Power Autocorrect.

A quick email to a colleague:

"Greetings-- Just wanted to check in to see if you still wanted to. . "

"Was just wondering if you might still be able to. . .."

"Howdy! I was hoping to loop back to you about. . ."

"Sorry about asking so many questions but I was hoping you might be able to tell me. . ."

Good morning -- Revisiting last week's message about our project. Please refer back to the queries below and let me know your thoughts when you get a chance by tomorrow to allow us to move us forward. Thanks in advance. 

Words have power. And strength. Some words stick a pin in your power bubble. And unless we hear them, they hold us back without our even knowing. They do. 

Old habits die hard. But like all habits, they can die.

Yeah.

***
Happy Wednesday.

What's your Whitney Houston?

"The greatest love of all is easy to achieve. 

Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all." 

~ Whitney Houston 

(yeah, yeah and George Benson, too.)

I remember it like it was yesterday. A pianist began tickling the ivory for the introductory bars of a song. A woman tapped the top of the microphone and cleared her throat into it to be certain it was on. It was.

The music grew louder and readier for her accompaniment and, right on cue, she pulled her shoulders back, lifted her head up and began to sing. Up, up, up into the rafters went her voice. Loud, strong, deliberate. And dare I say it? Shrill. Periodically she'd take both hands and grip the microphone stand for emphasis and flutter her eye lids rhythmically. The song she was singing was a popular one, well known to most in the room. And I say that to say that we all had our own idea of how that song sounded on the radio or playing into our canals through iPhone ear jacks.

Yeah.

The reprise came and folks sort of shifted from glancing at each other to singing  along with her. That encouraged her more which, to me, was kind of sweet. Once the final note came she was probably twice as loud as she was at the beginning, squeezing that pole even tighter and her eyes even tighter than that. She freed her right hand and threw it to the heavens and left it there when the song ended.

The crowd began to cheer and clap. Her eyes opened and a big smile spread across her face. "Thank you," she said in a throaty voice straight into that mic before spinning on her heel to walk back across the stage.

People can be so polite sometimes.

We both knew her and she was really likable so we clapped, too. More applause. A few people, mostly her friends, stood up even. And all of it was really sweet and everyone seemed pretty pleased with her performance.

Wait. I take that back. Everyone except Deanna.

"Yikes." After whispering that under her breath to me, Deanna raised her eyebrows and gave her nose a subtle wrinkle.

"Yikes?" I mouthed back. People were still applauding.

"Did that sound good to you?"

I swung my head from side to side and then behind myself. Deanna was a horrible whisperer. "I mean. I don't know. I thought it was pretty decent, didn't you?" And honestly, it didn't sound so good. But we both knew this woman and were friendly-ish with her. Though my sister and I always gave each other permission to speak freely, I'd taken the high road on this C+ ballad rendition.

"Um. She needs to sing her babies to sleep and that's it. That's my girl, too. But singing? Uhh, yeah. That ain't her gift, man. If we were closer, I'd let her know, too. Long before she got up there."

"Damn, that's cold, Dee."

"No, it's not!" she hissed. "Everybody's got some gifts. Singing just ain't her gift, man. That's real talk."

I shook my head and wiped my face. No one was more transparent than my sister.

"Kimberly, be honest. That's a lullaby voice. Not horrible but not nothing I need to hear over a whole room either." And any who knew Deanna can hear her saying this. Eyes twinkling with mischief and arms folded unapologetically. I kept looking around to make sure everyone couldn't hear our conversation. "Somebody need to tell that girl one day--'That ain't cha gift, pookie.' I'm for real."

We both laughed out loud and quickly covered our mouths in case people were listening. It was so true.

And so Deanna.

I revisited that conversation with her a few weeks later at my kitchen table. Her position hadn't changed. "See, me? My gift is creative shit. I'll crochet you a three piece suit, make you a quilt and help your kid blow everybody in his class out on a project like it ain't nothing. 'Cause that's my gift, man. That's my shit." I'm almost 99.9% sure that she was twirling a crochet needle in some yarn as she spoke those words. She was right. This was her thing.

