Online Reading is a Contact Sport

 Gucci

5G Verizon

State Farm

Discover Card

Some sort of felt wool bunny stuffed toy thing

*** 

I recently spent a leisurely Sunday morning sipping my coffee and reading one of my two free articles from the New Yorker. Much as I would like to subscribe to all my favorite magazines, my current financial situation will not support it. Years ago, as a law student with even fewer financial resources, I subscribed to the New Yorker as a means to convey an image as an intellectual - not that anyone actually bought it. I would read the latest issue on the bus ride to and from school, rarely finishing one before the next arrived in the mail.

But I digress…

These days, with the exception of the Sunday paper and magazines put out by AARP, Northern Gardener and Minnesota Conservation, I do most of my reading online. The difference in experience could not be starker. For the most part, I’m able to focus on whatever it is I’m reading, as the ads are adequately defined. I will get derailed if the ad is for something I like, or, in the case of the creepy algorithm, for something I’ve previously purchased. That happens with a paper version as well, but thankfully, there’s no way to click on the paper and get sucked in to spending more money I don’t have.

When I started writing for a certain online magazine, I did so believing they were a good fit for my writing. They describe themselves as follows:

We're community-driven. We're dedicated to sharing "the mindful life" beyond the core or choir, to all those who don't yet know they give a care. We focus on anything that's good for you, good for others, and good for our planet.

If I had to describe my writing to a stranger, I’d say I write about my own experiences as a way to share the human condition with others. I write about what it is like to feel flawed, and then push through that feeling, by learning from and appreciating everything life has to offer. In other words, I aspire to the mindful life. 

My last piece for this particular magazine was, in my opinion, rather timely. Russia was on the brink of invading Ukraine and grocery store shelves were, once again, not well stocked. I was struggling with how to cope with a world that seemed to be spiraling out of control. I wrote about how I adjusted my lens to focus on things I could control. I try not to lecture others how to act or think, rather, I share what works for me.

To be honest, I thought it was pretty good.

When it was published, I sent it around to my friends.

Shortly thereafter, one sent me this screen shot:

She found it funny.

I did not, as it was not the first time this particular “ad” had been dropped right in the middle of my article. The previous time, I wrote about the importance of mental strength when rehabbing from injury. When I sent it to my personal trainer, she responded:

Geez. What was it about my writing that attracted this particular ad? I wasn’t writing about anything remotely related to sex and sexual health. I decided to address this in a Facebook group of writers for the magazine. I suggested that I was considering other options for publishing my articles.

The initial responses were supportive and pretty affirming. One writer said “advertising is one thing on the site if the reader is not a member, but in-line ‘quotes’ like this are unacceptable.”

However, backlash soon followed. It was surprising, to say the least.

I was called “entitled” and admonished to be grateful for the opportunity to publish my writing. One fellow writer went as far as to say she was “appalled at the self-righteousness here.” I was also informed that ads were a part of keeping the business afloat and that the editors had no control over what ads were placed where. At the same time, I was invited to correspond privately with one of the editors.

“Hi Debbie, this is what we call an in-line ad and it’s for one of our Mindful Partners, companies that we’re proud to work with and that help keep [magazine] in business so we can publish and share mindful stories from authors like you.”

Ultimately, the owner himself entered the Facebook discussion, as several other writers were now espousing the same thoughts and feelings that I had. One reader commented that a similar ad had popped into her story about grieving for her dying grandmother. Another pointed out that the “ad” doesn’t even look like an ad, it looks like part of my content. One person thanked me for my post, saying it gave her the courage to bring up her own concerns with the editorial staff.

Wait…courage?

At this point, the entire experience of being a writer trying to find a home for my pieces came sharply into focus. As did this particular platform on which I was trying to compete for readers. Did I mention that I was advised to promote, promote, promote, as a way to boost my score and possibly qualify to be paid?

I did that with my very first article and made $50. This time around, I felt like the institution was shifting in such a way that no matter how hard I tried, I was not going to get the readers. It didn’t help that I personally hated the way the “ad” was placed in my piece. I spent a fair amount of time setting up my profile, recruiting followers as well as paying for my own subscription, which, should spare me from the ads, right?

No such luck! Every time I logged into my account, I encountered this banner…right across the top of the page:

WHAT’S YOUR SEXUAL ANIMAL? FIND OUT HERE >>>> 

At some point, my overactive brain went into high gear, prompting me to ask the editorial staff if, perhaps, I had misunderstood the gist or direction of this particular magazine. At least with respect to my account and my articles, I seemed to be drawing only one type of mindful partner.

