REVISION

I am totally disappointing my feminist-self. 

 

For years and years, I struggled with my body image — in high school, I actually used to fake sick to skip school just so that I could spend the day popping in different aerobics tapes into the VCR in my parents’ basement. I threw on my black and hot pink spandex, pulled my hair into a side-ponytail, and anticipated all of the 2-second cues before each move with Jane Fonda, Gilad, and Kathy Smith. On weekends, I ran miles and miles up to the local track and back again. I laid on the living room floor, listening to songs on my yellow, Sony, waterproof Walkman, and tuning out the world as I finished Side A doing nothing but crunches.

 

College was much of the same. I dated athletic men who made me feel like they only wanted to be with a woman who had an athletic body. So, I continued the obsession. And, compulsion.

 

Then, in my senior year of college, I began dating a man — now, husband — who fell in love with how smart I was, how well I sang, and the way my confidence stopped a room.  He saw me through my own destructive behavior, my own defeating thoughts, and helped me appreciate the power I had to turn things around. He never once made me feel that I needed to be a certain weight or a certain type of body. And, after carrying and delivering our first child, I began to believe that my body had power, too. The year I was pregnant with our first child was the year I stopped hating, viciously,  how I looked. And, two years later, when that little girl’s body began to betray her with cancer, I knew that I needed to fully come to terms with how my own body was designed to look, behave, and feel. She needed me. She needed to hear that our bodies are sometimes judged by others, but that we must be strong and help others be strong, too.

 

But, old habits are hard to break. For the majority of my life, I’ve hated my body. And, slowly I’ve been chipping away at that wall. With messages all around us, still surrounding us, there are days when it just isn’t easy. Lately, I’ve been thinking about going back into the operating room to have a revision done on my reconstruction. Bras just don’t fit me at all, my breasts just look so out of proportion to the rest of my body, and I’ve become very self-conscious about how they look. The revision process is actually easy; but, I find myself fantasizing about having liposuction to reduce the fat around my middle, or a gastric bypass to finally help me in a way that diet and exercise just aren’t doing. For the past few weeks, I’ve been obsessing about a thinner — a better — version of me.

 

“Liza, why is there a half-cut lemon and a tin of cayenne pepper doing on the counter?” asked a confused husband when he walked in the door.  Rightfully so. 

 

Yes, yes, friends. I admit…. if the Lemon-Pepper-Water diet worked for Beyonce, then it was worth a try for me, too. Shit, girlfriend lost 20 pounds in like two weeks! I have a fancy dinner, a rock show, my college reunion, and summer bathing suit season coming up! My obsession was turning into action.

 

But, unfortunately (or, thankfully?), I just can’t bring myself to behave the way I used to. By 10am, when I had already had my first 32 ounces of Lemon-Pepper-Water, I realized how stupid this all was. Sat down. Had a talk with myself (I was home on a vacation day, so it wasn’t all that weird to be talking to myself). And, laughed at the absurdity. Then, I grabbed a bagel, smiled, and went about my day being productive.

 

It was today when I realized that my mind might actually be changing. That, finally, after nearly 10 years since the day I got pregnant, and 10 years of telling myself that I’m good, I’m smart, and I’m strong, I might actually be believing it. 

 

That doesn’t mean that I don’t try to hide my stomach rolls when I sit down in a chair. Doesn’t mean I don’t do the “skinny arm” pose when I take pictures or make sure that people shoot me from “my good side.” Oh, yea. I’m not giving that stuff up! But, it does mean that  a part of me is letting go of the hatred, the meanness, and the belief that “If I were just 10 pounds lighter, I’d be a better person.”

 

My body isn’t perfect. Neither is my mind.

 

But, like any good work of art, it’s definitely going through some revision.

 

Peace, love, and constantly editing,

Liza

 

 

 

 

TAKING CARE

I’m a total over-planner. 

