When Life Gives You Lemons, Do Something That Scares You

Journal prompt: Later in life, if you were given a gift to go back and talk to the person you are now, what would you tell them to lead a better life? What advice would you give?

I am trying really hard to write this journal entry without using any or all of the cognitive distortions I just read about. Cognitive distortion is a fancy way of describing the ways that our mind convinces us of something that isn’t really true. These inaccurate thoughts are usually used to reinforce negative thinking or emotions — telling ourselves things that sound rational and accurate, but really only serve to keep us feeling bad about ourselves. And I have a worksheet that lists ten of them, and because I am nothing if not an overachiever, I scored 100% on the “which of these do you do?” meter. I’m using extraordinary restraint to not “should” all over myself (distortion #4); jump to conclusions (#5); or apply all or nothing thinking (#1). Epic fail, by the way.

Back to the question at hand. Is it wrong that I want to know what I’m wearing and how I look later in life? Probably, but I am not going to blame (distortion #8) and emotionally reason (#9). This is a really interesting question – and if you had asked me this question three months ago, my answer would have been different. You see, three months ago, I was working in a Very Important Job in a Very Big Company where I earned a Very Big Paycheck – and I was really struggling. I’d lost my best advocate and ally when my boss (let’s call him Dick) left the organization, and my new boss was less of an ally and more of an adversary. I knew I wasn’t happy but I felt like I should be. I was at the top of my game professionally – on paper, anyway. And I was overwhelmed, anxious, stressed out, depressed, and desperately searching for meaning and purpose. I knew something had to change but I was unwilling or unable to take the first steps to make change happen. I was stuck, and in my “stuck-ness,” I began telling myself little lies. I like my job! My boss and I get along great! I’m so lucky! Meanwhile, I carried the burden of needing to motivate and inspire an under-resourced team; deliver on the results we committed to the organization; and not lose my mind. Life was handing me crates of lemons and I was running a 24 X 7 X 365 lemonade factory.

A couple of recruiters reached out. I went on a few interviews with no intention of leaving my Very Important Job at the Very Big Company – but I wanted to see what was out there. I wanted to know that I wasn’t trapped in my current reality. I wish I could tell you that I carefully orchestrated a seamless transition from one job to another, but that would be a lie. The honest truth is that I would have stayed, running that damn lemonade factory until something catastrophic happened.  Which it did. My boss made a decision I didn’t agree with. It impacted me. I decided to stand up for myself, knowing that doing so might not end well. It didn’t. Or did it?

I took a couple of weeks off. I started meditating . . . poorly. I exercised every day. I spent quality time with my senior dog. And I accepted a job offer. I also recognized that some (not all) of my prior workplace stress in the proverbial lemonade factory was my own doing. Put another way, I started to own my shit. I chose to forfeit PTO and work instead. I chose to accept impossible assignments and unreasonable deadlines that required me to perform ongoing acts of heroism to achieve. I chose not to ask for help when I needed it. Not only did I allow myself to become consumed by my job, I committed the fatal flaw that I coach and warn others about all the time. I allowed my identity and my self-worth to be defined not by who I am as a person, but by my job.

Let me be clear. Those couple of weeks I took off were not enough to undo the years of questionable decisions and borderline insanity. I worried about what other people might think or say. I was afraid to tell my parents about my decision because I thought they might be disappointed. The voice of self-doubt got louder and louder, screaming to me that failure was not only an option but likely inevitable. Once I got all those voices in my head to STFU, I realized that I needed to make bigger changes than just my employer, and I started to make a list of intentions for this next chapter. Here are some highlights:

1.I have inherent worth as a human being and that worth doesn’t increase or diminish based on my job title or business card. 

2. I will no longer forfeit paid time off, and I will use my time off in meaningful, deliberate ways. (Like go to Iceland which I did two weeks ago!)

3. I will do things that make me uncomfortable in the name of personal and professional growth.

4. Once and for all, I'll stop "shoulding" all over myself. 

Intention number three is a big one for me. I’m a textbook introvert and if it gets too people-y, I break out into hives. On the inside. It is rare for me to choose to spend time with other humans over spending time with myself; my pets; or a pizza. But about six weeks ago, I got a call inviting me to participate in a women’s leadership development group. I didn’t know the facilitator. I didn’t know any of the participants, but I knew they were all HR professionals like me. The only thing I did know is that I would be accountable for building relationships with strangers and participating in a learning journey together.

