tag:hopelafferty.com,2005:/blogs/life-after-wellnessLife After Wellness by Hope Lafferty2023-11-07T14:00:09-08:00Hope Laffertyfalsetag:hopelafferty.com,2005:Post/70555302022-09-07T19:46:19-07:002023-10-16T07:59:25-07:00Sitting Still or Still Sitting?<p>In May, I broke both wrists. </p>
<p>That makes it sound like my injury was self-inflicted. </p>
<p>Dadgum reflexive verbs... </p>
<p>I slipped and fell. Gravity took it up a notch. </p>
<p>But let's be frank. Before I slipped and fell, I took a risk. </p>
<p><span class="font_xl">Deciding to Go All In </span></p>
<p>I've always considered myself a seeker. From my save-the-world days as a post-feminist and clinical social worker to my save-myself days as an essayist and spiritual troubadour, I have long viewed self-exploration as the ultimate adventure. </p>
<p>The best part about all these identities: they involve a lot of sitting. </p>
<p>Reading. Writing. Listening. Meditating. Pretty low-impact. </p>
<p>No impact, even. </p>
<p>Over the past few years—pandemic notwithstanding—I, like Gravity, took it up a notch. </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Making An Impact </span></p>
<p>A year ago, I moved to the North Coast of California to start a 9-month professional training program in physical theatre. </p>
<p>Simply put, I went to clown school with a bunch of 20-year-old acrobats. </p>
<p>Enrolling in a physically rigorous conservatory program in my mid-50s reminded me daily of my limitations. Even when I wasn't limiting myself. </p>
<p>The realities of speed, flexibility, and youth—let alone pelvic floor integrity and keeping my contacts hydrated—upended my comfort zone. </p>
<p>But that was the point. Quixotically jabbing the windmills of my self-exploration got me out of my chair. Facilitated my next level of awareness. Tapped capabilities I didn't even know I had. </p>
<p>As the program progressed, I even found myself setting the pace. </p>
<p>Sure, my crabwalk was slower and clumsier than my cohort, but after 30 years of abdominal weight machines, I laid out the room with how many crunches I could do. </p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Joke's on Me </span></p>
<p>The one thing I figured out early and often was that I am not a jumper. I was able to attain some lift in my cartwheels and I became a kindergartner again doing somersaults. </p>
<p>But jumping proved too much for this old broad. Throughout the program, I struggled to get any height at all and my landings remained less than delicate. </p>
<p>And yet, I was undeterred. </p>
<p>What risk did I take before I slipped and fell? </p>
<p>* Spoiler Alert * </p>
<p>I jumped. </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Disarming Myself </span></p>
<p>Talk about making an impact. </p>
<p>The beautiful thing about all this training was that both wrists broke symmetrically. Both bones in both wrists. I landed perfectly balanced. Just in the wrong way. </p>
<p>The grand irony was that I got back to my go-to move: sitting. </p>
<p>On the surface, it appeared that nothing changed. I returned in my comfort zone—albeit a bit less comfortable. </p>
<p>The big question then: was it worth the risk? </p>
<p><span class="font_xl">Zen and the Art of Risk Taking </span></p>
<p>Many of us don’t have to endure two broken wrists to feel sidelined. In fact, a lot of times our sitting back is self-imposed by our own ego. </p>
<p>We might hate feeling vulnerable. <br>We might fear getting it wrong. <br>We might cower at any perceived lack of perfection. </p>
<p> I call this condition self benching. </p>
<p>Our hesitation—however slight—takes us out of the game. </p>
<p>Compound that with the past 2 1/2 years concerned about viruses and other peoples' exposure to those viruses and their subsequent possible exposure to us—that collective traumatic hesitation certainly does not help our tendency to self bench. </p>
<p><span class="font_large">When to Jump </span></p>
<p>Turns out, with 2 broken wrists, it's really hard to hold a book, grip a pen, or open a journal. So key aspects of my comfort zone—reading and writing—were surprisingly out. </p>
<p>But I could still listen and I could still meditate. One could argue that these are the most important activities for healing and self-exploration. </p>
<p>At this writing, both my healing and my self-exploration continue to unfold. Not as fast or as fully as I wish, of course. But progressing. </p>
<p>Crabwalks and cartwheels? Not so much. Holding books and using pens? More comfortable—and legible—by the day. Even my juggling is coming back. </p>
<p>If there’s anything that we can face as we move into the last quarter of this year, let’s get ourselves off the bench. </p>
<p>Let’s get back in the game. </p>
<p>Make an impact. </p>
<p>Say it with me: it's always worth the risk.</p>Hope Laffertytag:hopelafferty.com,2005:Post/65269952021-01-21T12:28:12-08:002021-01-21T12:47:42-08:00What's the Opposite of Eat Pray Love?<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/156906/81b56539fddcd4ea61dd4dad6ec8c4dc7d442b10/original/purposewarning.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>When I decided to leave my husband over a year ago now, my original plan was to move up to my folks' place temporarily. They have a little studio on their property where I planned to live, to be close but not encroach on their life toooo much. I also thought I could keep some semblance of independence and not subsume myself into the daughter-only role. </p>