In anticipation of the 1/2 marathon on Sunday,  I stocked up on whole wheat bread and a fresh jar of natural peanut butter (my favorite pre-run food), re-laced my shoes to be snug in the right places, washed my running bra (the one that doesn’t squish my implants too much), and even put on the “Women Warriors” iron-on on my new grey tech shirt in honor of my Cancer Wellness women.  A few weeks ago, I picked up a stack of energy gels and a bag of sport chews for race day. All week, I’ve been drinking water (okay, okay, and some beer and wine during late night paper writing), eating carbs, and trying to add an hour of sleep to my 4-5 hours I’ve been getting this past year. I’ve done everything to prepare for this race.

Everything, but train.

See, I haven’t run in over 3 weeks. And, while that run was a solid push — it was in honor of my middle daughter’s birthday — I haven’t spent enough time on my feet logging in miles. I’ve been inconsistent — choosing writing papers over running miles. Reading journal articles over hitting mile-splits.

During the fall semester, I had a lot on my plate: full time doctoral classes, full time work, full time mom, and even auditioned and joined a working band that rehearsed twice a week. I also started working with a friend to launch a non-profit that provides pathways to higher education for students from under-served communities, and I stepped up as the Chair of an alumni committee from my undergraduate college. I was driving the kids to and from karate, gymnastics, school and after-school programs, soccer, and social activities. During the fall semester, my oldest child broke her arm, and we were back-and-forth to the hospital every 2 weeks for check ups. I had follow-up surveillance for my own BrCA appointments, and my full plate was looking more and more like a Las Vegas buffet.

But, in all of those activities and responsibilities, I thrive. I actually love stress. I love working in an optimal level of  ”To-Do.” I can honestly say that there is very little in my life that I “wish I was doing” — I’m doing it all. And, I’m loving it.

I’ve always viewed my activities and responsibilities as “taking good care” of myself. I’m intellectually stimulated; I feel (most of the time) valued at work; I’m in a loving marriage; I get to raise three fantastic kids; and I’m living my dream of singing again. I’m surrounded by supportive and inspirational friends and family; and, I’m essentially in good health. I am blessed to be busy.

 

Through all of this, though, one thing that I wasn’t doing last semester was running. I love running. I love the soreness of my legs after hill sprints, the tightness in my core after training, and the rhythmic and predictable sound of my sneakers on the pavement. I love hearing the voices of my musical friends echoing through my headphones as I pace myself by singing along with them.  I love the sweat on my forehead, the redness in my cheeks, and even the occasional blister that shows up after a long run.

In January 2012, I registered for another half marathon. Knowing that my spring semester was going to be intellectually brutal, training was going to be my way of focusing on health and strength. It was going to be my way of taking care of my body.  

But, lately, the realization that I haven’t spent time training has hit home. This past week, I was faced with not achieving my goal — a pretty rare experience for me.

“Liza, it’s not that you aren’t capable of running 13.1 miles, it’s that doing so could harm your ability to achieve your other goals. If you get hurt, it might mean you don’t have the energy to finish your papers for class, or participate in end-of-year activities with your seniors, or not be able to sing in your next show. It’s not about whether you can do it, it’s about whether you should do it,” said Jorge one night.

The decision to not run the half marathon is one of the most difficult ones I’ve had to make in a long time. It wasn’t a difficult decision to be a full time working student, to sing in a band, or to train for the half marathon.  That was just me seeing my busy life as a privilege.  But, making the decision to put myself — my health — before my goals is tough.  A part of me feels like a failure for not running tomorrow; another part of me feels like a really empowered individual who knows what’s good for me.

This experience reminds me that life is filled with decisions that challenge our own sense of self-worth. It requires us to face whether we are doing harm or doing good -- if we are giving up, or simply giving in.

Not running tomorrow’s half marathon is  giving in to the truth that doing no harm must include doing no harm to ourselves. To myself.