In the end, the editors pulled all ads for my article. Not surprisingly, my piece never gained any traction, despite all my efforts. I did, however, gain an acute awareness of the atmosphere in which I had inadvertently stepped when I questioned the ads in the first place. The ensuing comments ultimately convinced me it was an environment I no longer wished to inhabit.

For now, my writing is homeless, except for right here.

I will keep looking for spaces to share my pieces. Truly, I’m not that picky. I understand a business needs revenue. If Gucci wants to plop an ad in the middle of one of my articles, you will not hear a peep from me!

To All the Dogs I've Loved Before (Part 2): Molly

 She was not at all what I expected.

I had turned 32, purchased a house with a back yard, researched breeds and breeders and thought I had it all figured out. After all, I had been planning for my first dog like many people plan for human children. Initially, that first dog was to be a West Highland White Terrier. They were adorable, full stop. 

Then I started researching the breed. Turns out, terriers are challenging, to put it mildly. Thankfully, I’ve always had a certain self-awareness that, while limiting at times, also is a decent guiding force. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I simply did not have the chops for a terrier. 

I then moved to my next favorite breed; the golden retriever. I loved the idea of a placid friend to come home to, after a tough day being a lawyer. I even had the fake fireplace, in front of which, my dream dog would lay contentedly while I unwound with a glass of wine and a book. I began the breeder investigation all over again. Luckily, a friend/colleague, along with her husband, had done all the research for me. I visited them and their dog, who was a delight. I got on the breeder’s list, and at the end of March, 1998, right after finishing up a year-long assignment as a public defender, I brought my puppy home. I named her Molly. I have no idea why, at the time, it just seemed to fit her.

I should mention that, during that year I spent as a public defender, I made some new fun friends. These fun, childless friends went off on a really fun trip to Vegas the same week I was picking up puppy. In essence, I became the first “parent” who had to sacrifice a fun time for the responsibility of another life. 

Did I mention that these friends were fun? They threw me a puppy shower, where others brought their dogs and it was a super fun time. Then they all started having human babies, and the fun times were scaled back into more sporadic affairs, each of which revolved around the availability of babysitters.

But I digress…

Before Molly, my only prior dog experience was with the sweet, mild-mannered Muffin. She was the salve to my angst-ridden adolescent soul. As Molly grew physically, her enthusiastic, rambunctious personality exploded. I panicked. I had no idea how to manage all of this energy. I learned about choke chains and alpha rolls and all sorts of questionable methods for managing a dog that I would later learn came out of field lines. 

Living in the city, I had to quickly decide how I was going to manage my wild child when taking her for walks. After quickly discarding the choke chain, I settled on a Halti Headcollar, which was supposed to control her lunging by turning her head, rather than pulling on her neck. I will never forget one of the first times we tried it out, as she hurled herself onto the ground in the middle of the intersection while we attempted to cross the street. A car had stopped for us, and I was convinced the driver would be contacting the humane society, animal control, or maybe even the police. 

I enrolled her in obedience class, but merely walking her in heel position was a debacle. She lunged and jumped, trying to get the treat out of my hand as I worked to lure her into proper position. 

When Molly was three, I attempted to train her in agility. We managed to get through several sessions before the instructor recommended I take her back to obedience class. Along with humiliation, desperation set in. I loathed obedience. It seemed as though there was going to be very little I could do successfully with my overly enthusiastic first grown-up dog.

When she turned four, after a couple of episodes where she acted out on her separation anxiety (or maybe it was just boredom?) I got Molly a puppy…a silly cockapoo I named Josie. (More on her in Part 3). Molly loved her little sister and tolerated a lot of puppy nonsense. 

Then, when she was five, we discovered flyball.

I remember walking into the facility for the first time and almost being overwhelmed by the energy. It was Molly’s energy! The dogs were crazy…barking, lunging, tugging, and having the time of their lives going down a lane of four jumps and getting a tennis ball out of a spring-loaded contraption of some sort.

Molly picked it up in no time and was actually pretty good! For the next few years we had a wonderful go of it. 

Then she tore her ACL.

While she acted like it was no big thing, I could not help but be concerned at the fact that she would put no weight on her left rear leg. After a consult, she underwent surgery and a long, slow, rehab. Keeping her calm was not easy. Doing figure eights and diagonal hill work challenged us, but we stuck it out, and Molly went back to flyball for about six months before completely tearing her other ACL. I had been advised to expect it, but nonetheless could not contain my disappointment.