Her shit even.

"I hear you, sis."

"I'm just sayin'. . . . I mean. . . I can do some other things pretty good. And that's cool. But my thing is. . . .why don't people use the gifts that are theirs? Why they insist on forcing something else and leaving the thing they're good at thrown to the side?"

"You're a nut."

"I'm serious. That song ol' girl sang that day was tolerable. Like, yeah, she could carry a tune. But she didn't need to carry it nowhere outside of her house. Unnhh uh. No ma'am." She curled her lips and gave me a side eye.

I tried to keep a straight face but then we both erupted into the big fluffy laughs that we always shared at times like this. Man, how I miss our kitchen table chats. And it's funny because embedded inside of some of our lightest conversations were such meaningful lessons, man. Like this one.

Yeah.

So that? That was something I've always held onto that I learned from my sister. She encouraged people to find their gifts and use them. Especially me and anyone who was close to her. And she never pulled punches it came time to let you know that something "ain't your gift, pookie." 

Ha. "Pookie" was such a Deanna word.

I think I started writing more after Deanna began nudging me. "Writing is your shit," she'd say. And she'd always throw out expletives whether you liked it or not. I was used to it and actually found it rather endearing.

"I do love writing."

"You're a kick ass writer. You write well and you write fast. And what you write fast is the shit. See, that's because it's your gift. That and public speaking. That's your shit, too. Sometimes I'm like, 'How did she even think to say that?'"

I chuckled and recalled the time that she was chairing a retreat for our alumnae sorority chapter. Deanna had this bright idea that Kimberly would deliver the message at the ecumenical service. As in Kimberly, her sister. And for those who don't exactly know what that means, just know that it's like someone asking you to preach a sermon. When you don't preach. No where never.

Um, yeah.

"Say what?" I pushed back. "You sound crazy."

"Why not? It's public speaking and encouraging people. That's your shit. You'll be awesome." And I could tell that she was 100% serious. She sure was.

I gave that message that morning and it went well.  As a matter of fact, it went more than well. Deanna was right. I settled into my gifts and used them. Instead of talking myself out of it, I leaned in. And it was good. It truly was.

A few years before that, I was asked to give the "charge" to a large group of debutantes at this enormous black tie event. There were over 500 people there not even counting the debutantes and I was sitting on the dais in a formal gown waiting for my part. And somewhere in the midst of the program,  I could hear this metaphorical drumroll to my part. It became apparent to me that the "charge" was more like a keynote address. So, naaaaw, I wasn't the appetizer but more like the main doggone course. Which posed a substantial problem seeing as I had no key, no note, nor any address to give.

Holy shit.

Hallelujah they paused the program for dinner to be served. And as soon as they laid that chicken a la something or other in front of me, I leaped up from that stage and ran to the bathroom with a napkin, my cell phone and an ink pen. I kid you not--I hid in a bathroom stall, literally sitting on the back of the commode so no one could see my feet and ball gown. Seeing as I was the big time speaker and all. 

And then called Deanna freaking out.

"What am I gonna dooooo!" I moaned.

"This is your shit. Think about all of your experiences speaking. You got this, Pookie."

I was shaking and tearful. "This is just awful. It's formal and people have spent a lot of time and money to be here. I don't have a speech. I don't have anything. I don't. I thought I was just supposed to say good luck and that's it. This is so embarrassing. I'm so, so scared."

"Don't be, Kimberly. Just think of a quote or a central idea that's meaningful to you. Then build around it. You know how to do that.This is your shit."

And that was that. I slipped out of that ladies room and shortly after, was up at that podium. That keynote address was, quite possibly, one of the most memorable and well-received public speaking moments I've ever had in my adult life.

