitude, acceptance and joy; from paralyzing fear to purpose and action. “My stroke” was a gift, a ticket to ride, and I am so glad I chose to board the train, that I dared to pause, and wait, for the train heading in the right direction.

The holiday season, surrounded by friends and family, is often a hotbed of emotion and opportunity to interact, or choose not to interact. We are faced by a variety of situations and must decide how to approach them. This holiday season was a GIFT of opportunity. I say this with just a little sarcasm.

In November, I received an email from Ticketmaster. I get these emails periodically with concerts I should be seeing, but I rarely open them. This one caught my eye and sparked an idea. Bob Seger – I grew up listening to Bob Seger with my dad; he represents the soundtrack of my childhood, and I still hadn’t sent my dad a birthday gift or Father’s Day gift. Please don’t judge! I was seriously waiting for something perfect, and this was it! I excitedly called my brother. Part of my brilliant gift would be concert tickets for my brother and I to take my dad. My excitement was quickly extinguished by the conversation, and when the call ended I felt deflated, defeated, a little angry and sad. Was it the screaming children in my car that kept my brother from hearing my idea and catching my enthusiasm? Did he think I was calling to ask him to chip in to buy the tickets? Was it a bad idea? What was up with him???

I sat on it for a few days, talked to my dad to learn what his ideal concert gift would be, then called to check on my brother, deciding I actually had no idea what was going on with him and maybe curiosity was the best approach. I learned from my dad that he would love for our old core-four – my mom, brother, himself and me – to go together. I also learned from my brother that he hadn’t been well and had been suffering from some things that had distracted from my excitement. I took a moment to understand where he’d been and where he was at, I was able to revisit and adjust, and then we were able to discuss the idea and become a team, also armed with my information from our dad. I had to reflect, get curious, research and change my approach, and I was greeted with a different but better response – we met in the middle and found a solution – everyone won.

Recently, I had a similar conversation with someone who wanted to plan a special birthday trip for her mother, but her brother wasn’t sharing in the excitement. According to him, he didn’t feel like planning a big trip out of guilt. Guilt…where’s the guilt coming from you ask? The idea was phrased as such, “We need to do this for mom; she deserves it after all she’s done for us.” I suggested she rephrase her approach, hearing her goal was really to do something nice for her mother, period, guilt eliminated. What if you simply say to your brother, “I really want to do something special for mom. What do you think?” We talked it through and she continued to add the caveat, “because she done so much,” “because she deserves it.” Much to her chagrin, she continued to also get the same response her brother – crickets.

As I thought about both situations, I started thinking about change, especially with the approach of the end of the year and the beginning of a New Year, a time for reflection and resolutions. So often, when we consider change, we first play out how the shift might impact our life, “our world” and we determine it won’t be worth it, it will fail, we stop before we even try, certain we already know the outcome, or certain the price will be too great. Or, we try the change, and greeted by resistance, we quickly recall it, give up and revert to our old ways as quickly as possible, as if we are embarrassed and hope no one saw our feeble attempt. Maybe things get heated, hot, messy, and we get triggered and fail to maintain our resolve to stay in the change and let it play out. Self-doubt wins and chases us back to our places. Possibly, we’re too stubborn in our efforts; we expect change to occur without cultivating space or opportunity. We simply double down on our broken methods and for some reason expect a new and different, more pleasing outcome.  Rather than creating or continuing a stalemate, make a different move, be the adaptability and flexibility you desire.

Here are a few things I’ve learned about change. Change takes time and patience, commitment and grace. We need to extend those ingredients to ourselves as well as to the other side of the change equation. What happens if you change first and offer a different opportunity, phrase, or possibility? Perhaps then you will be pleasantly surprised and the other side will react likewise, with a new response. Communication is a two way street. There is the way the message is delivered and there is the way the message is received or the response it elicits. Two opportunities to create change! What happens if you take a chance and alter your approach, be the first to be authentic and vulnerable, to create a message that is succinct and to the point? Might the answer be different?