Fortunately, this surgery and rehab went quicker than the first and she continued to enjoy life with her typical vigor. By this time, I had added Casey Mae to the pack, who quickly developed into quite a little field retriever. I began to realize how fabulous Molly would have been at that game, had I only known about it when she was young. 

One day in late August, I drove all three dogs to a large cattle farm to meet a friend and work on CM’s retrieving. My vehicle, a 1999 Saturn coupe, was completely unsuitable for transporting a three-dog pack through the bumps and ruts of the property's primitive trails. It had, however, been the perfect vehicle back in 2000, when Molly and I took our epic road trip together out to the Badlands, Black Hills, Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. She slept contentedly in the back seat, her head resting on the picnic basket, while I navigated the sometimes-treacherous mountain highways. 

But it was now 2008, and Molly was mostly retired, while I focused the bulk of my training energy on CM. After finding the perfect spot to practice some retrieves, I left the car windows down, as the weather was pretty warm. I lined CM up for her retrieve, my friend blew her duck call and threw the bird. Before I knew what was happening, Molly ran by us at full speed, on her way to pick up the bird. 

She had, quite literally, jumped out of the car window.

Two months later, she hit a big milestone in flyball. We celebrated. In between races, I took her out to cool off. Molly loved to make snow angels and there was just enough snow for that.

I noticed that she seemed slower than normal, so decided to have her evaluated by a chiropractor, thinking she might have injured herself during the car escape incident. One thing led to another, and within the span of a few short weeks, she was headed for surgery to have her left eye removed. I approached this with as much stoicism as I could muster. I knew a one-eyed dog who ran flyball just fine. I reminded myself that dogs do not understand, nor do they bring emotional baggage to their physical condition that we humans do. They do feel physical pain, though. It was imperative that I alleviate the pain Molly felt in her eye.

When surgery day arrived, her system crashed and the optic surgeon called me to come get her. We drove directly to the U of M emergency department, where a veterinary student laid the devastating news at my feet: Molly was full of tumors – hemangiosarcoma. It was unlikely she would make it to her eleventh birthday, which was less than a month away.

The ER personnel drained fluid from her heart, temporarily transforming Molly into a new dog. She was ready to play again. But for me, it was as though the heaviness from her heart was transferred directly onto mine. I tried valiantly to be grateful for the gift of those last few weeks. I memorized every little thing about her. I took her for solo walks in the cold, dark January evenings.

I was scheduled to start a first-degree domestic homicide trial at the end of January. When I emailed the judge to give him a heads up that I might have to miss a half day due to the impending death of my dog, he chastised me for the informality of my communication, and made clear that he was not inclined to grant me any dispensation. “We can’t inconvenience jurors…” was his bottom line.

Mercifully, Molly left me on a day I didn’t have to be in court – Martin Luther King Day, 2009. The tumor on her heart burst, rendering her mostly unconscious. I sat on the floor with her, attempting to read jury questionnaires while giving her permission to die. And so, she did, just as my dear friend and neighbor was warming up his truck for us to take her to the vet. 

I remember letting Josie and CM come in to say their goodbyes. I shouldn’t have gone to the effort. It was fascinating – almost like there was a force field around Molly’s body that neither dog was willing to breach. I know people whose dogs will look for the one that is gone, or go off their food, or somehow express the loss of a member of the pack. That did not happen at my house.

In the end, it may have been for the best. My two remaining pack members pushed me through my grief, demanding that I focus back on them after ignoring them during the last weeks of Molly's life. It wasn’t easy, but with time, all the wonderful Molly memories began, slowly but surely, to dull the pain in my heart.

As my first grownup dog, Molly taught me so much about patience, perseverance and resilience. She taught me how to be responsible for something other than myself. She taught me that dogs will never live as long as we want for them to live.

Knowing that, I cherish each day with the ones who are here right now, with their tight grips on my heart.

To All the Dogs I've Loved Before (Part 1): Muffin

It was the summer of 1974. I was eight, going on nine. My parents decided it was time for our family to add a dog. They also decided, for reasons unbeknownst to me, that the puppy was to be a cockapoo. It’s possible they figured a cockapoo would be close enough to Benji, an adorable mutt who starred in the blockbuster movie from the same year. Benji was ridiculously cute, as well as being a most excellent problem solver.

I remember visiting the breeder and seeing a scrum of honey-colored puppies cavorting in a fenced area. Off to the side, one stretched out in a patch of sunlight, serenely observing her rambunctious siblings.