The stack of energy gels are still on my counter top, my laces are perfectly snug, and my running bra will still be clean for my next leisurely 8-mile run. My friends will still be keeping me company through my headphones, and the rhythm of my sneakers will always welcome me back.  My papers will get done, my seniors will graduate, and my kids will still be proud of me.  And, I’ll be able to role model for them that not running the half marathon actually DOES helps me to realize the most important goal of all:  Do No Harm.

 

We are really good at taking care of others, of business, and of responsibilities.

 

If only taking care of ourselves was as easy.

 

Peace, love and learning to do no harm,

Liza

LOVE THAT SAVES THE DAY

I was recently invited to speak at the Asian Breast Cancer Project gala, a fantastic organization that supports women from AAPI backgrounds to access culturally relevant information about cancer screenings, diagnosis and support. After the event, a number of people asked for copies of my remarks, so here they are!

To learn more about the Asian Breast Cancer Project, please visit their Facebook page here. 

This post today is dedicated to Chien-Chi Huang, the fearless organizer of the ABC Project who is, herself, a cancer survivor. This past week, as Chien-Chi was selflessly organizing the gala, her mother died of cancer.

Chien-Chi, this is for you. 

“Good evening, and thank you for this opportunity to share my own story with you and the reasons I am involved in the Asian Breast Cancer Project. My name is Liza Talusan, and I am a BrCA positive, previvor, with quite an extensive history of cancer in my family. Many aunts, uncles, grandparents have had cancer.  Some are alive, some have passed. Even my own daughter, at the age of 2, was diagnosed with a rare pediatric cancer called retinoblastoma.  So my family is no stranger to surgeries, radiation, chemotherapy, living and dying.

One of the lessons I am most thankful for in this twisted cancer journey is about bravery. I have seen my 2-year old daughter hooked up to IV tubes of chemotherapy, exposed in a small paper gown while the rest of us were in protective shields and rubber masks.  I have watched my older sister brush clumps of her long, silky, black hair out while getting ready for my brother’s wedding – her first dose of chemo had just occurred a week prior.  I have watched my aunts seem to shrink as their bone density decreased at the age of 50.  I have kneeled at the pews of my Catholic church, praying for the peaceful rest of family members. We know bravery to be about being strong, about being resilient, and about being tough. In one of my favorite songs, we talk about “being bad, bold, wiser. Hard, tough, and stronger. Cool, calm, stay together.”  But, for me, bravery has been about being exposed.  Bravery has been about admitting when I cannot handle it all, when I cannot do it by myself, and when I must ask for help.

When my oldest sister was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 36, her doctors recommended she have the genetic test to see if she carried the BrCa gene, a genetic mutation that could give her, roughly, an 85% chance of developing breast cancer and a 60% chance of developing ovarian cancer.  Because she tested positive, my sister Grace and I also tested and received the same results.  My sister Grace and I were lucky – we were now armed with the knowledge of our BrCa mutation, could take steps to surgically reduce our risks of cancer, and we both elected to have prophylactic bilateral mastectomies. The three of us women are in the process now of exploring having oopherectomies, or the removal of our ovaries to reduce our risks of ovarian cancer.

Being able to go through this process of understanding our BrCa mutation and the surgeries we both required and elected to have, has been relatively easy because of the support system my sisters and I created for one another. We talked about our frustrations, our anger, our “WHY ME?” moments.  We showed one another our scars, and talked openly about what bras worked and didn’t work, who wanted tattoos and who didn’t, how we felt about our bodies, and what being BrCa has meant to us as women, as mothers, and as partners.

