Category Archives: Fear

Comfort Zone


I learned a long time ago that my comfort zone is like a box with movable sides. If I stay comfortably inside my box, over time it slowly closes in around me, becoming steadily smaller. I find it critical to routinely push myself outside my box, pushing the walls out with me. By now, it’s a predictable, inevitable pattern.

It’s been awhile since I’ve pushed my box out in a big way. Three years ago, the sides of my box were abruptly yanked away altogether when Megan fell ill. Every day brought frightening new experiences, and for the first time in my life, all of my energy was needed just to keep everything from flying apart. Then just as things began to calm on that front, I changed jobs; that was plenty for awhile. I’m starting to feel rested and stable…not yet too stable, but I know it’s coming. 

I always need a next frontier, but I no longer have any idea what the next one might be. I’ve got a few loose ideas, but nothing that’s grabbed me yet. Guess I’ll have to take the small opportunities for awhile and wait. Patience has never been my strong suit…I may have to make something happen. I hear you can now take tours of Chernobyl…that should do it.

“The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision.”  –Malmonides


Fear


A leader whom I admire said this week that we need to drive out fear, versus using it as a tool for power. We were lamenting that this has been an election of fear. I told him part of my truth, but not all of it.

I told him that my brother-in-law is terrified that his Mexican wife of 20 years, the mother of their two daughters, will be deported. I told him that my gay friends are afraid their marriages will be dissolved. I told him that a sweet, young Vietnamese friend was disturbed by a horrible racist incident on her campus in Minnesota. I shared how troubled I was at the stories of harassment of blacks and Muslim women wearing hijabs, and of Hispanic children bullied at their schools with taunts of being deported and building the wall. And this is the experience of a privileged white woman since the election. But I didn’t tell him the rest.

I didn’t tell him that I’ve lost sleep over these last couple of weeks for fear of slowly losing our civil rights and democracy to an autocrat who trades in fear. I didn’t tell him how I’ve struggled to understand how so many could overlook such overt sexism, racism, and bullying for a single issue or for politics. I couldn’t admit that I’ve been unable to watch the news or open a newspaper since the election, as it’s too depressing to think about a racist overseeing the country’s law enforcement, or an isolationist as national security adviser, or a white supremacist whispering in the ear of the man in the most powerful job in the world. I’m having trouble coping with news stories about ripping families apart through the immediate deportation of 2-3 million citizens, or how there’s “historical precedence” for a Muslim registry or even internment camps. My world changed overnight, and I’ve struggled to cope with it all. My struggle is embarrassing and shocking at the same time:  after all, I’m a 50-year old strong and successful woman. How can this have impacted me so?

But I’m my mother’s daughter, and I knew that I would eventually pick myself up. The shock and fear are starting to wear off, being replaced by determination. I’ve started taking action, and that is lessening my fear. I will fight to keep the gains women have made over these last 50 years, for myself yes, but especially for my teenage daughters. I will be vocal in support of the right to basic dignity and protection that my LGBT family and friends deserve. And, as scared as I am of the thought, if necessary I would face water cannons and prison to ensure that the freedoms of religion and speech remain bedrocks of American democracy.

My favorite Bible verse is Romans 8:38-39, and it reminds me that neither principalities nor powers can separate us from the love of God. And in Philippians 1:30, Paul invites us to join him in the battle. In my immediate reaction, I nearly forgot Who always has been and will be in complete control. But He has always needed arms and legs. I offer mine. I am not afraid.

“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality…I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.”  –Martin Luther King Jr.


Forgive


“Forgiving is not forgetting. It is remembering and letting go.”  -Claudia Black

I’m making progress on this one. We’ve all been hurt to the quick by people in our lives. Some of these scars are drive-bys:  a passing but cutting wound inflicted by someone who’s otherwise a minor player in our lives, except for that moment when they’re inflicting a lasting wound. We remember, often for years. What they did or said hurts, generally because they poked a spot already soft and sensitive inside us. It’s hard not to internalize these reinforcements of our deepest fears. Sometimes these are one-off inflictions which scab over, but sometimes they cumulate, one on top of another, and never fully heal. Either way, we take these blows and carry whatever part with us that we seem unable to set down.