She would be the one that rode home with us, nestled in a blanket between my brother and me. My mom had created a list of about twenty-five puppy names. Taffy, Honey, and Bubbles were among the finalists. I think she was Taffy for about a week before finally and permanently becoming Muffin.

When we got her home, we took her down to the basement where my dad had constructed an area bounded by green wire fencing. I brought one of my little chairs into that area and sat with Taffy/Muffin in my lap until both she and my right arm fell fast asleep. Right there, a fourteen-year friendship between a girl and her dog was born.

This friendship was likely my best and most stable over the course of those fourteen years. After all, Muffin offered what all dogs provide: unconditional love. Then, in 1988, shortly after Christmas, she quietly succumbed to old age, shattering my heart into a million pieces.

At twenty-two, I had yet to experience a significant loss of any kind, so, in an effort to process all the grief that had nowhere to go, I wrote about it:

                                                                    * * *

The poor Christmas tree was showing signs of the toll that the season had taken on it. The scent was fading, and the tired green needles were falling one by one. Faced with the responsibility of dismantling the "kids" tree, as it had come to be called, I carefully removed each ornament and packed it away. As the gleam of brass caught my eye, I reached for the dog-shaped ornament engraved with the name "Muffin." The word blurred as tears flooded my eyes.

This had been the last Christmas that Muffin would share with us. When I came home from school for the last time, she was there to greet me, less agile than in previous years, but with the same happy wag of her tail. As always, I regarded her carefully. Did she really know me after all those months? Would she remember? I got my answer at the end of the evening when, without hesitation, she ambled down the hall to my bedroom where she slept whenever I was home.

She was my best friend; my little furry sister. She had been in my life for more years than not. As a pony-tailed third grader, I made her dresses with the scraps from dresses my grandmother had made me. I took her for rides in the basket of my sturdy purple two-wheeler, and she pretended to like it. She came to my birthday parties and I threw parties for her birthday – complete with candles in her dog dish. I taught her all the tricks that Benji and Boomer could do and tried to send her to Hollywood by faithfully sending two contest entries every week for an entire summer.

As I got older and more preoccupied with high school life, she remained a constant friend. When Dad picked me up from club meetings or sports practice, she was there, riding quietly in the back seat as always. As I stayed out later, she waited up with a quiet patience that I could never teach my parents. Finally, when I left for college, she never forgot me.

For some reason this year, I felt the urge to take many “Muffin” pictures. Muffin in the snow, Muffin under the tree, Muffin opening presents. “Because,” I told my parents, “You just don’t know how many more Christmases she’ll be with us.” It was said with an understanding that seemed to escape me as I sat staring at the tarnished ornament.

If I had gone back for an extra semester, I would have been far away from the sadness that filled the house in the last weeks. It was a situation I had always hoped for with all the hope of a coward. She gave me the best years of my life. She shared in my victories, and in defeat, when I cried, she was there – pushing a cold nose into a tear-stained face. Why, then, is it that now I must cry alone? Why did she have to leave me with a fading childhood and an uncertain future? Why can’t dogs live people years – decades of them?

Pushing my tears aside, I saw the once beautiful Christmas tree and remembered the magic and joy of this past Christmas. And I slowly realized that, as real as the holiday snapshots of Muffin are, so is her spirit which will never leave us, as long as we remember. And the famous phrase “time heals all wounds” is with me as I think of Muffin…and know that soon I will not cry, but smile.

                                                                    * * *

I left home for good in 1988. Even though it would be over a decade before the next puppy wriggled into my life, somehow I always knew that I was that girl whose heart connected best with dogs.

Some of us are just wired that way.

The Photography Contest

This past July, I received an email invitation to participate in a photography contest. A native landscape company put it on, and offered gift cards as prizes. First place: $75; second place: $50; third place: $25. Having given this company more of my money than I would care to admit, I was motivated to get even a little bit of it back.

I looked through my photo library. The contest rules required that all entries contain images of native plants and/or animals. I felt good about my odds. I had a good camera with an even better lens, and I had lucked out with a couple of really nice captures. I could submit up to three photos, so I took about ten minutes, picked my best three, and sent them in.

Then I waited.

After the contest deadline passed, another email arrived; this one informing me that one of my images had made the finals, and could I please send a “print size file, 20” on the longest size at 300dpi?”

What the…..?

I immediately forwarded the email to a good friend who spent well over a thousand hours in her first year of  retirement learning professional photography. In, what felt to me like record time, she had become a Certified Professional Photographer. Importantly, she had taken numerous advanced classes on photoshop editing. I was counting on her willingness to shepherd me through this conundrum.