When Chien-Chi approached me, just after my surgery, about the Asian Breast Cancer project, I knew that I wanted to be involved and NEEDED to be involved.  See, when I was preparing for my mastectomy, I had made a commitment to train for two half marathons.  I wasn’t a runner – at all – and my idea of exercise was watching my children play tag.  When I decided that I would have my mastectomy, I knew I needed to be in the best shape possible to aid in my recovery.   I started a blog called Marathon B4 Mastectomy.  Over my year of training, I passed by hundreds of people –or, more accurately, they passed me. I shared the road with many runners, and was on message boards about health, training, and recovery. Though I shared much in common with runners and with people going through cancer, I was obvious to me that my olive skin, black hair, and Asian heritage was something I did not share with many.  On long runs, I never encountered other Asian runners. I don’t see Asian runners featured in my running magazines.  And, even to this day on message boards about cancer and health, I have only read from a handful of Asian survivors and patients.

One time, I got excited that I was reading a post from an Asian woman!

Yeah, that woman turned out to be my sister, Grace. Oh, well. 

I have even attended conferences specifically for BrCa individuals, and my sisters and I are well aware that we are one of the only API women in the room.  So, when Chien –Chi told me about the research that supports the need for the Asian Breast Cancer project, I knew she was on to something.  I knew that Asian and API women were, of course, diagnosed with cancer.  In my own family, there were many. Yet, where were they on the message boards, in the support groups, and in outreach?  As the Director of Intercultural Affairs at a college, I know the various cultural reasons why people from Asian or Pacific Islander backgrounds might not engage publicly – I see this play out in the lives of my students and in other Asian American organizations in which I am involved.

Yet, I am also deeply moved by the kind of support that I had from my own sisters.  That being able to talk about cancer, health, our bodies in a safe space has helped our healing. Though I have had these conversations with my siblings, I found it difficult to go to my first ABC event. What will I see? Who will be there? What will this feel like?

Thankfully, I quickly experienced that coming to the Asian Breast Cancer events actually felt like home.  The women looked like my mom, my sisters and my cousins.  I fought the temptation to call them “Tita” and “Ate” or “aunt” and “older sister.”

I was surrounded by women who – though they had different journeys from my own – looked like me.  Many ate the same foods as me and my family.  We felt the same discomfort about talking so openly about our bodies, our relationships with others, and the ways in which cancer, at times, made us feel less than who we are.

The Asian Breast Cancer Project also helped to raise the level of understanding and engagement with others. For example, a few months ago, we invited a nutrition expert to come and talk to the peer leaders. Though there are other nutrition workshops for cancer survivors, we talked about culturally relevant foods and practices. We talked about the role white rice played in our lives and the way our mouths watered when we thought about vinegary fragrance of chicken adobo or kim chi.  We talked about bok choy, noodles, and beef broth – not as “exotic new diets” but simply as “food we eat on a Monday.”

For me, the Asian Breast Cancer Project has been a source of support, encouragement and education. But, it has also served as my foundation of empowerment, of validation and of sisterhood. It feels like home. It feels like family. And, it is a place where I can feel authentically me. Though I am without my breasts and will soon be without my ovaries, with these women, I feel whole.  The wonderfully talented doctors may have saved my life by removing my breasts; but the Asian Breast Cancer has saved my spirit. To be with them is to be in healing.  We can love one another through this.

Please join me as we continue raise awareness of the experiences of patients and survivors from Asian and Pacific Islander heritage.  Yet, as we celebrate love, laughter and life here together in this room, I can’t help but think of all the API patients and survivors who are out there, right now, wondering if there is anyone who understands them, anyone who “gets” them or anyone who could possibly know what it feels like. Help us reach them, uplift them, encourage them, connect with them. Help us laugh with them, celebrate with them, and love them through cancer, recovery, and the many difficult decisions we all make in our lives.

Let us reach out, be brave, and demonstrate that bravery can be about letting ourselves be exposed. Bravery has been about admitting when I cannot handle it all, when I cannot do it by myself, and when I must ask for help. I am thankful for the help, for the kindness, and for the sisterhood that the Asian Breast Cancer has given to me. They help me continue my bravery, and I know I can go to them whenever I feel I just can’t do it by myself. They remind me to be bad, bold, and wiser; hard, tough, and stronger, cool, calm and how to stay together. For me, the Asian Breast Cancer Project is the love that saves the day.