Under normal circumstances, I would have politely declined and run the other direction. I don’t have time for personal development - I just started a new job! And this sounded real people-y. Intention number three gave me pause, though, and I decided that in this new chapter, I’d take advantage of this opportunity. I would prioritize my own development and self-care and I would do something uncomfortable and scary.

That brings us to today. Our group has met three times (although I missed a meeting due to being in Iceland) and every time I leave a conversation with this group, I pat myself on the back for putting myself out there. I’m learning. I’m growing. I’m people-ing. Most importantly, I’m resetting my own blueprint for my life. One of the unexpected benefits of this experience is that I’ve met a group of women whose experiences very closely mirror my own. We’re all in slightly different places on our journey, but the parallels are incredible. We may not feel safe being this vulnerable at work but we can do this with and for each other – and it’s pretty cool!

Each week, we get a journal prompt. I do write in my journal but I find it easier to type. As per usual, I decided to do what I want instead of answering the question as it was asked. If future me wanted to talk to current-day me, I think I’d tell her that she’s on the right track and that she should keep those intentions top of mind.

As the kids say, YOLO!

 © 2019, Princess D  

If You're Waiting for a Sign - This is It

 I’m one of those people who believes in signs. I’m also one of those people who ignores the signs that don’t suit my mood or my current agenda. I’m running late for an appointment and the ramp meter is on and there’s a l-o-n-g line of cars in front of me? I completely ignore the “carpool lane only” sign and I (illegally and impatiently) bypass the line by cheating my way into the carpool lane. I sometimes pause instead of coming to a full and complete stop. I turn on red when the sign explicitly says not to. And my creative interpretation of signs doesn’t apply only to road signs. No, no – there are also those other signs. You know the ones. I’m talking about those signs from the universe or God or the world or whatever you believe in that start out in a nice, quiet, subtle manner that gradually get louder and louder until you pull your head out of your backside and start paying attention.

Of course, you don’t always know what the signs mean – and sometimes, it can be easier to do what I do with road signs that don’t suit me by ascribing some other meaning to them or ignoring them altogether. I became hyper-aware of signs 18 years ago in 2001, a year that reigned grief, loss and despair not just on me personally but on our entire nation. September 11, 2001 set in motion a series of events that would forever change the course of life both in the United States and around the world. Nearly 3,000 innocent people were victims of this tragedy in New York City; the Pentagon in Washington D.C.; and on a commercial airplane that crashed in Shanksville, PA. From oil price increases to anti-Islamic violence in the United States to the introduction of the Transportation Safety Administration to changes in the global economy to ongoing military activity in Iraq and Afghanistan – our world has changed in ways that we all remember. Am I implying that 9/11 was a sign? No. But how many of us remember November 12, 2001?

American Airlines flight 587 took off from New York’s JFK airport with 260 souls onboard, heading for the Dominican Republic – but crashed in Queens, NY shortly after takeoff, killing everyone on board in addition to five bystanders and a dog on the ground. This event is marked in my memory forever for two reasons. First, I was traveling from Madrid to Minneapolis with a connection through JFK. Because this crash occurred just 61 days after 9/11, the United States feared the worst and shut down air travel due to terrorist concerns. I spent the night at the JFK Best Western while we all tried to make sense of what was going on. But that’s not the main reason I remember this so well. The reason AA flight 587 sticks in my memory is because of this bone-chilling story about Hilda Yolanda Mayol.

Not only was this the second-deadliest airplane crash in American history, but it occurred in a neighborhood inhabited by World Trade Center employees and firefighters who died in the attacks of September 11^th. 26 year old Hilda Yolanda Mayol was no exception. She was working in a restaurant on the ground floor of the World Trade Center on 9/11. While she managed to escape before the tower collapsed, she was killed in a plane crash just two months later while heading on vacation to the Dominican Republic.