Her response: “Super easy to adjust size. Open up your image editor and select resize. Put in those parameters and you are good to go.”

Nope. Definitely NOT good to go, given that I had absolutely no idea what she was telling me to do. So, taking the lazy, panicked approach, I simply begged her to do it for me. She then requested the ORIGINAL (all caps were hers) file. I had no idea what she meant by that either, so I just sent her the image that was on my computer.

Shortly thereafter, she returned the resized file, along with a lengthy explanation on jpgs, megapixels, compression and pixels per inch. I skimmed over all that just so I could get to the end, where she typed: “I went ahead and changed the sizing to what you were asked to provide.”

Did I mention what a good friend she is???

Our effort earned me third place and a $25 gift card. A week later, I went to pick up my prize and also proudly view my photo displayed in the store. The competitor in me evaluated the two photos that beat mine. After getting home, I decided that it was totally unfair that first place went to a professional photographer who had altered his image with super advanced photo editing skills from programs I do not have. I whined about this to my friend.

Her response? “Umm…no. You want to win contests, you gotta swing in the big leagues. IMHO.”

I had to admit: she was absolutely right. I got out of that contest exactly what I put into it. I’m not a professional photographer. I lucked out with a really nice capture. I thought it would do well, despite spending minimal time cropping/editing it. Ultimately, I needed help sizing it for display in the store.  

With most, if not all things, we get what we give. Sometimes luck plays into it, but mostly, success comes from effort. I know people who would rather blame the rules, or the system, or some other external force, as opposed to realistically evaluating their own effort and simply vowing to try harder. I was that exact person in the photography contest, so I can relate. I’m glad my friend set me straight.

Truth be told, I really have no desire to put much effort into winning a photography contest. However, I do have goals that are a zillion times more important to me. Some days, these goals feel completely unachievable. Other days, just really daunting.

But most days, chasing them is exhilarating. Just like swinging for the fences.

Grateful for Rejection

Almost ten years ago, I attempted to become a judge. My legal career was peaking and the time seemed right. A powerful individual convinced me that I was the winning candidate. I hadn’t been elected to anything since I ran for school board rep at my high school. A group of friends served as my campaign committee. I cobbled together a website for fundraising. I marched in parades and walked miles of city blocks distributing campaign fliers, limping on a really painful hip.

In the end, I came in third out of four candidates in the primary, mercifully ending this effort rather than dragging it out. I also applied to be a judge through the appointment process. I believed I had good experience and credentials. I thought I had great references. In the end, the powers that be thought otherwise.

After two attempts, I quit. I know people who have applied dozens of times. For me, that was not an option. I needed to settle back into the job I had and embrace the opportunities in front me. I also needed to focus on the other aspects of my life that brought me purpose and joy.

As it turns out, that rejection was quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Had I become a judge, I never would have been able to live where I live now – in my little slice of paradise. And, ten years later, I know I would have hated being a judge.

For me, rejections have been large and small. Like any form of failure, some can be incredibly painful. Rejection has the power to make us afraid to try again.

As I crossed the mid-century mark, I discovered that rejection and failure can be spectacular forms of motivation. A couple months ago, while traveling to our last hunt test of the season, I listened to a retriever training podcast entitled “Go Home With a Ribbon or Go Home With a Lesson.” In that moment, I decided to embrace the potential for failure and a lesson with as much enthusiasm as the desire for success and a ribbon. In doing so, I felt a sense of peace. And when the weekend ended, we came home with TWO ribbons!

Each rejection or failure offers with it an opportunity to learn something. To decide to try again. Or decide to try something else. For all those opportunities, I am grateful.

You Must Do the Thing You Think You Cannot Do

Years ago, I clipped this Eleanor Roosevelt quote out of the newspaper and slid it under the glass top of my desk at work. As someone whose job was to convey confidence and compassion, I often found myself in a courtroom acting out a part in a scene. Once safely back in my office, all of my imposter syndrome rose up and threatened to crush me.

All my life, I have endeavored to match my interior self with the image I project. Some days I could celebrate full accomplishment, other days I felt a severe and painful disconnect. 

As I look at this blog, I see that the last thing I wrote about was accepting love when feeling vulnerable. That was a huge step for me. But before that, I fiercely advocated for a new ACL, when doctors were telling me that a woman of my advanced years did not need one.

I wanted to run agility again without fear of falling. I wanted to work on my property without fear of one leg giving way and causing further injury.