Thank you.”

HOW WE LOOK

Though Marathon B4 Mastectomy has been my outlet for the past two years, some of you may know that I write on other blogs with a more race and justice focus. I tend to reserve my Mb4M blog for issues of cancer, disability, motivation, and living life.

 

So, I have hesitated to post my sadness and frustration about the tragic death of Trayvon Martin here. Yet, I’m moved. And you know me … when it hits me, I can’t shake it. 

 

Whenever I meet a group of people for the first time — via workshops, classes, or training sessions that I facilitate — one of my favorite introductory exercises starts like this: “One thing you can’t tell just by looking at me is __________. That’s important for me to share with you because _________.”  Participants are then asked to complete the sentences and share with the others their answers. Mine usually goes like this:

 

“Hi! My name is Liza. One thing you can’t tell just by looking at me is that I am an avid runner, I have run half marathons, and I am incredibly physically fit. That’s important for me to share with you because I am a plus-sized woman, I wear a size 16, and most people assume that women with my body are lazy, fat, and don’t care about their health. I’m here to tell you that I’m fit, fabulous, and love how strong my body is both inside and out.”

 

As we go around the room, people share interesting details about themselves and why those details are so important to them. We then talk about how we often judge people by how they look and the dangers of making assumptions about folks.

 

As the mother of a son with brown skin, the wife of a husband with brown skin, the aunt of nephews with brown skin, the sister of brothers with brown skin, and a mentor to many young people with brown skin, I am terrified by the death of young Trayvon Martin and of the death of DJ Henry (a young college student from my hometown).  The men and boys in my life already have learned the rules of “looking suspicious” (rules that the young white males in my life do not need for survival).

 

But, when they have done everything right, and still get hassled, treated as suspicious, or worse, beaten or killed, what is there left to tell them? 

 

Do I tell my son to not leave the house? To never wear a hoodie? As he gets older, we will tell him to always carry ID, to be well spoken, polite to law enforcement, and to cooperate if he is ever pulled over or pulled aside. Though he may be angry at what is happening to him, he will learn that his anger in the face of authority will rarely lead to a good outcome. He will make decisions about whether or not he will want to, or whether his heart will call him to rise up, protest, and refuse to be treated poorly. And, my husband and I will support him. We will love him through the struggles that come with being a young, brown man in our society. We will love him through the “it’s not fair!’ and the “why me?” and the “why are they treating me this way?” Because we have been there, and unfortunately, hearts and minds don’t always change quickly.

 

The other day, Joli said to me, “Mommy, if you were a smurf, I’d call you Beauty Smurf.” I replied, “Oh! You’re so sweet! You think I’m beautiful?” She said, “Well, no, actually. I’d call you Beauty Smurf because you like to put on so much makeup that it covers up your beauty. So, if I call you Beauty Smurf, maybe you’ll stop. Your face is pretty, brown, and beautiful.”

 

Pretty. Brown. Beautiful.

 

One thing I hope my children, and all children of color, can tell just by looking at me is that being brown is a blessing. It is beautiful. Being brown does not mean we are suspicious. Wearing a hoodie does not make us suspicious.  We are people. We have futures.

 

And that’s important for me to share with you because a family, a community, and a world lost another young person simply because of how he looked.

 

When my brother-in-law, an African American man, turned 25 years old, my sister wanted to throw a party — not just to celebrate his birthday, but also to celebrate an age that many young, Black men do not reach because of violence.  On Saturday, my beautiful, brown son is turning 3 years old.

 

I pray each year that he has many, many, many more. And, I pray that we create a society together that embraces — and does not condemn — him for how he looks.