<p>It seemed like a good short-term plan. Afford me the chance to cool my heels, figure out what I was actually doing with my life, and give myself time and space to plan my next steps. My next adventure. </p>
<p>I hadn't factored a pandemic into the paradigm of this life transition. </p>
<h4>Last Friday night, I found myself weeping alone in my parked car. I had just accomplished my biggest success of the day: to purchase the correct formulation of stool softener for my mother. </h4>
<p>Mine is not a romantic adventure of reinvention. I am not a young divorcee. Nor is this my first divorce. Plus, because this is Hope's LAW (Life After Wellness), I already know how to eat, pray, and love. </p>
<h3>Eat (Your Heart Out) </h3>
<p>For starters, I grew up in an Italian family. My mother's a red-headed Italian and my grandmother was the oldest girl in a Southern Italian immigrant family with 14 kids (12 of them boys). So they knew how to cook. And I learned how to eat and eat well. </p>
<p>Add to that my youth spent in 4-H. Not the agricultural hog-raising horse-jumping 4-H that most people think of. My club and my involvement focused life skills and leadership. I learned early how to cook, bake, sew, quilt, embroider, knit, crochet, and then compete at a state level with all these skills. (On paper, I should make a great wife...) </p>
<p>I parlayed those life skills into my first work-study job as a cook's helper at my college residence. My roommate and I prepared supper Monday through Thursday for our mostly international housemates. Not only did I become skilled at cooking (and grocery shopping) for groups of 40, my roommate and I also had access to the kitchen anytime we wanted. Two young women and an industrial kitchen? Score! </p>
<p>All this adds up to lifelong skills of knowing how to cook, knowing what to eat, and knowing how to stay healthy. I am the poster child of that slogan from the 70s: I am what I eat. </p>
<h3>Pray (Away the Cray) </h3>
<p>I've been meditating my entire adulthood. I didn't travel across the world to start my path to enlightenment. My path started in a college classroom. Sitting at one of those metal chair-desks. No change of clothes. I didn't even take off my shoes. Or my glasses. </p>
<p>I had no idea that I was going to learn how to meditate when I walked into class. </p>
<p>(Wanna talk about how the Divine works? That's how. Accept the gift.) </p>
<p>My grad school years took me away from my meditation practice (though I was living with a couple of Buddhists, so perhaps not). But as a young psychotherapist, I explored many methods to both quiet my mind and explore nonordinary capacities of the mind.* </p>
<p>Amid my spicerack approach to spirituality, a few practices stand out: </p>
<p>Learning Kundalini yoga from a couple of Sikhs in Madison, Wisconsin, at age 28, and coming to grips with the power of the breath of fire <br>Studying Transcendental Meditation in DC as my 52st birthday present to myself— I explained to my instructor that I didn't feel particularly "mindful"; I simply felt "full" <br>Employing solfeggio frequencies with one of my daily 20-minute meditation sessions (these are strange sounds and tap something that my mind cannot explain away) </p>
<p>After decades of meditation, I can't say that I'm great at it. (Pro tip: if anyone ever admits to being great at meditation, walk away.) That's the point though: journey vs destination. </p>
<h3>Love (With Your Whole Heart) </h3>
<p>You might think a professional divorcee like myself might have some battle scars from the love field. On the contrary, I'm a fangirl of the love. </p>
<p>My perspective centers around one idea: </p>
<h4><em>The best relationships allow us to become who we truly are. </em></h4>
<p>This applies to every relationship. Marriages. Friends. Family. Colleagues. Even randos at truckstops and baristas you'll never see again. </p>
<p>It's all about growth. Sometimes we grow with each other. Sometimes we grow away from each other. We recognize these shifts in direction because we are growing. Like a plant seeking the sun. </p>
<p>Sure, it gets bumpy. We all have feelings. We all have hearts. We all want to feel comfortable in our own skin. We all want to surround ourselves with others that help us get there—from our life partners to that anonymous barista. </p>
<p>Maybe I marry well. Maybe I know how to pose a question to get the answer I seek. Maybe I'm working with limited resources, so I have to make due with my current circumstances. </p>
<p>No fanfare. No extravagance. Stool softener. </p>
<p>Maybe it's not about what is the opposite of eat, pray, love. Because we're in Hope's LAW, maybe I'm asking "what's next?" </p>
<p>What's Post Eat Pray Love? </p>
<p>Meta, y'all. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>#wellness #selfcare #lifeafterwellness #hopester </p>
<p><span class="font_small">* Not drug use btw—but too esoteric for this article.</span></p>Hope Laffertytag:hopelafferty.com,2005:Post/64990092020-12-16T21:10:00-08:002021-01-21T12:50:03-08:00When Seth Godin Says Learn to Juggle...<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/156906/d7bef9b44a46a7d73c868bcdc2fdb00653f68772/original/20200111-114353.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<h3>...Learn to Juggle </h3>