Yep. Because, as Deanna reminded me, that's my shit.

on the dais at the debutante ball

So the lesson I got from those experiences is that sometimes we have to pause and inventory our gifts. And especially align ourselves with the people who will push us out into the spotlight when we feel afraid to use them.

Yeah.

So I've actually applied this wisdom to many aspects of my life. And see, making a list of your gifts is an audacious task that can make you uncomfortable at first. But see, Deanna? She helped me shake that. And the beautiful thing is that once I really, really began to recognize what things God put in me to be able to do, her nudge gave me the courage to be intentional about it.

Yep.

Something really cool happens when you do that. You feel more confident. You get better at those things that you already had a knack for doing. And you feel more like you are walking in your purpose. Yeah. That.  Because Deanna thought that being the best version of you was like handing the world a big old gift with a shiny red bow on top.

Yup.

That brings me to Whitney Houston. Yeah. Her.

Okay. So it turns out that when Whitney first hit the scene, she was a model. Like a really successful print model in magazines like Seventeen and other high volume periodicals. But all along, she used to sing in church or with her mom and her auntie. And any and all who heard young Whitney were mesmerized by her voice. Why? Because her singing voice was undeniably one of her greatest gifts.

Stay with me. I'm going somewhere, okay?

Okay, so check it. Later on, Whitney gets signed and becomes THE Whitney Houston that we all know and love. The one who took Dolly Parton's little snoozer song and made it iconic and the one who refuted the belief that rail thin girls couldn't SANG.

But. Later on, Whitney tried her hand at acting. She was in a few movies and even starred in one with Denzel doggone Washington. And honestly? It was mostly tolerable. Especially because every movie she signed up for had a component of her singing. And the singing? See, that's the thing we needed. Because that was her shit.

Yeah, it was.

So imagine if Whitney showed up at a talent show. A talent show for the whole world that would treat them to her talents. Perhaps she could model. I mean, that is how she broke into the big times. Or maybe she could do a dramatic monologue--I mean, she did do a movie with Angela Bassett and Denzel at some point. So yeah. What if Whitney showed up and did those two things and left the singing on the back burner. What if she put all of her energy into that because it seemed cooler and better than singing. You know. Because she didn't quite realize how important it was that she share her singing gift with the world. Yeah. Imagine that.

It'd be a shame, right?

I think what happens is that we see other people and their gifts and suddenly downplay our own. Or revise our own because perhaps it doesn't seem as shiny and bright as the one of someone else. And even worse--some have no idea what their gifts are because they're too afraid or too self deprecating to take that inventory.

But just think--what if you are showing up every day modeling and acting when your Whitney Houston singing voice is the thing the world craves the most? And needs most from you?

And so. This advice from Deanna that started as something silly ended up changing my life. I mean that. And I'm thankful to have had her crocheting right in front of me on a whole lot of days when I was in the process of trying to figure out my Whitney Houston singing voice, man.

"What if someone doesn't know? Like how does someone know when something is their gift?" I asked her.

"You feel it. You know it. Just pay attention."

And that makes even more sense now in the context of Whitney Houston. From the moment we first heard her sing, we all knew. Which means she did, too.

As a clinician educator, this has been game changing. Instead of trying to mimic what I think a great teaching physician is supposed to be like, I do me. I make 100% sure to bring my Whitney Houston to every learner I encounter while continuing to work and grow in other areas. I sure do. In the hospital setting, that thing is patient communication and pushing others to be great. So I frame much of what I do around just that. I go to the bedside with my learners to talk to patients. I give my all to those I mentor. I run to the most difficult patient encounters like a heat seeking missile. I think hard about my learners and come up with tailor made ways to help them go from good to great. Or great to hella-great. And especially to find their own Whitney Houston singing voice and then provide a space for them to sing every chance they can.

And you know what? Everyone has a better experience because of it. Me. Them. Plus, I'm so much better at being me than someone else, you know?

Yep.

