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self care
Effie is back
Aug 22nd
One of the things I’ve found in working more and more to develop anti-burnout tools is this:
An astounding number of people are workaholics precisely because it keeps them from thinking about or dealing with what’s really wrong in their lives.
In other words, they’re running from something.
They run so hard and so fast that they eventually run out of steam.
After careful thought and consideration, I decided to bring back the most powerful, most gentle resource I could think of to help with all this: Effie the Elephant.
(If you haven’t already seen it, she is the author of The Elephant Manifesto).
Effie is tanned, rested and ready. Her Manifesto has been reformatted and updated, although the content is the same.
In its pages she wisely pours her little heart out to help you.
Where has Effie been?
Now, you should know that Effie took some time off. Her message “went viral” a couple of years ago, which kind of took both her and me by surprise.
She soon found herself having to deal with paparazzi and fans. I even went to a dinner party where a woman I had never met became hugely excited that I lived with Effie.
Things got a little too intense.
So, like many stars, Effie went on hiatus. She spent much of her time going places for sleepovers, making sure my oldest daughter’s new sheets and pillows were properly broken in, and probably playing Boogie Superstar on the Wii when no one was home (tho I can’t confirm that last one).
There was also a nasty instance in which my youngest daughter elephant-napped her, took her behind the couch, and tried to figure out what filled her trunk — that was thankfully repaired, although it took a long time for Effie to recover from the stitches.
Effie’s role
Now that Effie is better, she has agreed to once again assist here at the blog. Sadly, she is no longer able to consult with Missy The Cat, but she seems to have found a suitable colleague in The World’s Longest Living Guppy (fondly known as LLG).
I have set up an “about” page for Effie, and she will be contributing as much as she can. She’s a little nervous about re-entering the spotlight, although we did get her some pink sunglasses that give her a Jackie O look if she needs it.
Like anyone recovering from an intense experience, she needs to take things slowly and carefully right now.
I hope you’ll join me in welcoming Effie back. If you have any messages for her, or wish to offer hugs and squishes, please do so in the comments below.
Family history slot-machine
Aug 8th
About a week ago, I was on vacation. In between going with my girls to the waterpark in our hotel and having my fingers and toes permanently wrinkled from being in the pool for a week, I got to do a few things I don’t normally get to do.
Doing things you don’t normally get to do is the point of this post — but I’ll get to that in a second.
First, you should know that in my family genealogy is a really big deal. My grandmother and mother were obsessed with tracking down our family history. They were kind of like D.A.R. groupies throughout most of my childhood.
We were the family that actually visited cemeteries on vacation, and took home rubbings of tombstones. I’m not kidding.
I know, it’s a little weird.
Anyway, I have piles and piles of family records in my bedroom closet (it seems disrespectful to put all this in the basement — I know, weird again).
So on the day we got back from vacation, still freshly bathed in the feeling of having time on my hands, I shipped my kids off to their Godmother and my husband off to a baseball game and did something wild and wacky.
Are you picturing it? The dance music… the disco ball… the keg…
That’s right, I whipped out my credit card and joined ancestry.com (and the dance music, disco ball and keg are all in your head, sweetie).
For nearly seven hours, I was in heaven. In the first hour or so, I entered the notes I’d inherited from my grandmother. I thought how nice it was to have things readable rather than scrawled in her fourth-grade-teacher handwriting. It looked cool.
That’s when things got spicy.
You see, ancestry.com is like playing the slot machines with your family’s history. Seriously, you can’t stop. Just when you satisfy your curiosity about one great-great-great somebody, one of those silly little leaves come up next to another name.
So of course you have to go check it out. Then another. And another.
Next thing I knew, the kids and the hubby were home staring at me, and I was in the exact same position I was in when they’d left.
Seven. Hours. Later.
They thought it was kind of strange — after all, they have all been spared from the years of cemetery-hopping vacations and sitting by the door waiting for the UPS guy to deliver the latest “hot” book on Martha’s Vineyard’s early settlers.
But I had a marvelous time. I found out all kinds of obscure and completely irrelevant things. One of my ancestors was French — thus completely explaining my addiction to French fries!
Another was named Prudence, and her mother was named Experience — now that, my friends, was a difficult pregnancy.