I’m not suggesting that 9/11 was some kind of sign for people to avoid flying on American Airlines or a sign to stay home and never go anywhere again. What struck me about this story, however, was the tragedy of Hilda. After surviving a horrific attack on 9/11 and trying to create a “new normal” for her life, she had no idea that she had less than 62 days left to live. This made an indelible impact on me. Although I was grief-stricken and numb with processing Nate’s suicide, the death of Hilda Yolanda Mayol – a woman I’d never met or heard of prior – stuck with me. And for me, it became a sign or a symbol. You can try to cheat death; you can attempt to outrun your destiny; but when it’s your time, it’s your time.

In spite of the tremendous personal impact of this story, I eventually put Hilda out of my mind and returned to business as usual – which in my case meant ignoring all kinds of signs. One thing I’ve learned is that if you ignore signs long enough, they just get louder and more dramatic to get your attention. Some examples from my own life:

1. Mr. Wrong. (There’s an entirely different blog devoted to this nonsense.) Hindsight and years of therapy illustrated all kinds of subtle signs that Mr. Wrong and I were in fact wrong for each other.  We had no shared hobbies other than eating; we had no shared friends; and we had vastly different and often opposing value systems. But hey, why not ignore all those signs, dig in my heels and try to make it work until he stole my money and my lawn mower and kicked me to the curb?

2. The terrible job. In an effort to make things work with Mr. Wrong, I quit a job I loved at a company I liked a lot because he was insecure. I took a job at a manufacturing company where I was miserable beyond belief for several years. I resigned myself to being miserable until one day, I got a phone call about a short-term consulting gig in Denver, CO. It sounded amazing but I initially turned it down. Three hours later, one of our employees was found dead in the men’s room. This was a horrific tragedy that I unfortunately got hands-on experience with, and somehow, that poor expired employee became the catalyst for me to make a change. I accepted the consulting gig the next day.

3. The Dude’s cancer. When I look back at pictures of The Dude in his final months, I can see now with clear eyes how sick he was. His eyes are so sad, and he was so skinny. Somehow, I missed all those signs and selfishly kept him alive maybe longer than I should have because I couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

There are plenty more examples but these are a few highlights. It can be so easy to misread or ignore the signs. Maybe the signs are telling you something scary or unpleasant – so you enlist your friends and family to help you craft a fairytale with a happy ending. That horrible feeling you have at work every day that you suck, your boss hates you, and you’re going to get fired? Oh, no – that’s not a sign that your mental health may need some immediate attention. And it’s not a sign that maybe you’re in the wrong job or the wrong company or working for the wrong boss. Everything is great! So you take the bushels of lemons that your job or your life is throwing at you and you open up a lemonade factory that operates 24X7X365 – even though you actually don’t really like lemonade.

Oh, wait a minute. I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about me! Yes, friends – I have been moonlighting as a lemonade producer for the past six months, and I have an abundance of inventory. I told myself that those signs I saw were something altogether different. I ignored the sudden phone calls I received from recruiters, convinced that I was planted firmly in the right place in spite of the increase in lemonade production. The signs started to get more dramatic and more frequent, but I put my head down and continued to produce both lemonade and some pretty high quality work outputs. My stress level on a scale of 1-10 was at a 432. My blood pressure was setting new hypertension records, even with medication. I couldn’t sleep. I alternated between not eating much and eating nonstop. My friends depression and anxiety popped by for an extended visit, and yet I continued to ignore the signs.

Just like a poorly placed road sign, I didn’t yield. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even pause. And then, just like in the [probably not a classic] movie, Bruce Almighty, I was hit with a truck full of signs. I could continue doing what I was doing and slowly kill myself or according to male nurse Steve at my clinic, drop dead of a stroke. Or I could answer those calls from recruiters and forge a different path. I answered the phone. I interviewed. I had to become okay with walking away from a really big important job at the 5^th largest company in the US in order to find myself and my own happiness. Most importantly, I had to get a job!

I’d love to tell you that I followed the signs and choreographed a beautiful and artistic end to one chapter and beginning to the next one. But some of you have seen me dance so you know better. What’s important is this . . . eventually, even my closet optimist had to cease lemonade production and admit that I couldn’t find my happiness where I was currently planted. There were some ugly moments and some real ugly crying. I missed the signs, perhaps deliberately, perhaps not. I let Hilda down. I let myself down.

