This time last year, I was hot off a coaching certification class, supporting coaching clients, in the final weeks leading up to a huge project deadline at my day job, mentoring a student director on a musical, in pre-production for my next stage play, making plans for my partner's upcoming birthday, and recovering from shingles (this is not a blog post about shingles).  

I was expecting a pause in my schedule as pandemic numbers grew increasingly worrisome and closer to home.  I was expecting 90 days of uncertainty.  I had no idea how my world would change.  None of us really, practically, understood the Experience that would become 2020. 

And here we are, one year later.  To say I've learned a lot about myself, my relationships, and my community would be a lame understatement.  My life and my livelihood simply changed, full-stop.  While I miss parts of the world from before, I'm anxious to see what's emerging: the old tactics are not going to apply in this newer world.  Opportunities abound.  We're all in the funknown now.  

I'm feeling oddly reflective.  With the privilege of hindsight I'm struck by those little things that hit me hardest over this last year; lessons I may not have otherwise experienced:

1. Because of our "ships-passing" schedules in the beforetimes, we relied on easy dinners that could be cooked in under 30 minutes and easily reheated in Tupperware.  We were long-time subscribers to Blue Apron for those nights when someone had more bandwidth to adult-up and cook A Meal.  So often (too often), we'd "grab something on the way" due to lack of adequate planning.  Quarantine hit, we bought a chest freezer and stocked it; we planned our dinners for 14 days at a time and shopped to our menu.  We tried new recipes because we had nothing but time.  And then one fateful night our scheduled dinner went sideways, we pivoted, and a new staple was discovered:  Annie's Bunny Pasta with Yummy Cheese with chopped chicken.  We call it "chicky mac" and for a good five months we ate it once every 10 days.  We don't have small humans, so it's unusual for us to eat macaroni and cheese on the regular.  Sure, we'd keep a box in the back of the cupboard for a sick day, for emergencies, for parties, but this... this became a delightful bowl of no-fuss, only-fill dinner.  It leaves us with happy tummies.  There's something wholesome about tucking around a warm bowl, steam wafting upward, spoon in hand (yes, a spoon.  It tastes best when eaten with a spoon.  Don't ask me to explain the science).  What you expect is exactly what you get, which is marvelous during a time of upheaval and uncertainty.
2. There's no way else to say it.  I missed my commute.  Don't get me wrong: I hated sitting in traffic, which if memory serves is what I did 80% of the time I was in the car.  I learned very quickly that my commute was a buffer between the elements of my life.  I could talk on the phone or listen to a podcast or audiobook.  I could screlt along to music.  It was me-time baked in to my day that I didn't realize I had.  It was space to clear my head and/or put my game-face on.  Last spring, I started incorporating a commute into my day, but instead of getting in the car I'd walk around the block second thing in the morning (first thing is getting the dogs situated).   Some afternoons I'd go wild and reverse my commute or take a longer stroll.  I learned about the pandemic rhythms of my neighborhood.  I witnessed the seasons change, neighborhood politics on display, puppies grow, renovations sprout.  I got fresh air and quiet time.  I forced a distinction between home time and work time that I couldn't otherwise institute in my day without literally stepping outside.  What I didn't understand before March 2020 was that while destination of my commute was often for someone else, the actual journey and progress was mine.  And if that's not a schmaltzy metaphor for life...
3. Our dogs are creatures of extreme habit.  When they wake up, the order in which they eat their meds and food, where they drape themselves throughout the day... their routine is unshakeable and our interloping is unappreciated.  If you follow me on Instagram, you've seen pictures of our younger dog, Velma.  She's a compact cannonball of a pit bull.  She's adorable and attention-demanding and snuggly.  She makes guest appearances on client calls and presentations.  Who you don't see is our old man, Zozo.  Quickly approaching 14, he's achy and grumpy.  He's been with us since he was 6ish months old.  His clockwork routine means we don't have to set an alarm in the morning, and we can't lose track of time in the day because of needed and demanded potty breaks.  He plays like a puppy in little bursts, but the rest of the time he ambles like molasses.  He stops and sniffs and forgets and sniffs again.  He's a professional napper with a jackhammer snore.  Because one of us is always home, we get to experience this beautiful, heart-wrenching time with him.  Zo has always been stingy with kisses, and we presently compete for them.  He'll accept butt scritches from anyone, and he's lousy with them now.  With Zo we have the opportunity to slow down, cherish the predictability of routine when time no longer has any meaning, and simply be and feel and move how the day allows us to.  He moves at his own pace, and, now, so too do we.​

Those are the big three.  Sure, I could talk about the exhilarating, terrifying experience of blowing up my day job to create the type of work life I wanted.  I could extol the virtues of yoga pants and lounge bras; of not wearing high heels and makeup.  Of protesting and Go Funding and learning and unlearning; of panic for the world and grief for the unnecessary loss of so many people.  I'm sure you could, too.  