<p>I thought he was kidding. </p>
<p>Thanks to Tim Ferris's newsletter <a contents="Five Bullet Friday" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://go.tim.blog/5-bullet-friday-1/" target="_blank">Five Bullet Friday</a> last week, I decided to preorder <a contents="Seth Godin" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/sethgodin/" target="_blank">Seth Godin</a>'s latest book <a contents="The Practice: Shipping Creative Work" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://geni.us/kD6UWdp" target="_blank">The Practice: Shipping Creative Work</a>. </p>
<p>I am never an early adopter. Even though music is one of my love languages, I resisted buying a CD player till vinyl was no longer an option.* Because I didn't want to wear a carpenter's belt of a million devices, I didn't get a cell phone till the iPhone came out (the second iteration, to boot). I drive stick. </p>
<p>So I'm not one to read a book hot off the press. </p>
<h3>Long-time Listener, First-time Caller </h3>
<p>As a fan of Mr. Godin's work, I check my Kindle daily. I cannot wait to have this promising book show up in my library. The title alone dovetails with the new direction of my work. I am already eager. </p>
<p>Then I start reading. </p>
<p>Have you ever been so excited by what you're reading that you have to start pacing around the room? Even typing right now, my keyboard is giving me shocks because of the energy running through my body. I can't quite believe what I'm reading. </p>
<p>I'm barely 5 minutes into the book. I read this sentence at the top of a paragraph: </p>
<p><em>Learn to juggle. </em></p>
<p>I chuckle. I highlight it. </p>
<p>I figure Mr. Godin chose that because it's an outrageous example of creativity. Maybe that's why. But—spoiler alert—a few pages later he goes on to instruct his readers how to, in fact, learn to juggle. </p>
<h3>Where Have You Been All My Life? </h3>
<p>So word is getting out. There are a bunch of closet jugglers out there ready to be outed. Maybe not outed. But recognized. </p>
<p>As part of my Life After Wellness experiment, I've begun seeing a chiropractor. If you read <a contents="my first post" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/wellness-over-now-what-hope-lafferty/" target="_blank">my first post</a> in this series, you won't see chiropractic in my litany of self care. </p>
<p>Again, late adopter. </p>
<p>My major life shift this year has left me with an enduring elbow pain. I initially blamed the lack of monthly massages on its existence. However, when 4 weeks of therapeutic massage didn't make a dent, I blamed my divorce. (No injury, folks. Just the phantom pain of that relationship lodging itself in my funny bone.) </p>
<p>So I went to a chiropractor. Wonderful woman. Really enthusiastic and engaging and encouraging. Smart. She helped me relax enough that I got choked up. She's a keeper. </p>
<p>When discussing my goals, I expressed that I wanted to get back to juggling. </p>
<p>She hesitated. </p>
<p>People often hesitate when I admit that I juggle. Like they didn't hear me right. Like they can't believe that I could juggle. That anyone walking around town in the middle of the day can juggle. Or at least admit to it. </p>
<p>"It's been a long time but," she said, "I know how to juggle." </p>
<p>Of course she does. </p>
<p>Later that day, my nephew joked with me that only I could find the one chiropractor in town who also juggles. </p>
<p>Like I said, she's a keeper. </p>
<h3>The Practice </h3>
<p>You might guess that I had to stop reading because Mr. Godin's book inspired me to write this week's article. I had planned to write one, but his book further inspired me to change the topic of the article. </p>
<p>I had not planned to mention that I juggle this early in the series. Or that I have a whole method infused with brain science that I'm pursuing. Or that I run <a contents="workshops" data-link-label="Juggling For Wellness" data-link-type="page" href="/juggling-for-wellness" target="_blank">workshops</a> and wonder what the long-term practice of juggling can do for cognition and coordination. </p>
<p>After all, this is LinkedIn. Facebook can handle juggling. LinkedIn? You tell me. </p>
<p>My theatre friends think that I teach people how to juggle. It's the medium, but it's not the message. Mr. Godin gets it. It's the process. It's about staying present. It's the practice. </p>
<p>Let's face it. No matter how good a juggler you are, gravity will always win. </p>
<p>It's humbling that way. </p>
<p>I juggle as well as I meditate and as well as I write. Meaning: I'm always working on it. I'm never there. I'm not exceptional. </p>
<p>It's the practice. </p>
<p>But that's the point. </p>
<h4><strong>Postscript </strong></h4>
<p>If you want to try juggling, pick up a copy of <a contents="The Practice: Shipping Creative Work" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://geni.us/kD6UWdp" target="_blank">The Practice: Shipping Creative Work</a>. Mr. Godin offers excellent instruction. </p>
<p>My method differs slightly, but feel free to watch <a contents="what I posted" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cb0bg6kTaBs" target="_blank">what I posted</a> on my birthday this year. </p>