So yeah. I don't apologize for knowing who I am or for trying as hard as hell to use my gifts while I'm here. Since my sister left me, I do so with even greater urgency.

I'm good with people. I'm an effective communicator. I'm a good great writer. I'm not afraid of public speaking and can usually find my voice. Just like Deanna, I'm innovative as hell and come up with ideas others haven't thought about. And then I come up with some more ideas after that. And more after that. I'm persuasive and a good leader. I'm emotionally intelligent and notice things. I notice people. I notice everything. And I remember shit long after others have forgotten the fine details. These are some of my gifts and I'm not afraid of them. And I go hard at using them every chance I get.

Deanna helped me with that.

So here's the question: What's your Whitney Houston? 

I dare you to be so bold as to take a pen to paper and list your gifts. And I double-dog dare you to walk into your day like a boss with that list on a post it note in your head and in your heart checking off those boxes every chance you get to bless the world with one of them.

Because that's your shit. And when something is your shit, you shortchange the world when you don't share it.

And yeah, yeah people can acquire new skills and talents. They can. But like Deanna said, you feel it when you've stumbled upon one of your gifts. That is, if you pay attention.

Today is November 3, 2016. And I'm proud to say that today I sang like Whitney at the Superbowl. Head back and arms wide open. Sure did.

I just did it my way. And I know for sure that my sissy would be proud.

Yeah.

"And if by chance that special place that you've been dreaming of leads you to a lonely place, find your strength in love."  

***

Happy Thursday

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . the lyrics to this song make me think a lot about life with my sister.

Do stuff.

*details changed to protect anonymity (as always)

 Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay?"

~ Mrs. Sanders

If you looked at Mrs. Sanders' life, you'd count it a success. Five children, all of whom were mostly healthy and all of whom grew up to be gainfully employed with families of their own. More grandbabies than the fingers on two hands could count. And a marriage that had lasted more than fifty years. Yes. If you looked at her life, you'd use those spiritual words spoke often by the Grady elders for lives like hers--"blessed and highly favored." Descriptors for lives filled with the things that matter the most.

Her health was good. Beyond some degenerative arthritis in her knees and some very mildly elevated blood pressure, Mrs. Sanders had very few medical problems. She could do for herself and was even still driving. Again, the kind of thing we all envision when wishing upon stars for our futures as senior citizens.

Mr. Sanders had passed on a few years before. Not necessarily suddenly, but it wasn't drawn out either. Just enough time to get things in order and to allow people to get to him and love on him. His death was surrounded by family and the aftermath of it all was mostly okay since it fit into the natural order of the rhythm of life. And, yes, losing him broke Mrs. Sanders' heart. But honestly, it didn't seem to break her.

Nope.

So the point of telling you all of this is to say that this woman seemed to have a pretty peaceful life. It seemed to have followed the narrative that little girls act out with their Barbie dolls, you know? But every time I saw her, there was this sadness about her. Nothing overly somber or extraordinarily awful. Just this undercurrent of melancholia that cloaked the room whenever I was in her presence. And honestly I'd assumed it was all related to missing her husband. After all, they had been married for over fifty years. But truthfully, I'd known her before his passing and even before he'd gotten ill. And even then, I'd felt the same way.

"How are you?" I asked her toward the end of our visit.

"Am I?" Mrs. Sanders pointed at her chest to make sure she understood the question. I nodded. She released this weak chuckle and said, "I'm here."

"Just here?"

"Well, naw. Ain't nothing wrong, if that's what you mean. Guess I ain't sure what you mean, Miss Manning."

I pressed my lips together and kept my eyes on hers for a beat. In that split second, I reflected on the time last year that I'd screened her for depression with a series of questions. She caught on to what I was doing and interrupted me. "I ain't depressed or nothing like that if that's what you gettin' at." And after I completed those questions, it became pretty apparent to me that she wasn't.

But still. Each time I felt it. And even if it didn't mean there was some pathology there, I really wanted to understand it.