My own grandmother appeared on a census as “Rose”, even though her name was really “Ida”… I can see her now, probably answering the questions for the entire family because everybody else was too busy, and deciding to change her name right there and then to something she liked.
This is definitely not an ad for ancestry.com (in fact, I didn’t even link to the site because that’s not the point). Instead, this post is a way to share with you how much fun it can be to totally and completely immerse yourself in a hobby. I let time and worries fade into the background, didn’t worry about the clock, and left my email unchecked.
It was awesome.
As I write this, I’m wondering, do you have a hobby that you can lose yourself in? I hope you’ll take a moment to share — I’d love to hear from you!
Why saying no is so hard
Jul 5th
One of the hardest things about being in business for yourself is saying no.
You probably don’t have a board of advisors. Maybe you don’t even have an employee. It’s just you, and only you can say no.
There are a million reasons it’s hard to say no.
There might be fear. Fear that you’ll lose something – a customer, an opportunity, money.
You might not be used to saying no. You’ve likely built much of your career and business on saying yes. Taking the class. Saying yes to the new job, the promotion, the transfer. Picking up the phone. Making yourself available even if it’s inconvenient. Offering the service — even if it is something outside what you do.
Or, you might not want to say no simply because you need the money now
You might say no to new ways of doing things, new clients, or to creating a new business model because it seems too hard to make the change.
You might be sick of dealing with the “I told you so” after a no, or constant pestering.
You might even be just plain tired, not wanting to take the time to really sort through the options right now. So you say no.
But in my opinion, there’s one really important reason you don’t say no:
You don’t have a clear goal and a plan that follows it.
Once you do have a clear-cut goal, it’s like a laser is leading the way to your target. You can figure out the quarterly, monthly, and even daily activities that lead you right to it.
If you have a goal and a plan, you know exactly when you need to say no. You know what will lead you off track.
And — most importantly — when you have a crystal-clear goal and a plan, you know exactly when to say yes.
I’d be very interested to know: what are the reasons you think you don’t say no? Leave a comment!
My mother and the Chicago Police Department
Jun 20th
“Miss McGowen?” The man on the other end of the phone asked. “Miss Liz McGowen?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I believe I answered.
“This is Officer X of the Chicago Police Department,” he said.
I seriously don’t remember his name, but I do remember he was extraordinarily courteous given the circumstances. It was around 11 p.m., and it had been one of those ridiculously cold Chicago days.
“Miss McGowen, you need to call your mother. It seems she’s worried about you.”
Yes, my mother who lived 500 miles away, had found a way to check up on me even in the big city.
****
The day Officer X called was a Monday. I know this because I’d been sick in bed with a cold all weekend.
I was 27-years-old (I won’t even tell you how long ago that was), and I had become the quitessential Mary Tyler Moore girl. I had an apartment of my own on Chicago’s north side, on the 10th floor with a stunning lake view. I had a good job as an editor, and I was constantly on the go.
But, on the day in question, I felt terrible. I had dragged myself to my job all the way up in Lake Forest. My little blue Tercel got me there at my usual 7:15 a.m.
After a full day, I’d driven downtown to make sure the meeting of Chicago Women in Publishing came off without a hitch. That was important, since I was the chairperson of the events committee and I wanted to rub elbows with movers and shakers in the industry.
I’d gotten home, exhausted. I’d just fed the cat and scraped together a sandwich, when the phone rang with Officer X on the other end.
Of course, I did call my mother. Immediately.
Our conversation was interesting. All my life, she’d pushed me. Thanks to constant conditioning from my two self-employed parents and a whole extended family of farmers, I believed that only people teetering on their death beds took a day off from work.
When I was about 12 years old, my mom had taken me to visit one of her friends. Her friend was an editor, and the woman had an engraved little sign on her desk that said “hard charger”.
My mom loved that sign. She explained that her friend was successful because she worked so hard — and possibly my mother also stressed this because of my 12-year-old lethargy which caused me to avoid anything remotely connected to work, just maybe.
Yet even my mother had felt certain that on that day I was too sick to go to work. She chastised me for going to the office and sharing my cold with everyone. The movers and shakers of the Chicago publishing industry were in peril due to my actions.
Then, being my mom, she further lectured me on the importance of taking good care of my car in below-zero-temperatures. After all, what would happen to me if I had car problems on the way to or from work?
There was probably more old-fashioned Catholic guilt thrown in, just for good measure.