After a short break in the action, this chapter has come to an end. I start a new chapter and a new job at a new company in just a few days. All the signs point to this being the right next thing.

©2019 Princess D

The Dude Abides

As you may have surmised by now, I’m not good at grief. As a general rule, I’m not really all that comfortable with emotions and feelings. I don’t like them. Yours, mine, ours – it matters not. All that feeling makes me itchy. In addition, it’s important to note that I am addicted to eyelash extensions. They are the miracle that lazy, clumsy, slobs have been waiting for. No longer do I stab myself in the eye on the daily trying to put mascara on my four tragic eyelashes in an attempt to look less pig-eyed and tired. With eyelash extensions, I can leap out of bed and after the “brush and flush” ritual, I comb out my lash extensions and boom! My eyes and I look ready for whatever the day throws at us. It’s an expensive and time-consuming addiction as the extensions do require maintenance – so it is important to treat them carefully. When I’m all in my feelings – especially the sad ones – I start to leak out of my eye holes. I believe this is called crying. Not a fan for a whole host of reasons, including that crying ruins your lashes. So there’s that.

Mental health professionals have spent the better part of the last decade trying to get me to feel my feelings. It’s important to note that I fired one of them for her aggressive tactics (see also: getting in touch with five year old me) and the other one is on real thin ice after laughing at me during a recent session. And yes, okay – I’ve been known to have some feels in the confines of my therapist’s office, where I extract my revenge by using more Kleenexes than I need to so that I feel like I’m getting something for my money. My apologies to the environment.

The problem is, the older you get, the harder it is to avoid your feels because life is stupidly hard. Should you be one of the lucky ones who manages to squeak through your 20’s with nothing more than some unpleasant student loan debt and maybe a fender bender on your pain resume . . . let me tell you. You’re in for a real treat when you grow up. Because life will decide to kick you in the proverbial gonads at some point – and if you’re unprepared for it like most of us are, you won’t be wearing a [again, proverbial] cup and it is going to hurt. A lot.

Back in a different chapter of my life, I was shacked up with Mr. Wrong. Fans of the frog blog will remember that Mr. Wrong took my money and my lawn mower and then kicked me to the curb. Thank God. (Except I’m still harboring some resentment about the lawn mower.) There was some good that came out of that terrible relationship though . . . and we named it The Dude. After buying my first house (and letting that parasite Mr. Wrong move in with me), Mr. Wrong decided that the only thing that would make our lives complete would be a pet – and so we decided to get a dog.

We visited the animal humane society week after week, looking for that perfect pet to bring into our home. About a month into our search, we spotted a beautiful fluffy dog with big sad brown eyes. Fast forward and we decided to bring The Dude home with us. I should have known when he jumped out of the window of my moving car – on the way home from the humane society! - That we’d be in for some adventures together.

I need to confess that I was not “team dog” at the time. I worried that a dog would be too much work for us. He would depend on us for things like toilet, food, love, attention – and frankly, a dog is a lot like a really furry baby that never gets potty-trained. Were we really ready for something like that? Mr. Wrong declared that we were and furthermore, took a solemn oath that he would take full responsibility for taking care of our dog.

Three days into dog ownership, I’m pretty smitten with The Dude. I mean, sure – he peed on the bedroom carpet, ate one of my shoes, and shed tumbleweeds of fur like it was a paying gig – but he was such a sweetheart. Imagine my surprise upon returning home from work on the third day of dog ownership to see Mr. Wrong piling the carsick prone Dude into his car. I was curious about their destination when Mr. Wrong looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m returning him. Dogs are too much work.”

Reader, I’d love to tell you that I dumped that guy’s sorry ass right then and there. Sadly, I did not and three more years passed before we parted ways. So, while not the sharpest knife in the drawer, I still knew that you don’t return a dog like an ill-fitting pair of shoes – and I put a stop to it. Mr. Wrong declared that by forbidding him to return the dog, I was in fact signing up for full pet responsibility. And so I did.