"You know what, Mrs. Sanders? Sometimes when I see you, you seem like. . .I don't know. . .kind of sad-like." Sad-like? I cringed at my own language. I sighed. "I don't know. It's hard for me to put my finger on."

Mrs. Sanders offered me a warm smile and then reached out to touch my hand. "I 'preciate your concern. I'm okay, baby."

"You sure?"

This time she squinted her eyes and smiled. The expression seemed to suggest I was naïve. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Straightening up my spine, I trained my eyes on hers, making certain not to crack a smile in return. Her face became serious and pensive. Finally, she spoke.

"Miss Manning? How many kids you got?"

"Two."

"And how long you been married?"

"Twelve years."

"How old your kids is?"

"Ma'am? Oh. Nine and ten. Boys."

She pursed her lips when I said that last part. "Wheeewwwweeeee. Boys is something. Something indeed. They keep you busy, too." Mrs. Sanders shook her head and then paused. It looked like she was trying to decide what to  say next. Or whether what she wanted to say was worth saying to me. She blinked her eyes slowly, glanced down at her pocket book and then back at me again. Mrs. Sanders leaned her head sideways and asked me this: "What you do for fun?"

She caught me off guard with that. "For fun?" I let out a nervous chuckle.

"Better yet, for you. For your own self."

"Umm. Well. I . . I actually do lots of stuff for myself. I mean. . .I do a lot for my family, too. But I do stuff for myself."

"Good," Mrs. Sanders replied quickly. "Good." 

I waited. I could tell she had more to say.

"My life been good, you know? But honestly, Miss Manning? I spent my whole life doing for everybody but me. Like, we got married when I was young and started having babies. And I stayed home with them and was near my sisters so we all saw 'bout each others' kids, too. And my kids grew up to make me real, real proud. They good people. They got to do a lot of good things and I'm glad. But I guess the more time go by the more I realize I ain't never get no chance at nothing."

"Tell me what you mean by that."

"I mean. . .I 'on't know. Guess I jest mean I ain't never been able to choose something that I wanted to do just 'cause. Just 'cause it's what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go. Seem like every decision was connected to somebody else needs or wants. And now I find myself wishing I had done some more stuff for me. For me."

Mrs. Sanders eyes glistened with tears. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat after saying that. Then she looked slightly embarrassed for disclosing those thoughts. Or perhaps ashamed of uttering them aloud. That said, I could tell she was serious. And honestly? There wasn't much I could say to any of that. This woman was nearly eighty and had thought about this long and hard. I certainly didn't want to trivialize it all with some Pollyanna statement, particularly one that came across canned and void of empathy.

"I'm sorry." That's all I could think to say. And I said that because I was sorry. Not sorry in that way I was when her husband of fifty two years went on to glory. But sorry nonetheless.

I could see how things had ended up this way. I mean, like her, I'm a mom and a wife, too. And in my mind I've always noted that those mothers and wives set on the highest pedestals are the most selfless. What's also weird is that it's hard to even realize that something is being denied of you, you know? Because everything you hear and see tells you that your definition of joy gets revised the day you become a mother and/or a spouse. And that this is what you were made to do and that this idea alone should be enough.

Right?

So yeah. I got it. I got what she was saying. I did. "It's not too late, Mrs. Sanders," I finally said. "Your health is good. There are definitely things you could still do."

"I know," Mrs. Sanders replied. "I know. And I don't want to seem like some ol' charity case that stay sad. I'm not. I do some stuff. But, see, what I can't have back is doing it as a younger woman. With curves and in high heels and with young woman sass. Young enough for people hold the door for you because they think they got a chance to court you, not jest 'cause they got enough home training to respect their elders." She gently laughed at her wittiness. I did, too.

"I get it," I finally said.

"Do stuff, Miss Manning. See 'bout them men of yours. But do stuff for you, too. Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay? I tells my daughters that. I do. Wish somebody had'a told me the same."