<p>Balls not included. </p>
<p>*Yes. I'm old.</p>
<p>(originally published November 5, 2020, as an article on LinkedIn) photo by Grant Evan Knutson @ FRINGE MARFA 2020</p>Hope Laffertytag:hopelafferty.com,2005:Post/64990032020-12-15T21:05:00-08:002021-01-21T12:31:40-08:00Not Now, Honey. I've Got a Client.<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/156906/ebdcf759eba4973f326cbb38aedac52b9b6e1f33/original/hope-lafferty-082.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<h2>Snapshots of a Workaholic </h2>
<h3>March 2013. Nashville, Tennessee. </h3>
<p>I'm on vacation. Well, I'm supposed to be on vacation. </p>
<p>My (second) husband moved to Nashville six weeks earlier to get acquainted with the music scene. He's spent time in Austin and New York, and Nashville seems like the next logical step. </p>
<p>I bring the dog along. My husband misses the dog. He misses me. I miss him. But he's been on tour most of our relationship, so we're conditioned to our times apart. </p>
<p>I'm not needy. </p>
<p>We're celebrating by staying in a nice hotel downtown. Because I work for myself, I check my email first thing Monday morning. There's an email from my biggest client. He needs something. </p>
<p>I love this person. His group has put me on a sizeable retainer. Even before all that, I really do love him and his group. </p>
<p>But they always contact me at the wrong time. </p>
<p>Like every time. Out of the blue. Without warning. </p>
<p>You're thinking: isn't that what the retainer is for? One could think that. But my other retainer clients give me schedules and timelines and consider my availability. So I can condition myself to their needs. </p>
<p>This client always takes me by surprise. And because I'm on retainer, I never feel like I can say no. And I never feel relaxed when I hear from him. Because he always needs me in a panic. </p>
<p>You might think I'm annoyed because my vacation got upended. I've been a solopreneur long enough to know that I'd have a working vacation even before I got to Nashville. </p>
<p>But I didn't need to hear from this client. This adds to the work I already brought with me. </p>
<p>While I'm stressing out and muttering curses under my breath in front of my computer, really wanting my husband to take the dog out in the rain because I now have so much work to do, my husband is in the shower. Taking the longest shower in human history. </p>
<p>I think he's avoiding tending to the dog. </p>
<p>He thinks he's having a heart attack. </p>
<p>When he comes out of the shower, he tries to get my attention. He sits on the couch and says, "Hope, Hope, Hope, I don't know what I need to do." </p>
<p>Annoyed that now he needs me, along with the dog and the client, I look up from my computer. Kind would not be the expression on my face. "What's going on?" </p>
<p>He describes his symptoms. Before he even finishes, I surmise that he's in the throes of a panic attack, not a heart attack. </p>
<p>"And I can't help you right now. I've gotta take care of this. I've got this client," I say. Then, mustering a more human response to his pain, though still prioritizing my own panic, I offer, "Just try to relax and breathe for a bit. We'll look into it as soon as I'm done." </p>
<p>Long story short, he had a panic attack. We found some solutions that week. He's been managing his anxiety now for many years. </p>
<p>Longer story short, we divorced in May. It took me a while to realize, but this interaction seems like the pivot point in our relationship. </p>
<p>Rewind 20 years. The recession of the early 1990s. </p>
<h3>Spring 1993. Boston, Massachusetts. </h3>
<p>After a couple periods of enforced vacation under the guise of unemployment, I find myself working in a long-term psychiatric residence for adolescent girls who had spent most of their youth in state psych hospitals. </p>
<p>I have worked with lots of kids. But I steered my education and my career away from major mental illness. Despite how happy I am to have a job essentially in my field, I feel out of my depths from Day One. </p>
<p>My office is on the second floor with all the girls' bedrooms. I'm the only therapist up there. I have a door with a lock, but the walls are thin. </p>
<p>Imagine this workplace. Through the thin walls, you hear crying. You hear yelling. You hear swearing. You hear pounding. You hear random thuds. </p>
<p>As a therapist, you don't get to cry, yell, swear, pound, or randomly thud back. </p>
<p>When the girls are in the school building, it's quiet. It can be eerily quiet, with new age music playing to soothe the girl who's lying on the ad hoc mattress in front of my office because the quiet room is occupied by another girl. And it all could erupt at any moment. </p>
<p>Anyone who has worked in hospitals or other healthcare settings might recognize—and even thrive on—this level of tension. Most other workplaces—except those that have a high percentage of jerks—maintain a more, shall we say, professional decorum. Easier going. More predictable. At least in tone, if not workflow. </p>
<p>Because this is my chosen field, it should come as no surprise that I like my clients. Fascinating individuals all. Ignored, abused, and misunderstood most of their lives. Plus, I find the clinical challenges intriguing. It feels important for someone to like these clients. </p>