It never ceases to amaze me just how often I get in my own way and shut down opportunities for change. An important lesson I’ve continued to learn: Get out of your own way! Create space for change. Don’t quit too soon, but don’t be too stubborn. Be prepared to reflect and own your part. Be brave enough to change first. Choose relationships to practice change that can withstand the shift, or relationships for which you can withstand the loss. Preferably, choose relationships and support systems that will also give you feedback and stick in the process with you. Change is a process! Change takes courage! Change can be like crossing a street – Look left, look right, look left, and make your move. Do not stop in the middle! Look back, look forward, look back, now go! Remember, “Being and becoming is better than having and getting.” (Unknown) Staying in relationship is better than being right. Be open for change to happen; create opportunity for transformation.

I’m always striving for a goal, always striving for better, to be “better” in a variety of contexts. I was listening to a podcast recently (I’m hooked on Tim Ferris’ Tribe of Mentors) and he mentioned his coffee table is a piece of driftwood on which is etched this quote, “Life expands and contracts in proportion to your courage.”

He went on to offer another quote and pearl of wisdom, “Life is 25% finding yourself and 75% creating yourself.” This really hit home for me and I found it incredibly reassuring. I thought back to a therapy session I had when I found myself in a really dark place after moving to Seattle. While it felt a lot like rock bottom, it was a starting place for better things ahead. I am reminded of Pema Chondron and her wisdom in her book Start Where You Are. One passage in particular has really stuck with me:

WE ALREADY HAVE everything we need. There is no need for self-improvement. All these trips that we lay on ourselves— the heavy-duty fearing that we’re bad and hoping that we’re good, the identities that we so dearly cling to, the rage, the jealousy and the addictions of all kinds— never touch our basic wealth. They are like clouds that temporarily block the sun. But all the time our warmth and brilliance are right here. This is who we really are. We are one blink of an eye away from being fully awake.

In this moment nearly a decade ago in Seattle, I remember realizing that I’d always relied on other people to tell me what to do, whom to be and also relied upon the acceptance and feedback of others to determine my worth. It was a low place as I also realized something incredibly terrifying…if I let go of all that feedback, I felt hollow, truly empty. I had no idea who I was, there was nothing, without the voices and input of others.

It was at once paralyzing and freeing. It took many more years of therapy and investing in myself, but in hindsight, it was this wonderful opportunity to deal with my past, understand myself, “find myself” and then move forward to create who I wanted to be, to truly create my authentic self.

More recently as I have now moved to LA, I have again struggled to redefine myself and to once again look at this as an opportunity to be courageous in the face of change, to continue to adapt and grow and embrace the new. I have felt the challenge to find my voice and to speak a little louder, to dare more greatly. For months after moving, I felt angry and resentful and struggled to see the opportunity.

I have since taken some bold steps, starting my own business, starting a coaching program at Fielding University, and starting a Women’s Group to empower and create community. As I sit here and now ponder this shift, I am reminded of the words of Viktor Frankl, Austrian neurologist and psychologist, as well as a Holocaust survivor, (1905-1997). He was the founder of logotheraphy, a form of existential analysis. His experiences as a concentration camp inmate led him to discover the importance of finding meaning in all forms of existence and thus a reason to continue living. He noted, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”

For months, I longed to move back to Seattle, to run home, and I mourned my situation, grieved what I had perceived to have left behind. I have no intention of comparing my challenges or situation with his, however I do intend to learn from his wisdom and to see this important shift in thinking – opening myself to be transformed instead of struggling to transform a place and situation outside of my control. He offers two more pieces of wisdom I have found inspiring as I tiptoe further and further into acceptance of my place and path and strive to meet the challenges and embrace the opportunities:

“Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation.”

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

I find it empowering to shift my thinking, to open my mind, and as I have longed for control and felt so powerless, these words remind me, I may not have the total control I long for, but I always have control over how I respond to the situation, the attitude I move forward with, and the direction I choose to move. With this in mind, I choose courage to continue to seek, explore, create and move forward.

Have you experienced this shift in mindset? What struggles are you facing and how might you view them as opportunities? What is holding you back? What does it look like for you to choose to move forward with courage and to be the change that unlocks your next move?

Later that same day, after we crossed the treacherous waters hiking to the Tierser Alpl,  I made it to the summit.  I was first to the top and I was met by a cruel wind.  It was lonely and cold, and I found myself wishing I’d slowed down, enjoyed the view, and taken time to have more conversations.  Rather than stopping and waiting, however, for people to catch up, or to simply enjoy the view from the top, I snapped a few photos and I quickly faced into the wind to begin the descent to the Tierser Alpl, the Alpine hiking hut where we would spend the next two nights.  Not only did the wind howl around me, but the snow was hip deep in places from the drifts, and no longer working hard to go uphill, my body wasn’t producing heat the way it had been.  I cursed the wind and the snow and myself for being weak. It was cold and lonely at the top!