She made it crystal clear that although I’d been at work all day, she hadn’t even considered calling me at my desk.
I had been too sick for work.
****
I hung up feeling thoroughly chastised, and completely confused.
It was the first time I’d been brought face to face with the fact that I was seriously neglecting my own self-care. It was also the beginning of my complicated relationship with this issue. Glee. Guilt. It all mixes together. You want to take care of yourself, but you also want to be successful.
It took me a long, long time to realize that the two are connected. The better I care for myself, the better I can do my job. Now that I have a more than a cat to provide for, the better I care for myself and do my job, the better provider I can be for my family.
If you’re thinking about your own relationship to self-care, I highly encourage you to get a copy of my free report “5 Warning Signs You’re Headed For Burnout.” It might be the wake-up call you need to start taking care of yourself!
The enormity of little events
Jun 6th
The other day I noticed one of my friends had posted on Facebook that her daughter was off to sleep-away camp for the first time.
Below a darling photo of her smiling and excited daughter, my friend commented that she wasn’t quite sure whether to celebrate or have a good cry.
***
It seems to me that the months of May and June are nothing but transitions. Graduation. Camp. Recitals. Playoffs. And, when our kids get old enough, marriage… moving…
The list goes on and on.
Each time, those we love step an itsy bitsy bit farther away. They move farther away from being the little people who needed us for each and every thing.
This is also a time that is so busy we barely have a chance to catch our breath. Last Saturday, my own family’s calendar included no less than six events. I felt like I was running a non-stop shuttle, and my fingers were flying as I texted to make sure everybody was where they needed to be.
There’s no time to stop.
And when we do stop, it’s only because we’ve collapsed.
***
Many of us have mixed feelings about all this.
The things that happen are what we want for our children. We know they have to grow up and move on.
We are delighted.
We are proud.
We are miserable.
We miss them.
We are just plain tired.
It all fits in together just as naturally as the tears that followed their birth. Transition is complicated, but it’s quite possibly the only thing that is predictable.
Change is the only constant.
***
The problem with all this transition at a breakneck pace is that if we don’t take time to acknowledge what’s going on, we wake up one day and it’s over. Because we we’ve been so busy, we’ve almost forgotten what happened.
Suddenly, it’s just us. We strongly identified ourselves as being “mom” (or “aunt”, or “teacher” or whatever the role was that put us in close contact with these wonderful changing kids), but our role has changed.
Who are we, anyway?
In many cases, we have to figure it out all over again.
Hmmm. Sounds like another transition.
***
There’s no easy solution to this problem. I wish there were.
It helps to talk about it, particularly with those we love and who care about us.
Unfortunately, those going through the transition themselves often so absorbed with it (and with themselves as they turn into gorgeous butterflies) that it’s hard to have a meaningful conversation with them about all this. Our partners are just as overwhelmed and equally unprepared to deal with it.
Sometimes, it’s really only ourselves that we can talk to about these things. Perhaps we can squeeze in a couple of hours for some extreme self kindness, do some kind stretching or take ourselves out for a treat. We can acknowledge the enormity of the change and, perhaps very gently, our mixed feelings about it.
Sometimes we can write a letter and talk about what’s happening and how we feel. We don’t have to share the letter, but getting it out sometimes helps.
We can journal about it, and see what comes up.
Sometimes we can set aside time with friends who are going through the same thing, and have a chat over coffee or while out for a walk.
***
The important thing is to acknowledge the change. Give yourself permission to feel — even if those feelings make you want to cry.
Crying is perfectly fine, as are a million other reactions you might have.
There’s no right or wrong way to handle all this, no manual. You and your situation are completely unique, and if you follow your heart you will go through this in such a way that it helps you prepare for the next transtion…
…because you know it’s coming.
Getting to know my pain in the neck
Feb 23rd
My body has an interesting quirk. When I am in danger of getting seriously off track, I get a pain in my neck.
Some people use “pain in the neck” to refer to something that is bothering them. For me, it’s real, and it occurs when I am making an important decision that is a huge mistake.
Last week, it stopped me in my tracks.
Let me back up for a moment. For the past few months, I have taken some contractual work in another field. It’s something I’ve wanted to try on for a while, and an opportunity presented itself that enabled me to see if this was a good fit.