 

Peace, love, dignity and humanity,

Liza

 

UNLESS YOU TRY

Nearly 24 hours later, I am still high off the feeling of performing live with The Heartsleeves last night. It’s managed to even surpass the “morning after headache” that I have. After going to bed at 2am, I somehow sprung out of bed at 7:30am (no kids in the house, mind you!), took a shower, sang in said shower, got dressed, went to the grocery (hummed along to the songs still resonating in my head), did laundry, cleaned the house, and even started homework — all while fueled from the feeling of last night.

I’m addicted.

Singing live was like that feeling of being right at the very top of the roller coaster — you know, those brief 2 seconds when you are teetering, ready to go over the edge. You can see the entire world, and for but a moment, the air feels just right. Your heart is racing, your hands are bracing the railing just seconds before they fly up into the air, your eyes widen, and you take one more breath through your lips. That’s how I’ve felt for the past 24 hours.

That feeling was, of course, made possible by the show of support from all different pockets of friends — people who decided that coming out to a bar at 10:45pm was worth it. That I was worth it. And, though they had never heard a note of the CD, never heard of the band, and didn’t know anyone else there, they came. For me, in that moment, the room was filled with love: the people I loved most, the music that has made me fall in love again, and the love I needed to have for myself to take the risk on stage. I saw friends smiling, my husband cheering me on from the front row, and strangers making eye contact with us.

Though my philosophy of life has been shaped by Joli, my singing has been shaped by Jada. Now, Jada doesn’t get a whole lot of attention on this blog. Mostly because she’s a pretty easy child. In fact, when she was an infant, I actually almost left without her a few times from my parents’ house. Jorge, Joli and I would race out the door, and inevitably, one of my family members would say, “Uh, aren’t you forgetting someone? Ahem. Jada?” Dang. Back up the stairs one of us would go, grab my tiny happy baby all strapped into her car seat, and then head out the door. Head hung in shame.

That “quiet-baby-phase” didn’t last too long though. In fact, that quiet baby evolved into SassyJada.

Sassy. Sassy. Sassy. Jada.

(who, by the way, now insists she ISN’T sassy … as she puts her hands on her hips, stares you down, cranks her neck, and says, “I’m telling you. I am NOT sassy.”)

By the age of 2, Jada was already spittin’ out comebacks, snarky remarks, and comments that would make your head whip around and say, “Um, what did you just say?” Eventually we just had to share these comments with world via Twitter (@sassyjadasays) because they were just too funny to keep to ourselves. Let me be clear, though. Jada isn’t rude, fresh or naughty. Just the opposite. She’s the sweetest little bug-a-boo you ever want to be around. She just also keeps it real. Very, very real.

About a year and a half ago, Jada was the one who called me out for not following my dreams. And, now, two live shows later, I can’t believe I didn’t try earlier.

Singing, for me, has always been a part of my being. I’ve always been a singer. My earliest memories are of making my Mama Lola (grandmother) sit and watch me sing the entire soundtrack of “Grease.” (little did I know what the lyrics meant!). In elementary school, I’d sit on my front porch with my friend Amy Burke and, at the top of our lungs, sing the entire soundtrack to “Annie.” That soon led to writing my own songs, composing the music, and even starting a fake band called “Ceryous” (a.k.a. “Serious” like “Are you SERIOUS?”) with my friend Jill Horowitz. Jill and I even sent out fake pitch letters — early signs that I’d love grant writing as an adult — to my relatives asking them for money to help produce our first album. No one sent us anything. Maybe it was because we were only 11 years old and wrote it in magic marker on old scrap paper from my Dad’s office.

Soon came Show Choir (please, no one post the pink fuscia dresses that we had to wear. The image of me still makes my sister Mary pee her pants from laughing so hard!). Musical theater. Then, Williams Street Mix acappella. Then APC Rhythm in New York City. Started my own acappella group at the private school where I taught. Then, I sort of lost the confidence in singing publicly. Soon, singing became only something I did to pass the time with Joli in chemo.