The Dude and I had many adventures together, including a small crime spree when The Dude allegedly bit our postal worker. Crimes against postal workers are taken very seriously in the city of Minneapolis, and the cops and animal control responded immediately. The Dude and I had a hearing – which we lost – and he was declared a potentially dangerous animal in the city of Minneapolis, a label that meant he had his own canine parole officer. He wasn’t supposed to go outside without a muzzle and he was supposed to be confined to a 3 foot leash. We were also forced to rent a post office box because they would no longer deliver mail to my door.

My inability to follow instructions, combined with my righteous indignation at having my pet declared a danger to society, was a recipe for disaster. There may have been an incident at Minneapolis Animal Control where I was asked to lower my voice and when I failed to comply, I may have been cuffed and stuffed into the back of a police car until I felt the fear of God. (That may have taken less than a block, in case you’re curious.)  

When Mr. Wrong left three years later – taking most of my money, my dignity, and my lawn mower with him – I fell into a deep depression. Had it not been for The Dude, I would have stayed in bed and avoided facing the world. But he needed me. He needed to be fed; walked, and loved. And he loved me back. This damn dog that I never even wanted, who nearly got me arrested, who peed on my carpet, snuck into my basement to poop, and who probably bit the mailman stole my heart. He is the reason I kept going, even when I didn’t want to.

You never really see your dog getting old in front of your eyes, and I held on to this belief that The Dude would live forever because I needed him to. He was there for me when I got dumped. He evaluated any number of potential frogs before we decided on Randy – whom he may have attacked when he first met him but again, that’s an unproven allegation. He was there when I sold my first house, the little house in the hood. He saw me through career changes, life changes, and he was absolutely thrilled to be part of our happily ever after.

18 months ago, our vet told me that The Dude had cancer. There were some treatment options, but she wanted me to know that at 13 years old, treatment probably wasn’t the best option, and we began the process of hospice, not knowing how much time we had left with our baby. And I’ll admit it. I hung on longer than I should have because I couldn’t bear to say goodbye. He was ready to go but I wasn’t ready to lose him.

12 months ago, we said goodbye to a dog who was more than a possible felon and more than a good boy. He was the BEST BOY and he was the reason I kept on keeping on even when I didn’t want to. No one will ever love you like your dog does – and no one will ever break your heart like your dog does either. Heartbroken, devastated, grieving, and so very sad – but this time, I didn’t have woman’s best friend to see me through it, and depression, anxiety, and grief all packed their suitcases and settled in for a long stay.

I tried to avoid feeling my feels, but it was impossible. I’d get into the car and see Dude’s dirty paw prints on the back seat. I’d put on a pair of black pants and his white fur would be clinging to the cuffs. I’d come home from work to a quiet and empty house. I went through the motions but I wasn’t really present in my own life.

We live in a world that is full of tragedy, pain, and grief. I think sometimes, we turn sadness into a competition – like, “Well, sure you lost your dog and that’s sad but Sarah lost her MOTHER. That’s a terrible tragedy.” A lot of people don’t understand grieving for your pet, and some of the well-intentioned folks I ran into said things like, “Well – you can always get another dog!” as if that would cheer me up. Did I tell Sarah she could get another mother? No, I did not because that would be insensitive and stupid (and also incorrect).

The fact of the matter is this. Everyone goes through hard times. It’s not our job to evaluate the depth, breadth, scope and impact of their hard times. We’re not project managing their pain. We also don’t always know their history. I’d like to think I held my shit together pretty well during a whole bunch of hard times that we don’t need to unpack here – but losing The Dude was the straw that broke this camel’s back, and I felt all the years of pent-up grief and sadness all at once.

Tough times are inevitable. You will have things that suck happen in your life and so will I. So if we know that we’re all going to go through some shit at some point or another, why not stop comparing our pain and competing for the award of saddest sack on earth and instead, find ways to love and support one another? Imagine what that might be like . . . and if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for The Dude.