It has been a bit like going shoe shopping — trying this new thing on, seeing if it feels good.
It felt ok. Not great, not awful.
I thought that with a few tweaks here and there, I could transition into doing this new thing. I spent countless hours researching, doing competition analysis, figuring out marketing kinds of things, and creating content. (You should know about me, by the way, that I do nothing without a calendar and a written plan. That’s just how I roll.)
So there I was, all ready to pull the “on” switch to get going. I was excited and felt that the pieces would all fit into place.
Then, the evening before I planned to begin the next phase, my neck and shoulders went all kaphlooey. By the time I picked up the kids after work it was a dull pain. By the time I got the kids to bed I could barely function.
My first inclination was to keep on schedule. But the next morning I realized something was definitely off. I did the normal health-related things one does, but nothing seemed to be helping. My doctor offered to prescribe something that might help, although I’d be incapacitated for days. My chiropractor made a few adjustments but said nothing was out of order.
Finally, I decided to do something I’ve never done before: simply talk to my pain. I spent some time being very, very still and allowed myself to really and truly feel it (which was extremely painful, by the way).
The first time I could only acknowledge it and cry.
By the second day of patiently trying to talk to this pain in my neck, I realized it had something to do with the new direction I was planning in my business. Once I realized this, it lessened.
And once I sat down to actually plan in a different direction, it left.
Today, roughly a week later, my neck feels fine. It feels like I’ve come full circle, back to the right place.
I never thought I’d say this, but thank you, pain in the neck. I’m actually glad you came, because you spared me so much future pain. I think next time I’ll listen more closely.
Announcing the Journal Group
Sep 6th
Editor’s note: A couple of days after this post, I renamed this The Lemon Pie Group. None of the details changed, just the name. Hope you can understand. It’s much cooler.
All the links will take you to The Lemon Pie Group, so please don’t be confused.
******************
Looking for a way to get unstuck? Need input on your life, your career, or your business without the hassle of lots of added appointments?
My Journal Group is ready to go, especially designed with you in mind.
Basically, you keep a journal in a word processing document (which is something you might already be doing). You can talk about anything — your job, business, personal life, questions.
Once a week, you send it to me and I read through it, sending it back to you with comments, resources to help, and tons of extra support. Every month you get an individual 30-minute consultation with me, as well as a group teleclass in which we talk about things that are important to all members of the group.
This is a low-key, low-cost alternative to more extensive and expensive coaching.
And, until September 25th, you can have a complete preview of everything the Journal Group offers for free.
My Bolivian experience
Sep 2nd
Fair warning: This is quite possibly going to be a completely ridiculous post.
Meaningful, hopefully.
But ridiculous.
Yesterday I read Havi’s brilliant post about Bolivia, and I must admit to having a v-e-r-y strong reaction. Please read her post, if you would be so kind. Read it a couple of times, because it is truly amazing. I love it.
The post talks about Bolivia, but also about choice. My Bolivian-ness has become a huge part of my identity, so much so that I can’t really remember what it felt like not to be here.
Understand that I didn’t want to come, at least not when I did. I thought I would be much better prepared.
I was not prepared at all.
The thing I wanted to point out is that, prepared or not, part of my choice happened after my arrival when I needed to figure out I was going to do. The choice was not in going to or not going to Bolivia. It was what to do once I had arrived.
Does that make sense?
I think that is probably similar to the experience of many people, no matter what their destination. They are taken somewhere. Sure, they might get on one plane or another, but they will eventually end up in that place.
They are not prepared. They make the best of things. In the process, they realize that the destination is not good or bad. It just is.
You see, journeying to Bolivia and being here amid everyone, has now become who I am. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I hadn’t come.
Sure, it is because I am now Bolivian that I rarely get a complete night’s sleep. It is the reason I am revisiting the horrors of sixth-grade math and why my living room looks like I’m doing research for Mattel. It is the reason my shopping list includes ridiculous amounts of cucumbers (which I detest), why my spaghetti sauce is full of ground-up vegetables, and why I am constantly in search of socks that match. It is why I know that “Camp Rock: The Final Jam” comes out tomorrow.
There are interruptions (which has been oh-so-hard to adjust to). There are other people to consider in everything — from something as simple as “what’s for lunch” to something more complex like “what will I do for a living.”
There are now things that I cannot do.