"Yes, ma'am," I whispered. Then I stuck it on a post-it note in my head for later.

Last week, I went to Paris, France. Despite my 45 years on earth, I'd never been. A college sorority sister took a job there this summer and inboxed me on Facebook a few months back urging me to come for the Semi de Paris--that is, the Paris Half Marathon. She explained that it sells out pretty quickly and encouraged me to "just sign up" and figure out the logistics later.

And so I did. Register, that is.

But honestly? I never truly considered going. I mean, not really. Sure, I'd registered for the race, but still. Could I really see myself going all the way to Europe for a race? One that wasn't connected to my kids or work? That answer was a solid no. It wasn't because I don't have support. Harry loved the idea of me running strong through cobblestoned streets and past historic landmarks. Especially in Paris, a city to which I'd never been. And I did, too.

But.

I think I purchased that race number because I liked the idea of it more than anything else. Buying that registration would be affirmation that I really did consider going. Which, in a lot of ways, was nearly as significant to me.

Nearly.

A few weeks after I'd submitted my payment for the race, I was casually talking to my colleague-friend Ira S. With my feet kicked up on a chair in his office, I mentioned this opportunity to do this race in Paris and my friend living in France. He immediately began speaking as if there was no question about whether or not I planned to go. But Ira is different than me. He speaks other languages, has lived in other countries and is, in my mind, more worldly than me. Of course doing this would be a no brainer to him. But to me, it was simply a pie-in-the-sky notion. So I told him the truth. That there was no way I'd go thorough the hassle of getting all the way to Paris just for me to go and run some race. That is, one just for me and the experience.

Ira immediately began listing the litany of reasons that I should go. That life was for living and that if I tried as hard as I could and it didn't work out, that was one thing. But automatically counting myself out would be something I'd regret later. And you know? I inherently knew he was right.

Of course, I can't say that I never do anything. I've had some amazing experiences as an adult woman that called for an understanding and supportive spouse and some hands on deck from others. But nearly all of those things have been either local or stateside. Which means they could occur over a three day (or two and a half day) weekend. Nothing calling for a passport or acquaintance with another language. And I can't say that it was because of lack of opportunities. I think it was more lack of consideration, you know?

Yeah.

And so. I went. And from the moment those wheels went up and that plane rose into the heavens, I knew. I knew that it would be a pivotal experience and one that would enrich my life. And you know? It was amazing. Just. . . . . yeah.

Another of our college sorority sisters routed a business trip from Barcelona through Paris to join us. And, in the end, we became three girls about town together. Feeling the pulse of the city, testing out our rudimentary French in cafes and on trains, window shopping and laughing so hard that we could hardly breathe. I'm so glad that I went.

So very glad.

For nearly the entire time, I thought of my family. But I also thought of me.

And you know what? I thought of Mrs. Sanders, too. I went a little harder, laughed a little louder, imagining myself as an octogenarian reflecting on this time. I sure did.

Look. I don't know all the answers. But what I do know is that my trip to Paris taught me that I really should push a bit outside of my pragmatic mom-work-wife life box some more. To put my own life experiences on the table for discussion. Especially the outlandish ones that require jumping through a bunch of hoops like this one did.

Yeah.

I hate that Mrs. Sanders has regrets. Because regrets suck. Even the little twinge-y ones that niggle at you when you know you should otherwise be happy with the hand you've been dealt. My guess is that Mrs. Sanders' narrative is one to which many women can relate. I feel honored that she trusted me with those feelings. I'm also grateful to Ira for helping me to picture myself as worthy of that experience in Paris.

When I see Mrs. Sanders again, I'll tell her of how she inspired me. And hopefully she can take solace in knowing that she helped another woman do at least one thing that she otherwise wouldn't have . . . . and perhaps shielded her from some potential regret.

 "Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay?" 

~ Mrs. Sanders, Grady elder.

Words to live by. And to live it up by, too.

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . please give it a listen and listen to the lyrics. 