<p>However, the job is fatiguing and, as I realize in retrospect, traumatizing. So—despite my goodwill and clinical training—I have to shut off my brain. </p>
<p>Working out helps. Venting helps. Vodka helps. </p>
<p>But I could erupt at any moment. </p>
<p>One night, my (first) husband tries to understand why I am so worked up, even though I really don't know why I'm so worked up. </p>
<p>I become so frustrated trying to explain my day to him that I throw a glass across the room. </p>
<p>Ok, so vodka might not help. </p>
<p>That scares the hell out of my husband. I tend to marry kind, smart men. This outburst, though building, comes out of no where. </p>
<p>Actually, it comes out of being immersed in a toxic work environment. </p>
<p>And it doesn't even mean to be toxic. No one is doing anything wrong. It's a group home filled with teenagers. It's gonna be messy. </p>
<p>But it was toxic for me. </p>
<p>My husband looks at me and says, "Hope, it's just a job." </p>
<p>I find myself saying, "No, it's not. You might have just a job, but this is my career. This is important work. This needs to be done." </p>
<p>Long story short, I left that job. It also put the final nail in the coffin of that career. </p>
<p>Longer story short, I left that husband too. And again, this violent outburst and unbridled defense of others outside of my marriage—who have no stake in my primary relationships—seems like a pivot point too. </p>
<p>I mean. Why would you trust me? I could turn on you at any moment. </p>
<p>Fast forward to today. </p>
<h3>Fall 2020. COVID-19 Pandemic. </h3>
<p>Post-(my most recent)divorce, I've moved back in my with folks. I haven't lived here in 35 years. </p>
<p>They're not quite sure who I am. Both in their 80s, they each worked throughout their lives as professionals. My mother as a chemist. My father as an architect (who retired only after having a stroke at age 86). </p>
<p>However, they have only ever been employees. They never tried to build anything from the ground up. And they raised a family. Together. Very much so. So they can't quite understand how I can work so much. Or even why I would work so much. </p>
<p>I find myself getting annoyed at them because, I dunno, they want to spend time with me. I haven't lived here in 35 years. And I've been married most of that time. So, sure, I'm back home. Let's spend time together. </p>
<p>I catch myself being annoyed. For them doing nothing. Nothing more than caring for me. Liking their kid. Wanting to spend time together. </p>
<p>That's when it hits me. </p>
<p>My name is Hope, and I'm a workaholic. </p>
<h4>Postscript: Hold That Thought </h4>
<p>I'll be going more in depth in this discovery on my podcast, so feel free to catch up with the other <a contents="episodes" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hope-laffertys-existential-crisis/id1439238287" target="_blank">episodes</a> where I have uncovered or discovered that which I have covered through my life. </p>
<p>At the risk of always working, more soon... </p>
<p>#wellness #workaholic #work #lifeafterwellness #hopester</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_small">(originally published October 27, 2020, as an article on LinkedIn) (c) Nora Canfield</span></p>Hope Laffertytag:hopelafferty.com,2005:Post/64990022020-12-14T21:05:00-08:002021-01-21T12:48:53-08:00Hope Is Not A Business Plan<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/156906/1ec01d0f26f0ae5b2ff69586875b76e35389e016/original/scarlettohara.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Three months ago, I hit a new low. </p>
<p>I was looking at my bank accounts online. My two business checking accounts totaled $40 and $20, respectively. My savings account totaled $30. </p>
<p>You read that right: 40, 20, 30. Dollars. Mounds of coins you can cup in your hands. </p>
<p>The goal for many entrepreneurs is to become members of the Double Comma Club. That morning, I certified my status as a proud member of the Double Digit Club. </p>
<p>Maybe not a proud member. Then again, pride was pretty much all I had left. </p>
<p>And arguably what got me into this situation in the first place. </p>
<h3>Never Again </h3>
<p>As for many people, the spring was difficult financially. Projects that I thought would come in were delayed. So cash that I counted on would also be delayed. One of my clients had the foresight to pay me three months upfront, which was a necessary, if not a sufficient, boon. </p>
<p>The pandemic came on the heels of two big artistic investments for me </p>
<ul> <li>the inaugural <a contents="FRINGE MARFA" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.theaterjones.com/ntx/reviews/20200120173408/2020-01-21/Marfa-Theatre-Incubator/Fringe-Marfa" target="_blank">FRINGE MARFA</a> in January, which I spent the last 6 months of 2019 working on at the expense of the rest of my business </li> <li>the debut of <a contents="my first solo show" data-link-label="INHIBITIONIST(!)" data-link-type="page" href="/inhibitionist" target="_blank">my first solo show</a> in March at the Fresno Rogue festival, which swayed my earnings attention in the first quarter </li>
</ul>
<p>I've mentioned this in other posts, but throw in </p>
<ul> <li>my divorce </li> <li>my relocation across the country </li> <li>my choice to move in with my aging parents to help them weather the pandemic </li>