Then there are the slow motion injuries, delivered by someone not easily steered clear of:  a bully at school or work, someone in a position of authority, a family member. These long-term assaults on our psyches are a whole other thing altogether. Each one is unique, depending on the relationship, the giver’s intentions, and the relative power of each party. If we’re not careful, these experiences can erode our humanity, turning us into someone we wouldn’t otherwise be. Heaven knows, I’ve struggled with that at times over the years. 

But I’ve turned a corner. As I’ve put more years on the odometer, it’s getting much easier to let go. Not fully easy yet (I’m not sure I’ll ever get there), but definitely much easier. I’ve lost too much of my life carrying around baggage that only poisons me the more more tightly I hold onto it. I’ve decided I’d rather be happy. And so, I now work hard at letting go much faster. Sometimes that means walking away from a situation or a person or even a whole chunk of your life, if that’s what it takes to move on. But more often, it just means taking the thing in your hands, turning it over and studying it for a short while to mourn or to learn, having a good cry, and then setting it down and walking away. And not looking back.

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”  –Mahatma Gandhi


Memory


My earliest memories are from when I was less than two years old. They say we don’t have memories at that early an age, but they are wrong. I was hospitalized with pneumonia at 18 months. I have only two snippet memories from that stay:  they are few, and they are short, but they are vivid.

My old-fashioned hospital room was straight out of Curious George Goes to the Hospital…a large room with 4-6 cribs and a play area. My very first memory is of my parents, grandparents, and aunt in that room bringing me an amazing gift–a stuffed bear as big as me! I loved that bear all through my childhood. I still have him, packed away in a plastic tote in the garage. He’s much smaller than I remember him, and he’s threadbare from love. Getting that bear, in that strange room surrounded by my family, is vivid memory number one.

The next thing I remember was waking at night in my crib in that strange room. My family was gone, and I was alone among the other sleeping children. I was scared and began to cry…I just wanted to go home. Except I wasn’t alone. A man was there, sitting in a chair beside a sleeping girl. He heard me cry and brought his chair over next to my bed. I remember him talking gently to me, though I don’t remember what he said. I only remember that him sitting there talking to me made me feel better. The memory then stops. I don’t remember waking the next morning, or leaving the hospital, or anything else until I was three. Just the bear and the man, both small comforts at a child’s time of fear.

I always tear up a little when I remember the man; this stranger’s kindness has stayed with me for nearly 50 years. I’ve since wondered if his daughter was ok…I’ve certainly hoped so. I now know that a parent doesn’t sit in a chair in a hospital through the night when everything is ok. I’ve also wondered if he remembers that night, whether he knows that his small gesture is remembered and appreciated. It’s a reminder that we all have the ability to make a difference in the life of another. But it’s also a reminder that even when we feel alone, Someone is always sitting next to us, ready to bring us comfort. We are never really alone.

“As a body everyone is single, as a soul never.”  –Hermann Hesse


Unsettling

   
I once spent a lovely weekend in York, England with a colleague. We were working on a two week project and had the middle weekend free. A consultant working with us chose to go to Scotland. I preferred to go there, but my colleague was a young woman barely out of college from a small town in Minnesota. As the leader of the project, I didn’t feel comfortable letting her travel alone. The seasoned consultant would be fine on her own.

York was lovely:  picturesque and quaint, like a postcard picture brought to life. We walked the length of the city wall, window shopped frilly ladies hats, and ate sweets at Betty’s, the famous tea shoppe. The finicky British weather behaved perfectly for us on that spring Saturday in March. We chose a local pub for dinner, only a block from our hotel, and looked forward to sampling the local food and culture.