The Somebody-Done-Somebody-Wrong Song.

Hey, won't you play . . .

another somebody done somebody wrong song?

And make me feel at home. . .

~ B.J. Thomas

A few years after I joined the Grady faculty, I was given the honor of leading this huge Emory sponsored Internal Medicine board review course as the director. In this role, I'd coordinate some eighty plus speakers and manage a substantial budget for a five day program. With attendees from all over the U.S. and beyond, it was a huge deal. Especially for someone as junior as I was at the time.

The first year went swimmingly well. I met tons of faculty members and was glad to be in a position that put me on the radar of a lot of well-connected people in our department. Given my triumphant neophyte crack at this program, our leadership tasked me with the same job for a second year. And that was cool.

Yup.

Not too much earlier than that first year of planning, I met the man of my dreams--the BHE. Then, in that second year as director, Harry and I were in the throes of wedding planning. And since I'd done this thing before and knew all the moving parts, all of that was cool, too.

But you know? Weddings are exciting and have this way of consuming you. I did my job, yes. But admittedly, I was quite distracted by things like invitation styles and calligraphy and showers and menus. My May 1 wedding had the lion's share of my thoughts and attention. I was quite thankful that I, one, had experience as the board review course leader and two, had an a very knowledgable coordinator working with me.

Things had gone without a hitch the year before. Our timeline of getting in touch with speakers, securing the venue, arranging the AV support and sending out the mass mailings of brochures was proposed to be identical to the prior session. Jana (name changed), my coordinator, had been a key part of the continuing medical education department for years and was a pro at this particular event. Through lighthearted emails, we quasi-discussed our action items and discussed our game plan of rolling with things just as we had in 2003.

Yup.

Jana knew every nitty-gritty detail of my wedding plans, too. As a matter of fact, her background with planning these medical meetings made her so connected in the hospitality industry that she was a key factor in helping me lock down my own wedding venue. It was great that our collective history of working on the board review event helped me to feel less stressed. And by less stressed I mean I wasn't really paying attention to the detail of the board review.

Nope.

The months leading to our May day nuptials were a whirlwind. Showers and dates with friends and so much more swirled around me and kept me floating in the air like Mary Poppins with her magic umbrella. That day finally came and it exceeded my wildest dreams. All of it, simply sublime. And the only thing better than that was the exquisite honeymoon escape Harry and I went on a few days after.

Hand in hand, we strolled along the island paradise of St. Lucia with goofy grins plastered on our faces. We lingered in saunas and took couples' massages. We ate the ripest, freshest fruit and met new people. And mostly just marveled at the blessing of being in love and now married.

Yup.

A few days into that honeymoon, I decided to make a lazy pitstop into the internet cafe of our swanky resort. Since we weren't on our cell phones, I thought a happy little message from the newly established "Team Manning" would be a good thing to send to our family and friends. And so I logged on and planned to do just that. Which was mostly cool.

Until.

I clicked into my work email and saw this one message dated April 30--the day before I got married. It was from Jana and had been sent a few minutes before midnight. In it, she described how she'd been going through some personal things and how, as of earlier that day, had resigned from her position.

Yep.

Turns out that in my wedding obsessed state, I hadn't even noticed that we'd not touched bases much about the board review program in March or April. Every email in my inbox referred to loose, slippery plans intermingled with brainstorming sessions about how to pull off a perfect wedding. Instinctively, I panicked. I internally prayed that she'd handled all of her action items (that is, the ones I assumed she knew of that were just like the ones she had before) although something welling in the pit of my gut told me that she hadn't.

Shit.

It was now May. The first order of business--and the most urgent to confirm--was that the brochures had been mailed out to the hundreds of physicians who were our targeted audience. Now. There was a simple way to know this for sure. I was among the physicians in that bulk mailing and should have received my brochure sometime near the end of March. Problem was, that was the furthest thing from my mind back then. And you know what? For the life of me, I couldn't recall getting one.