© 2019, Princess D

Finding Your Tribe - and Tribal Leader

It’s been a minute (okay, more like a year) since I’ve put fingers to keyboard in any manner other than what is required to retain my employment and/or for the well-deserved mean tweets directed at the various and sundry people and institutions who annoy the crap out of me on the regular. So what brings me back to the keyboard now, you may ask? Good question. As it turns out, I’ve been able to confirm two previously suspected facts about myself recently. First, I most definitely have depression. It’s no different than having a stupid, nagging cough. No amount of wishful or positive thinking is going to make it better – but there are things that I can do to manage it and keep the beast as tame as possible. Second, writing is one of those things that actually helps me so I should do more of it, not less. (And in my defense, I have spent the better part of the last year “helping” write research papers and essays so that my beloved could obtain his bachelor’s degree. Mission accomplished but not without much whining from this gal, who is over APA. Completely.)

The more things change, the more they remain the same. Trite cliché, yes, but also true in my case. That’s the other reason I paused on my writing. Without anything new to say, I was just repeating the same stuff using different words. Even I know that’s boring. Here’s a list of things that remain true since the last time I checked in:

• ·    My imposter syndrome is alive and well
• ·    Adulting stresses me out and often gives me hives. True story. Anytime I think about filing my income taxes, I have an outbreak. This is similarly true for things like going to the dentist, DMV, etc.
• ·    I’m still trying to figure out my purpose and meaning in life. Why? I don’t know. I think that secret optimist way deep down believes that once I figure this out, the rest will fall into place. My overt cynic says to give it up – my purpose is to make money and pay the bills. I let them fight with each other.

There have been some changes and some wins over the past year as well. I promise, we’ll talk about those one of these days. But today, I want to talk about the importance of finding your tribe. As a textbook introvert and a stubbornly independent human being (I claim that my first words were, “Never mind, I’ll do it myself” although my mom continues to refute me with her version of facts which is that my first words were “woof-woof”.), I never really paid much attention to the importance of having a tribe until recently. Now would be an excellent time to cue up 1980’s hair band Cinderella’s song, “Don’t Know What You Got [Til It’s Gone]” as the soundtrack to this story.

Ever since nursery school, I’ve been on the outside looking in. My social awkwardness started at a young age, folks! Coupled with Krissy Feldges’ hand-me-downs and a series of questionable haircuts, I wanted to connect with people but couldn’t find a common ground or a connection. For some reason, the other four year olds didn’t have dozens of invisible friends and didn’t spend their free time reading books or making up stories. Weirdos. The first 20 years or so of my life weren’t much different. I attended school, I participated in extra-curricular activities, and I did stupid things to try to fit in and connect with people but for the most part . . . epic fail. I was way too much of an uptight goody-two shoes with a healthy fear of pissing off my parents to do much other than fulfill other people’s expectations.

Oddly enough, I live in a state where people complain that it’s hard to make friends because everyone already has enough. Unlike 99% of my neighbors, I don’t have a group of friends that I went to grade school with. I don’t really keep in touch with friends from high school, although I did attend a reunion. Once. I don’t think there’s any reason to do that again. I’ve largely lost track of my college pals. I’ve met a lot of people in my “between 30 and 70 years” on this earth and some of them have become true, ride or die friends – but in general, I just don’t form lasting bonds with many people. If you’re reading this and you are a true friend, don’t go getting all in your feels thinking that I’m not grateful for you. I am. I’m merely pointing out that I suck at connecting with people and you’ve probably had to do the bulk of the heavy lifting to maintain our relationship because this is not my jam. And I’m grateful for it and for you.

Raised by a feminist mom who had me marching in parades for the equal rights amendment long before I could vote, I changed directions from wanting to change the world to wanting to be a career woman like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, except without the shoulder pads. (I have notoriously broad shoulders on my own without any padding assistance, thank you very much.) And in spite of my imposter syndrome, my depression, my self-doubt, and all the other things that I do to get in my own way . . . I have a career.