Now, I do both. It turns out, I needed that new ACL to defeat a fear that lurked within - the fear of never again being able to live my life the way I wanted to live my life. 

I can’t remember the exact day that I ran a complete agility course at full speed, while Watson careened around me with his usual inconsistent focus. I can’t remember the exact moment that I realized that I was doing a thing I previously thought I could not do. But at some point, the moment arrived when I noticed how I felt.

Fearless. 

Several months ago, a giant tree blew down, blocking my driveway. The storm also knocked out the power. After initially celebrating the purchase of my battery powered chainsaw, I soon succumbed to being overwhelmed by the task at hand. There was no way I was going to be able to cut up this tree sufficiently to clear the driveway. The neighbors were away. I was trapped.

I needed to settle my mind. I needed to focus. I needed to prioritize. They were things, in the moment. I thought I could not do.

And then, I did them all.

As I accrue more and more of these instances when I do a thing I thought I could not do, I notice that the disconnect between my inner and outer selves is steadily shrinking.

I have a friend who runs ultra marathons. I have another friend who, on some days, struggles to get out of bed in the morning. A few days ago, NBC anchor Willie Geist mentioned this very Eleanor Roosevelt quote, as he reflected on his remarkable success running his first marathon and raising almost half a million dollars for Parkinson’s research. It hadn’t occurred to me that Willie Geist would be the type of person who thought there was something he couldn’t do.

We each have that thing or things we think we cannot do. Large or small, as long as we keep trying, we keep living.

Accepting Love

Strong.

Brave.

Independent.

These are descriptors that I have embraced as the very essence of who I am. Over the course of my lifetime, I have clung fiercely to my ability to be self-sufficient.

Several months ago, that self-sufficiency was in jeopardy. I faced an uncertain outcome when I made the decision to undergo ACL reconstruction. That, in and of itself, was, apparently, an unusual and “aggressive” (one surgeon’s assessment) choice. Apparently, this procedure is not common for people over the age of 40, for reasons that are still very unclear to me. But primarily, it may be that people over 40 don’t require the use of an ACL, or are simply poorer candidates for recovery.

The recovery and rehab looked daunting. One protocol had me in a hinged brace for six weeks. Most protocols stated no driving for 4-6 weeks. If a meniscus repair was needed, there was to be no weight bearing beyond toe touching for at least 6 weeks.
Despite these potentially dire results, I still opted in. I’m playing a long game and this was a relatively easy choice.

However, after making that decision, I faced something that, for me, might have been the most difficult part of the whole process.

I needed to ask for help.

Why is asking for help so hard? I have tons of courage when it comes to just about everything else in my life, but, for some reason, I resist the action of reaching out for assistance.

It’s possible that growing up with a mother who was unable to provide a strong and stable bond convinced me that the only person I could really rely upon was myself. Unlike the stereotypical single person, I love to cook for myself, I keep a reasonably clean house, and I’m fully capable of doing things that make me happy, with or without others.

But all this self-sufficiency has come with a price. In my closest relationships, I have erected barriers by predetermining what others can or cannot do for me.

That’s pretty unfair to all involved.

So, when faced with a potential prolonged period of helplessness, I needed to break out of some very ingrained habits.

I first discovered that, as a self-sufficient person, I manifest self-centered behavior, especially when I make things about me that are not in the least bit about me. It’s an extremely crippling mindset.

So, I realized that when I asked for help, I was going to have to do it without any preconceived notions of who would be willing and able to help me. Most importantly, I needed to not make it about how much I believed someone cared about me. Because in the end, whether or not someone else is willing or able to help me has absolutely NOTHING to do with how much that person cares about me, and has EVERYTHING to do with what is going on in that other person’s life. Full stop.

Changing this mindset was far more difficult than I expected. But I knew that it was imperative if I was to get through this event. When I ultimately asked for help, I set aside any expectation in the outcome. After all, that part was simply not within my control.

The response was swift and gratifying. One friend expressed her desire to make me “feel loved.” When that sentiment overwhelmed me emotionally, I made yet another self discovery: all my self-sufficiency had severely stymied my ability to accept love.

After all, helping is a form of love. Most of us want to be helpful, and we feel great when we are able to help others. But sometimes being on the receiving end of help can make us feel weak or vulnerable. Or maybe, deep down, we don't think we are worthy of being helped....or being loved.

As it turns out, there is strength in vulnerability. Just as there is strength in accepting love.

And so, I am learning to accept love. After years of embracing the mantra: “I can do this,” I have shifted to a new one:

“I am worthy.”