</ul>
<p>Even before all the New Normal stuff, my year was not destined to be a business-as-usual- hunker-down-on-the-homefront-and-look-after-my-and-mine year. </p>
<p>I had already set the bridge on fire. </p>
<h3>Life Among the Ruins </h3>
<p>Before I left my adopted hometown and the home that I created with my husband and my dogs, I was explaining how I felt to a few friends. I called this my Scarlett O’Hara period. </p>
<p>That scene at the end of the first act where she’s standing on the smoldering ruins of her world. Starving. She grabs a frog from the ground and shoves it in her mouth and gags and drops to her knees and cries to the heavens "As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again!" </p>
<p>This was before </p>
<ul> <li>my health insurance got canceled for lack of payment </li> <li>my business line of credit got canceled for lack of payment </li> <li>I left the house (which had no mortgage) to my husband in the divorce so my net worth was cut by 90% </li> <li>I told my parents that I was moving up to stay with them indefinitely (because I had no other choice) </li>
</ul>
<p>I knew I was scrambling. In February, I all but begged my local banker for an emergency loan of $2000 to keep the lights on—and maybe pay my attorney—till billables caught up. Then they didn't catch up. </p>
<p>I kept doing arithmetic in my head, as if that would generate some income. I knew </p>
<ul> <li>I still had a couple of modest retirement investments—so modest, though, that I'd be more in the hole if I cashed them out </li> <li>My sole credit card had no room—and by now, my credit score was so poor that I couldn't qualify for even unsecured debt–based solutions </li> <li>My personal checking account filled and emptied like a toilet </li>
</ul>
<p>All I was left with was 40, 20, 30. </p>
<h3>What Went Wrong? </h3>
<p>When I went out on my own in 2009—at the height of the recession, mind you—I set out to build a business. Little did I know, I merely built myself a job. </p>
<p>I was shackling myself to wage work under the guise of a consultancy. I lamented that I priced myself out of the market years ago in <a contents="My Sixth Episode" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hope-laffertys-existential-crisis/id1439238287" target="_blank">My Sixth Episode</a> of my podcast. It took a while for me to truly understand that my business model had painted me into a corner. </p>
<p>I had to run out of money. I had to run out of time. I had to run out of options. </p>
<p>What do they say? Hope is not a business plan? </p>
<p>Tru dat. </p>
<p>The good news is that was the low. That was the nadir. And that was months ago. </p>
<p>This is how I am building back. Rest assured, there is Life After... </p>
<h4>Postscript: How important is this to remember? </h4>
<p>I thought about taking a screenshot to memorialize the 40, 20, 30 bank balances. Enshrine this low. This baseline benchmark. To remind myself in the future about how tough I had it. </p>
<p>But then I thought why reinforce this? This is not something I want to repeat. I’ve been broke before. I’ve been broken before. </p>
<p>Never again. </p>
<p>#lifeafterwellness #entrepreneur #hopester #work</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_small">(originally published October 22, 2020, as an article on LinkedIn. Image: MovieStillsDB.com)</span></p>Hope Laffertytag:hopelafferty.com,2005:Post/64989952020-12-14T06:33:29-08:002021-01-21T12:32:43-08:00I Was In the Stanford Prison Experiment<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/156906/65c62e63a73ec0333f577ea9f7537436377853ed/original/img-2875.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>When I was in college, the study of psychology focused on the weird. Textbooks were rife with examples of bizarre behavior and man's inhumanity to man. </p>
<p>One of the most fascinating research studies to me was that of Phillip Zimbardo, who randomly assigned a group of Stanford undergraduates to be either prisoners or guards to see how their assigned roles affected their behavior. </p>
<p>Barring the details, this two-week study was discontinued after six days. </p>
<p>(The 2015 film with Billy Crudup can fill in the details, but let's say, hypothesis confirmed.) </p>
<p>The study—among the last with this midcentury fluidity of ethics—occurred in the summer of 1971. </p>
<p>I was 6. </p>
<p>Okay, so I was not in the original prison experiment. But social psychology was my jam in college, and I caught wind of this year-long class that mimicked that experiment as the spring project. </p>
<p>I was—shall we say—psyched to enroll in this class. </p>
<h3>Unexpected Lessons </h3>
<p>I bring this up not to elaborate on my experience as a prisoner (which was much tamer than the original experiment). Or how struck I was by how quickly the power structure got called into question. Or that my biggest insight was that social control is not about punishing the individual, but about wrangling the herd. </p>
<p>I bring this up because the professor (who was not Dr. Zimbardo btw) recognized that I took the class because of the work, not because it was a gut* like most of the other students. </p>
<p>One night after class, he asked me what I was majoring in. </p>
<p>"Psychology and sociology," I said proudly. </p>