I’ve been working at the same giant company for almost seven years. When I accepted the job back in 2012, I remember thinking, “Oh, I’ll do this for a year or so. I won’t stay here.” My intent was to work hard, collect the steady paycheck, and use the security and peace of mind to plan my wedding. I did all that and found myself unexpectedly liking the bureaucracy, chaos, and nonsense of being an HR professional in this environment. In seven years, I have worked for nine managers and I’ve had four distinctly different roles. Most of the time, I’ve been snickering to myself and wondering when people are going to catch on to the fact that I have no idea what in the holy heck I’m doing. And the rest of the time, I’ve largely felt lonely and misunderstood – both of which I’m quite familiar with. See also: my entire childhood.

A couple of years ago, my professional path crossed with someone who should have been just another in a series of random internal customers and acquaintances but who wound up playing a much different role. I met him as part of an interview process for one of the umpteen lateral moves I’ve made (side note, people: UP IS NOT THE ONLY WAY!) I’ve made. His reputation preceded him – although to be honest, I’d never heard of the guy before which goes to show you how clued in I am. But he did in fact have a reputation for being . . . difficult. (Translation: he’s a dick)  I was coached six ways from Sunday on how to show up in the interview – but I did my own thing. I was told, “You’ll be successful in this role if you can keep this guy from calling me all the time.”

I met him. I was myself for two reasons. First, who the hell else am I going to be? Secondly, I was interviewing for a lateral move with no pay increase so honestly, who am I trying to impress? I don’t know that I aced the interview, but I got the job – and so much more than I bargained for. For two years, I did some of the most engaging and meaningful work of my career. I made a difference. And I got paid for it! Beyond that, I found an advocate and an ally that I never imagined I could need or want. That guy? Let’s call him Dick. He was neither difficult nor a dick. He was simply misunderstood and underappreciated – largely due to a unique combination of futuristic thinking and wild impatience with both the status quo and the complacency of the majority of those around him. [Not a] Dick made my brain hurt and I worked my flat white girl ass off not to impress him but because I believed in his vision and I wanted to see it come alive.

Keep in mind; I’m a girl with an average IQ who is one wrong turn away from returning to the Bunny Store to sell Mountain Dew, Marlboros, and Twinkies. (Although it’s not on my resume, don’t forget that I worked at the Bunny Store for a full decade, which makes my tenure there my longest standing role to date.)  I went to a liberal arts college, achieved an unimpressive and mediocre GPA and never expected to amount to much – so every day that I pull a fast one on corporate America and don’t get fired is a thrill to me. But suddenly, not only did I find myself doing work I loved, I found that I had someone in my corner who saw things in me that I couldn’t or wouldn’t see in myself.

I will never forget the day that [Not a] Dick looked me in the eye and said, “I’m going to push you 50 yards past the edge of your comfort zone. It’s going to be hard. You’re going to question yourself. You’re going to question me. I need you to know that I am pushing you this hard because I believe in you. You can go 100 yards past the edge of your comfort zone and then some – but I’m only asking for 50. Yes, yes you can do it.” There haven’t been many people in my life who’ve looked at me and really seen me. Nate was one, and [Not a] Dick is another. Both left a profound impact on my life.

My career has evolved. I have a bigger job now. I felt so fortunate because I had the continued opportunity to collaborate with [Not a] Dick who was now my boss. Life was good, until the day the training wheels fell off. You see, [Not a] Dick had fulfilled his journey and purpose at our giant company, and although I still needed him, he was ready to start a new chapter somewhere else. And a little over 100 days ago, I said goodbye to my advocate, my ally, and more importantly, my friend.

We said goodbye about fifty times in as many awkward ways as a socially impaired introvert and a recovering dick can. Lots of people at work speculated that I was on my way out – because there was no way that I could succeed without [Not a] Dick by my side. Not a work day goes by that I don’t miss him, but I’m so proud of where his journey has taken him and of all the amazing ways he is making his mark on the world. But now that I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to have a work tribe, I feel a profound sense of emptiness without my tribal leader.

I wonder if I’m the only one who feels this way. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that I’m in good company in feeling alone, misunderstood, and like I’m faking it until I get caught or until I make it, whichever comes first. What would happen if we all just showed up, authentically and with all our warts? What if we lifted each other up instead of competing against one another to see who has the most “Pinterest perfect” life?

If you are fortunate enough to have a tribe – or a tribal leader – do me a favor. Call the Dick in your life and tell him you appreciate him.

©2019 Princess D