The pub was busy by the time we arrived as the sun was setting, full of locals. We found our table and ordered our meals from the harried waitress. As we chatted and observed, it quickly became apparent that the gentlemen at the table next to us had had too much to drink. They were loud and paid us a little attention…any from them was too much. But after awhile, they turned their attention elsewhere, to two men sitting next to us at the bar. Unlike the drunks, these men were well-mannered and bothering no one. It took me a few minutes to realize what was going on…the comment made by the loudest drunk referring to the two men as “ladies” finally tipped me off. After a few minutes of harassment, the polite gentlemen quietly left. The loud table next to us stayed loud. Luckily, we’d finished our meal by then. We quickly paid and left, walking briskly in the dark back to the hotel. It was an unsettling ending to an otherwise perfect day.

I’ve not forgotten that meal, now over five years ago. Hate and discrimination are frightening and memorable. Members of other races and LGBT face the potential every time they leave home. Laws like those passed this week in North Carolina and proposed in Georgia are about discrimination, period. Though there is no epidemic of trans persons molesting women and children in bathrooms, 70% of trans people say they have faced harassment in restrooms themselves. These laws are as spiteful as they are unnecessary. Our Constitution was constructed specifically to protect minorities from the will of the majority…it’s the reason that America has been the symbol of freedom in the world for over 200 years. We are not this.
#WeAreNotThis

“I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.”  –Martin Luther King Jr.


Remission

sadness

I wasn’t sure I should write this. A large part of my brain told me to forget what I’d read, forget the pictures of the boy, forget the key and terrifying fact. Another HLH victim, this time a boy of 10-12. He’d had a stem cell transplant and had been in remission for two and a half years. Two and a half years. We’d clung to what we’d read, that most relapses occur within a year, a milestone we comfortably passed last fall. I’ve not let myself think about it since. I don’t think you can, or you go crazy.

I’ve read other parents’ stories, stories of very real PTSD. I’ve been blessed to avoid it, but not without scars. All of us parents whose kids have been critically ill bear them. There’s no way to fight at your child’s side for their very life for months without scars. There’s a whole year of my life that I either don’t want to talk about or which makes people uncomfortable when I do…our lost year. But it happened, and we’re still living with the long-term repercussions. There is no roadmap for crap like this. Sometimes you just get dealt a bad hand, and you just have to find a way to get through it.

Then every once in awhile…too often…you hear someone else’s story, a story of tragedy. And you realize that your own burden isn’t so bad after all. Rest in peace Mihir, and prayers to your loving family. Your remission…your healing…is now permanent.

“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.”  –Marcus Tullies Cicero


Angry

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Ok, it was…well I don’t what it was…for awhile. I was going to say entertaining, but it wasn’t really that…bullying never is. It’s definitely been concerning, but I never really expected it to last this long. I’ve had faith that the American people would eventually tire of the circus and get serious about another candidate. But New Hampshire is only a couple of months away, and he’s still here. Now it’s no longer anything close to funny or amusing or like when we all knowingly shake our head over nutty uncle Louie. I’m now angry–an important line has been crossed.

It was bad enough when he repeatedly insulted me (along with half of the American population of the opposite sex). It was embarrassing when his hyperbole made us the laughing stock of the world. It was alarming when he slandered entire races of people and proposed very un-American databases. But this latest “policy statement”, which guts the freedom and immigration foundation of this great country, goes way too far. Pandering to fear in order to move up in the polls by demonizing an entire religion, one with which we share a common history by the way, is plain wrong. It’s frighteningly reminiscent of Japanese internment camps, Jim Crow, and stars of David sewn onto clothing. Had this xenophobia been sanctioned a century ago by those who were running for the highest office in the land, my hated-at-the-time Irish ancestors would never have been allowed in. Nor your ancestors, nor most of America’s. We are better than this.

It is not too late to reverse this sickening, terrifying spiral:  ignore him. Stop watching him, talking about him, voting for him in the polls. Speak up at the water cooler or at church. Quietly reinforce that not all Americans agree. Reassure our Muslim neighbors that we stand with them. Let’s take back our country from this fear and hatred, and let’s live up to our ideals.

“First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out–because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out–because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out–because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me–and there was no one left to speak for me.”                            –Martin Niemoller