<p>"Ah," he said. "Unemployment." </p>
<p>Understanding Your Role </p>
<p>Little did I know at that time just how patchwork my career would be. </p>
<p>As a good student in the field of unemployment, I picked up a philosophy minor that included an entire semester on Nietzsche, and my studies in social theory took a turn toward deconstructionism, as was de rigueur. </p>
<p>My end goal in all of this was to become a psychotherapist. A drug counselor, specifically. At that time, becoming a therapist meant understanding abnormal psychology. That which is weird. That which is included in the DSM. </p>
<p>I was never in love with abnormal psych. As a social psychology devotee, I loved person-in-environment. Nurture over nature. Or at least in combination. </p>
<p>In grad school, when my peers were specializing in family therapy—a practice that centered around the concept of the IP, or identified patient—I specialized in group treatment, where I guess everybody could be identified as a patient. Or a client, as was my preferred term. </p>
<p>Because of my love of phenomenological thinkers, I sought to pursue existential psychotherapy. At my entrance interview, I declared this to my would-be advisor, who all but laughed me out of his office. </p>
<p>When I got to Chicago that fall, I found out he took a sabbatical that lasted my entire graduate career. Honestly though, at that point in history (let's call it BCE or Before the Coaching Era), there was really no way to bill insurance as an existential psychotherapist. </p>
<h3>Who Moved My Diagnosis? </h3>
<p>Luckily for all of us, we have seen a sea change in the study and practice of psychology. Sure, perception, cognition, and child development have long been fields of academic study, education, and training. So I don't mean to suggest that all psychological study in the 20th Century focused on dysfunction. </p>
<p>It was a problem with branding. </p>
<p>When I was in college, what has become known as performance enhancement was known simply as sport psychology. Because it had "sport" in the name, my nonatheletic self found no place of resonance. </p>
<p>You might guess that I wrestle with calling myself a coach. </p>
<p>Despite my formal education, I could sense the shift. You could say that I embodied it. Pop psychology books like<a contents=" I'm Okay, You're Okay" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.amazon.com/Im-Okay-Youre-Thomas-Harris/dp/B000J0ITWW/ref=sr_1_3?crid=NDPJ7LMRQ3T4&dchild=1&keywords=i%27m+okay+you%27re+okay&qid=1602760529&sprefix=I%27m+Okay%2Caps%2C278&sr=8-3" target="_blank"> I'm Okay, You're Okay</a> (1969) and <a contents="The Road Less Traveled" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.amazon.com/Road-Less-Traveled-Psychology-Traditional/dp/B000VGB5XY/ref=sr_1_5?dchild=1&keywords=the+road+less+traveled&qid=1602760574&sr=8-5" target="_blank">The Road Less Traveled</a> (1985) made their impact on the cultural—if not the academic—landscape. </p>
<p>The year after I received my masters, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's book <a contents="Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.amazon.com/Flow-Psychology-Experience-Perennial-Classics/dp/0061339202" target="_blank">Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience</a> encapsulated this welcome shift toward positive psychology and legitimized the pop psych genre among readers that knew way too much about psychology in the first place. (My apologies to Dr Csikszentmihalyi for calling his magnificent work pop psych, but he'll catch my meaning.) </p>
<h3>Get Out Of Jail Free </h3>
<p>The upshot of all of this is that I find myself back where I began. My career has ushered me away from psychotherapy to other forms of communication and now back to my original conception of how to work with people (ie, existentially). </p>
<p>We are in a period where we pretty much have to upend our perceptions of how we live and how we understand ourselves. The roles we have been assigned. The roles we have self imposed. And the roles we need to release. </p>
<p>In the spirit of research and my continued belief that anyone can change at any time, welcome to Life After Wellness. Let's call this the next experiment. </p>
<h3>*Post Script</h3>
<p>I don't know if "gut" is used anymore to describe an easy college course, but if you know why they are called "guts", I'd love some insight there. </p>
<p>#wellness #habits #lifeafterwellness #hopester</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_small">(originally published October 14, 2020, as an article on LinkedIn)</span></p>Hope Laffertytag:hopelafferty.com,2005:Post/64952492020-12-09T08:45:03-08:002021-01-21T12:50:16-08:00Wellness Is Over. Now What?<h2><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/156906/17ca04a64ed42ffeb2f474a6af9bbf956d45913c/original/img-1464.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Or how do I self-actualize when I can't get my nails done? </h2>
<p>Attention you people new to self care. You're in the presence of a master. </p>
<ul> <li>I learned to meditate my first day of college in my intro psych class. Let's just say, it took. </li> <li>I got my first therapeutic massage at age 24 (ie, 1989), when I began my career as a drug counselor and I didn't want to have to talk to anybody else. </li> <li>I started my Kundalini yoga practice in 1993, before anybody cared about yoga, let alone Kundalini yoga (which nobody still cares about). </li> <li>I worked at food co-ops since Tom's of Maine was known only in New England. Tom: you're welcome. </li>