​But I'm curious: what has stuck with you?  What lessons have you learned about yourself?  What takeaways do you come back to when you reflect back on this year?

Of course I choose me, don't I?  Sure.  Yes.  Mostly.  Often.   The more I thought about choosing myself, the more my certainty about actually doing it faltered:

• I chose the college I attended because they gave me the most financial aid to support the field I wanted to study, and that was the field I chose because my college counselor suggested I wouldn't get into other programs of study... Financial aid plus adult guidance does not equal choosing me
• I stayed at jobs where I was harassed or devalued for way too long because I didn't want to disappoint the very people who were harassing and devaluing me... Choosing pain and discomfort does not equal choosing me
• I once got a tattoo that was larger, darker and literally not what I wanted because it was what my partner at the time wanted... not.  choosing.  me.

This not-choosing-for-me mental list reflected patterns in my thought processes and behaviors; reasons and excuses and external factors that I allowed to influence decisions that I made not necessarily for my own benefit, but to prevent the discomfort or disappointment of others.  

A second list, choosing-for-me, bubbled up radiant moments when I let go of what I thought or imagined were exterior expectations and said yes to my instincts, my needs and my wants:

• I left an unhealthy marriage because I woke up one morning and realized that the weight of my life wasn't sustainable; that that couldn't be it for me... 
• I bought a Mini Cooper because I wanted to, and it supported my commuting needs,  and it reduced my fuel and car payment expenses; plus I looked really damn cute driving it...
• I have allowed friendships to fall away because we weren't helping each other be our best selves, because things had become one-sided, because I didn't like who I was with those people...
• I took a leap to open a business during a global pandemic because I wanted to work differently, I wanted my days to have different meaning, and I wanted the hustle to be for me...

Those moments of choosing me have led to little joys, greater happiness and more opportunities to thrive.  I choose me because I deserve to after years of not living for me.

I spend gads of time with clients unpacking why they can't or shouldn't do things. 
      "They expect something else from me." 
      "What if I disappoint them."
      "I don't want to seem selfish."
All valid, selfless reasons to avoid social discomfort.  And when we talk about the cost of those decisions, I always, always think about a life on the high seas and ask, "what happens if you choose you?"

Shortly before the pandemic arrived, boss bitch Amy Maniscalco wrote a piece for Medium called 6 Phrases to Replace "I'm Sorry."  In it, she introduces "strong replacements for the meaningless apologies that do nothing but diminish the value of your time, your words, and ultimately your worth."  I immediately bookmarked the article, sent it to five friends, and began to incorporate those replacement phrases in my daily life. 

Perhaps because it was on my mind, I became aware of how often those two words were blurted for non-apologetic reasons.   I listened for it in public and in the workplace.  I noticed, too, when my coaching clients would apologize to me:
                    I'm sorry I'm talking so much.
                    I'm sorry I'm crying.
                    I'm sorry I'm laughing.
                    I'm sorry I didn't do my thought exercises.
                    I'm sorry to cut you off, but I just had a thought!

Many variations of these phrases are fueled by insecurity, fear, embarrassment, and shame.  My gut reaction was to respond with "You have nothing to be sorry for," but that would have / could have elicited more apologies.  "Why are you apologizing?" is also a terrible response.  (For the record, "I love it, keep going" is where I've landed.)

For so many years, female-identifying and femme professionals have been socialized to downplay their opinions, to be polite and "nice" and avoid ruffling feathers.  When we step outside of that minimizing world we're seen as punching up and acting #nasty or difficult, among other things. "It's cute that you're speaking up, but not the right kind of cute*."  So, be quiet and smile, and make sure everyone else is comfortable and having a good time.  But as Angeline Evans states on The Muse, "it’s important to recognize that not everything is your burden to bear."  Bottom line: You have nothing to apologize for.

Words mean things, and you shouldn't have to feel like you need to apologize for using your Voice.  ​The sorrys "make us appear smaller and more timid than we really are, and they can undercut our confidence,"  writes TED writer Daniella Balarezo.   If we've gotten into the habit of saying sorry for little, trivial things, is the impact of those two words diminished when something worth apologizing for comes along?
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I'm done apologizing for being who I am and for the true things I say.  I will own my mistakes and my missteps in a way that matches the size of the grievance.  But here's the thing: you never, ever have to apologize to me for being your badass self.  Ever.  And I'm not sorry for that.

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* A colleague actually said this to me once, and I immediately responded with, "I'm sorry" and awkwardly clammed up because I couldn't retrace my train of thought.  I was also so astounded by that comment spoken in the workplace that I was left gobsmacked.  This is a memory that really sticks with me.  WTF was I sorry for?  For using my subject-matter-expertise to press on an issue that sounded hinky?  For not being the right kind of cute?  It's a big regret that I didn't stand up for myself with a strong recovery in the moment, but it should never have happened in the first place.  Once I had my head back on, I took appropriate action with HR.  But I digress.... ​