But, now, singing is my drug. I love the high, and I find ways to re-create it all the time. The car. My desk. Walking the grocery aisles. I actually downloaded a “Countdown” app for my phone so I can watch how much time is left until our next show.

(Shameless plug: April 13th at Gulu Gulu cafe in Salem, MA; probably a 10pm start time)

I breathe it.

I owe this to a then 4- year old. A four year old girl who reminded me that I’d never know unless I tried. I shudder to think what I would have missed.

She was right.

Peace, love, and moving through the risk,

Liza

GROUNDED

For the past few days, I’ve been getting ready to give the keynote address at the University of Rhode Island. I’ve been asked to speak about women, mentorship, and leadership to a room full of people who, likely, have way more leadership experience and mentoring wisdom than I do!

But, as I struggled to write and attempt to sound impressively fantastic, I ended up deleting it all and writing one word: “JOLI.”

The truth is, Joli has demonstrated more leadership in her little life than I have in my entire thirty-something years. And, though I’m pretty hard on her, and could be a heck of a lot nicer to her most days, she reminds me of the kind of leader I hope to be: calm, compassionate, and people-first.

The other day, Joli got grounded for a week. Unfortunately, it’s school vacation week (bad timing, sister!), and she is required to go to bed at 7:00pm every night — before her 5-year old sister, before her 2-year old brother. Why did she get grounded? Because she stopped to pet a cat. 

Now, as you can imagine, there is much more to this story. Or, maybe not. See, Joli is always the “slowpoke” in our family. Ask her to do something and maybe, just maybe, it’ll get done. Not because she’s stubborn, not because she’s rude or defiant. It’s simply because she stops to do something else. On this particular grounding-day, when my husband asked Joli to get inside the house because he was late for work, she stopped to pet a cat. 

I totally understood why my husband was mad, though. Every day, we ask Joli to hurry up. Get moving. Stay focused. Get your shoes on Brush your teeth Pick up your clothes Eat your breakfast Grab your backpack Finish your homework GoGoGoGoGoGoGo.

“Joli, why the heck did you stop to pet a CAT?” I asked her, slightly annoyed because I felt like my husband was totally justified for grounding her.

“Because, Mom. I bet no one even told the cat today day that he was loved today.”

Sigh. 

Joli is still grounded for the week and has been sent to bed at 7pm each night.

But, it really is Joli who keeps me grounded every day.

Peace, love, and seeking strength from even the youngest of mentors,

Liza

EMBRACING SUCCESS

A few weeks ago, my sister Grace sent along an article called “20 Ways to Get Good Karma.”  These days, I’ll read just about anything that does not have an introduction, methods section, discussion of findings, or conclusion (nerdy reference to all of the scholarly articles I’ve been reading these days). Heck, I’ve even broken all of my own rules and actually subscribed to “Women’s Day Magazine” just so I can waste time be entertained with things like “20 Ways to Use Your Crockpot.” 

This past week had me questioning my abilities — my ability to be a wife, a mother, a full time director, a full time doctoral student, a rock star back up singing musician, friend, sister, daughter, lover of television where high school kids sing songs from the 90s. On Wednesday, after working every night until 1am in the office, I broke down and began to ask myself which of my abilities had to go. Which of my paths needed to be less followed?

And, the answer was: None of Them.

Each of these brings me fulfillment in different ways. I feel complete being able to give and receive love, to spark ideas in my brain that previously did not exists, to read and engage in concepts that make me think differently about the world in which we live, to share those ideas with my kids and figure out how to make a better world for them, to sing and appreciate the space my voice takes up, and to snuggle on my couch and watch cheesy television. All of these make me who I am. 

It is a privilege to be busy. It is a gift to be able to use what I have, to discover what I don’t know, and to have the support to pursue my dreams. 

#18: Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.

Peace, love, and learning to embrace success, 

Liza