</ul>
<p>Over the years, I've added things to my self-care regimen. </p>
<ul> <li>Facials, waxing, manicures, and the occasional wrap to fill out the spa package. </li> <li>Fresh foods as a baseline and organic when I have the money. </li> <li>Gym memberships when I feel frumpy. </li> <li>Therapy and coaching when I feel stuck. </li> <li>Books and crystals and aromatherapy and tarot cards, because, why not? </li>
</ul>
<p>I'm a little type A, and, as a psych major, I learned early to attend to my stress. It's easier on everybody. And it usually works. </p>
<p>More importantly, though, I've stayed well. Fairly fit. And until I hit menopause, I looked young for my age. (Now, I look good for my age.) </p>
<p>Enter COVID-19. </p>
<p>All those years of taking care of myself. For what? I could still catch this thing and die. </p>
<p>So what's the point again? </p>
<h3>Self care went out the window </h3>
<p>Let's break it down. Aside from my daily meditation—which is so built-in, it's like brushing my teeth—my self-care routine was upended. </p>
<p>No massages. No going to the gym. No time luxuriating at a grocery store (yes, grocery shopping is a hobby of mine—or at least it was). No regular way to attend to my stress. </p>
<p>Let alone the trauma of coming to grips with what was happening across the world. Plus, I had already submitted the court papers and spent the first two months of the pandemic divorcing in place. Then the relocation across the country to help my octogenarian parents ride this thing out. </p>
<p>Stress? Perhaps. </p>
<p>Do I feel like taking an hour on the yoga mat to open my heart chakra while I'm resetting every other aspect of my life? Or do I want to start drinking at 3 and knock myself out with a trazadone before bed? </p>
<h3>We all miss different things </h3>
<p>There are things that many Americans miss that I don't. I don't miss going out. I've worked for myself for decades, and as a writer, I'm comfortable in my own thoughts. Quietly. Alone. </p>
<p>I've been struck by the role retail therapy plays in peoples' lives. And how people become bored. How they don't know what to do with themselves. Without activity. Or worry. Or anger. Or blame. </p>
<p>A close friend disclosed to me that the pandemic has been really hard on her feet. She keeps getting ingrown toenails. Having never had one, I dared to ask—have you ever been taught to cut your toenails? (I remember in Girl Scouts we were taught to cut straight across.) Turns out, she's been getting pedicures since high school and hasn't managed her own feet for decades. I suspect that she's not the only person in that situation. </p>
<h3>Just what is self care these days? </h3>
<p>Now that I'm spending a little more time in the grocery store again, I've seen more special edition magazines covering self care. But it's a crock of hooey. Not only is this like closing the barn door after the horses get out, what's being touted is not self care. Our necessary response to this pandemic is not self care. </p>
<h4>Self care is to be able to spend time with your friends and your family. Self care is getting educated and being able to send your children to school. Self care is being able to be social in the way that humans are social. Self care is being able to go grocery shopping and stand as close or as far from someone without feeling stressed. Or like a target. Or that they're the enemy. </h4>
<p>I've seen a lot of headlines about mindfulness. That—like creativity—is on the higher end of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Staying present, being able to sit with our own thoughts, is a huge ask at this moment. </p>
<p>But mindfulness—as outlined in these special edition magazines—cannot be a peaceful practice. It cannot be a transcendent practice. It's a defensive practice. </p>
<p>Now is not a place in history that has anything to do with self care. It has everything to do with self-preservation. </p>
<p>We're all just trying to stay alive. We are being told how not to kill other people. It's not even about how to protect ourselves. It is, but the greater public health stance is about how you will not kill other people. Cuz you might. </p>
<p>Common parlance is the New Normal. It's not self care. I call it Life After Wellness. </p>
<p>Or Hope's LAW. </p>
<p>Welcome to my newsletter. We'll be exploring the thought processes and the habits that are left when we are left with.. essentially...nothing. </p>
<p>Well, nothing but our thought processes and our habits. Which, really, is quite a bit to work with. </p>
<h3>Postscript: What I miss </h3>
<p>Hugs. Granted, that's a remnant of my current marital and living situation. I'm alone here with my folks. No friends really. Not much in the way of extended family. </p>
<p>I look forward to spontaneous hugging again. Cuz my generation knows how to hug. GenX are great huggers. </p>
<p>#wellness #selfcare #lifeafterwellness #hopester</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_small">(originally published October 5, 2020, as an article on LinkedIn)</span></p>Hope Lafferty