My thoughts began to wander and I began to see this sojourn as representative of my life.  I love a good challenge, I love climbing to the top, I love pushing my limits.  I rarely stop to admire the view from the top, to revel in my success, and never do I enjoy the unknown of the descent.  I am always looking for my next mountain to climb.  I have found it is often lonely and isolating at the top.  In my family, I was the first to go to college, and I didn’t just go to any college, I went to Yale, yikes!  Everyone saw me as someone who was perfect, who had it all together, and I couldn’t bear the thought of letting them down.  Going to Yale set me apart and made me different yet again.  When I finished Yale, all my friends from college were going on to law school and med school or starting Ph.D. programs and I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do, so I trained and ran a marathon.  I didn’t wait long before I ran another and another and another, and finally set my sights on qualifying for Boston.

I’m not writing this to brag about my accomplishments, but as I climbed down the mountain in that deep, deep snow, and let my thoughts swirl with the wind, I realized I keep setting myself apart, isolating myself, never stopping to appreciate the journey,  always fighting to recover from my missteps quick enough that no one might notice, never stopping to enjoy the success of achieving my goal, and I never, ever run down the other side of the mountain with reckless abandon, allowing myself to enjoy a little time coasting.  I don’t think I’m alone.  I think many of us fail to be still and to enjoy the journey, to revel in our accomplishments and to call them enough, to call ourselves enough.  Instead, we are always making ourselves busy with the next conquest, striving for the next success.  If we don’t slow down, will we ever take the time to learn the lessons, to appreciate the journey, to savor the view from the top, and to allow ourselves the time and grace to be human?

In September, I had the opportunity to go to the Italian Dolomites to help facilitate the course, Leading with Emotional Intelligence, offered through the Albers School of Business at Seattle University.  As an MBA student at SU, I had taken the course before.  It was quite an honor to return to the Dolomites as a facilitator.  The first time around, due to unfortunate circumstances, the class did not have the opportunity to summit the Schlern.  On this trip, we made it to the top and I learned a few things about myself that resonated for both personal and professional reasons.

This year, as we set out to hike up the mountain, the rain turned to snow and we found ourselves trudging up the mountain paths in less than optimal conditions.  I was leading the group and while I had made this part of the journey before, the snow made the trail nearly invisible.  At one point, we made it to what is normally an area where water flows down the rocks and must be traversed carefully.

The path ahead was completely obscured by the snow.  I remembered this place from my previous trip, but couldn’t remember how we’d crossed and couldn’t see the trail for clues on which direction to go.  I started leading the group up the rocks rather than simply across.  This proved nearly impossible and I was struggling for direction.  I was also frustrated with myself for not knowing the answer, the easy way to help the group.  Finally, one of the students with rock climbing experience made it up the rocks and found the trail was down below. We were able to correct the mistake, but I felt foolish for taking several students up rather than simply across.  I had failed to see the “easy” though obscured way, and instead set out trying to conquer what felt impossible.  Later, these same students thanked me for the adventure, but I could not forgive myself nor could I shake the feeling of failure.

In hindsight, there are lots of lessons in this moment.  We too often fail to see the adventure that comes from taking the harder option. We too often hold ourselves to an unfair standard and even when reassured others didn’t see the fault and can give us grace, we fail to give ourselves the same grace.  Too often, we think we need to get to the top on our own and don’t operate as a team, to simply acknowledge our faults and failures, and express gratitude for the member of the team that saved the day.  In reality, we were all in it together, and each of the students I was leading had nearly the same experience hiking this trail as I did, especially in the snow covered landscape we found ourselves in that day.  In reality, each member of the team should get to have their time in the lime light, their moment of glory.  In reality, our successes aren’t usually our own alone, but rather the compilation of many pieces.  We got to the top together and no one saw me as lesser for stumbling, but rather I became more human that day.  Hopefully that is a lesson that sticks – in my stumbling and vulnerability, I am truly one of the team and that is leadership, too.