Limitations. Ugggghhh.
I cannot work in a traditional nine-to-five structure, because I have to spend my afternoons frisking people’s backpacks and monitoring play dates. I have a mini-van. Ugggghhh again.
My first trip into Bolivia was unscheduled. I had always wanted to go there, had planned to start preparing, but then one day I just found out I was going. I didn’t really realize that I wouldn’t actually come back — for some reason, I thought everything would just go back to normal once I arrived.
The trip was awful — filled with unexpected health ickiness and a final landing in which I threw up repeatedly. Fortunately, after the landing everything went relatively smoothly.
Of course, there is the hilarious story of the bear: Good friends had sent us a Teddy bear. They also sent a darling jacket for the bear, which was shipped separately for some reason. I thought the jacket (which was real and lovely) was for… well, you know… and when it didn’t fit I spent over an hour on the phone with the store trying to figure out how to get a different size until a manager finally revealed to me it was a bear jacket. I’m sure they still tell that story and fall off their chairs laughing.
There was a subsequent trip that was planned — quite carefully, in fact — and that didn’t happen. That one was particularly difficult because almost no one else knew it was scheduled to happen. It was hard to convey why I was so sad at the time.
It was also at this time that I realized my work (as a bureaucrat) wasn’t really where my heart was, since I had such difficulty explaining and justifying why I needed more than a couple of days off to deal with the unexpected return.
I had begun to accept my innate Bolivian-ness, and to recognize that it was more a part of me than I thought.
Right around the time of my final trip, I realized something very important — that my way of changing the world has to do with my work that has developed since I came to Bolivia. Little things that are an extension of myself, like how we really and truly love others, are now what I spend much of my time on. Figuring out how the practice of “nonviolent communication” happens amid sharing toys or eating ones’ vegetables is my larger challenge.
I say all this to let you know that, Bolivian or not, we are all at times given passage to places that are unexpected. We knew we might end up there someday, but it’s not where we planned to be, at least not now. We don’t want this now. We expected to be well prepared, to have completed [insert important thing here], and to be packed and ready to go, with all the supports that we’ll need.
I know from personal experience that’s not how it works. We end up where we are. Sometimes we fight it tooth and nail, wanting to get back to where we were and to the freedom we once had.
For me, the significance of the trip has not been the choice about whether or not to go to Bolivia. The real issue has been making the choice to accept where I am.
I’m only now beginning to stop fighting to leave, and to make the choice to be at peace with this place.
Watching
Aug 26th
I frequently find myself getting lost watching people. One of my favorite games is to watch someone, and then try to fill in the details of their life. It’s funny, but I can’t remember not doing this.
A couple of recent people stand out. One was the homeless guy walking past my house the other day. He had a yellow shopping cart brimming with what I assume are all his worldly possessions. It struck me as odd that he had as many brooms as he did. I don’t think I have that many brooms. I wondered whether he uses them to hold up an awning during the rain, or whether there are odd jobs he does where sweeping is useful. I was certain they must be useful — critical — otherwise he would surely not lug them around.
Another standout was the guy at the library. He stands all day, checking out books at an enormous desk. They are busy enough that people with more specialized needs, such as getting change or asking questions, go to other people. He’s there nearly every time I visit, which is often.
I wondered, what makes his job bearable? He seems to take a good look at the books we check out, and must have though it interesting that my most recent trip included five “Junie B. Jones First Grader” books for my 5-year-old as well as a book entitled “Hitler Youth” for my 10-year-old’s book report.
Do you do the same thing? Do tell…
Full
Aug 21st
There are moments when I am more than full.
One little, tiny moment. My five-year-old comes bursting into the room, sobbing. She jumps on the bed, where I am reading, nestling in as close as she can get.
She was watching a movie with her sisters. At the beginning of the movie, the mommy had given the boy up for adoption. The mommy was missed the entire movie.
It was too much for this little one. Too, too much to bear.
Tears. Comfort. Reassurance. Kisses. Cuddling. Sleep.
For one of these little, tiny moments I would endure nearly anything.
I am full.
***********
If this seemed cool, you might also like:
Food insecurity — In which I suggest many of us are waiting for emotional leftovers…
Self care rebellion — When we’re too impossibly exhausted to take care of ourselves…
The beauty of kindergarten — Making big changes without dwelling on why or how…