Nope.

Well. Turns out I didn't get one for a good reason. It never was sent. Nope. The 750 to 1000 mail flyers earmarked to be shot out to every corner of the southeastern U.S. never left Atlanta. And you know what else? That's because they never got printed.

Nope.

The last thing I could say with certainty was that I'd electronically put together the sample brochure and approved it for print. But confirming that it got printed? Then making sure it got mailed? Well. I'd left all of that up to Jana, my coordinator. You know, the one who'd just notified me of her resignation. And also shut off her cell phone and discontinued her university email account.

Sigh.

So me? Obviously, I was hysterical. Freaking out near the equator and ready to punch in a wall. I called Jana every dirty, slimy name in the book and lamented nonstop about how I couldn't BELIEVE that she hadn't done ANYTHING. And since my only sounding board was Harry, he just sat by sipping his all-inclusively provided spirits and listening.

"I talked to my division chief today," I huffed. "He is just as floored that this woman would just throw this whole damn thing under the bus. I mean, who DOES that? Doesn't even print OR send the damn brochures?" I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Every few seconds I said something similar, pacing all around Harry and dropping occasional f-bombs. This? This was a multi-thousand dollar disaster.

After the 24th hour of hearing me rant about the incompetence, unprofessional behavior and lack of consideration of Jana--the woman who was "supposed to be my friend"--Harry finally had had enough.

The BHE is a man of few words. But when he speaks? It's almost always worth listening to. And seared with honesty. He decided to let me know what he thought about all of this.

"This has nothing to do with that woman. You fucked this up. Period end of story."

Wait, huh?

I mean, we were supposed to be "Team Manning." He was supposed to take my side, leap to my rescue and hate Jana's guts right along with me. But that? That isn't Harry's style. He just shrugged and called like he saw it.

"You dropped the ball and this is your fault. How the hell did you NOT know that the damn brochure hadn't been sent? That's crazy. And why hadn't you asked to see the final before the mailing? You'd have known that it wasn't printed then. That's because you were focused on other shit."

"She had a job. She didn't do it." I felt my face getting hot and my eyes starting to prickle with defensive, hurt tears.

"You had a job. You didn't do it. She wasn't the director. You are."

I shook my head and folded my arms. "So you mean to tell me you think this is all on me?"

Harry raised one eyebrow and jutted out his lower lip. "Well. Honestly? Pretty much. You fucked up. You delegated and didn't follow up. And you're lucky as hell that your boss isn't me. I would have torn you a new asshole."

My eyes widened with his military man's lingo. He was pulling not a single punch.

"Look, babe," he finally said, softening his voice, "the best way for you to learn from this is to own your part in it. Call it what it is, man. You dropped the ball. And now you got burnt."

Now I was full-on crying. Partly because my feelings were hurt, partly because I was scared that I would cause my department to lose thousands of dollars, but especially because he was 100% correct in his assessment. I felt so exposed, so obviously wrong. But just a few moments later, I felt that anger welling up again so I started letting the pendulum swing back to Jana. "But she--"

Harry cut me off. "Babe, did you look at our wedding invitations before they went out?" I nodded and dropped my head because I knew already where this was going. "Of course you did. No way in hell would you have missed proofing them and making 100% sure that they got mailed out exactly six weeks before our wedding day. You made that a priority. This wasn't. So just call it what it is--you fucked up."

I plopped my face into my hands and sighed hard. "I did. You're right," I whispered.

"Then own it. And make that the last thing you say about that woman. Just figure out how you are going to fix it and focus on you." Next came the obligatory Army reference, a staple in Harry's lessons of love. "See this is like during my Army days when a private messed something up and I was the lieutenant in command. I couldn't go to the colonel with no bullshit song and dance about how Private Joe didn't do this or Private Joe didn't do that. Nawww, man. It was my job to handle all of that and present results to my superior officers. "

"So she was my private."

"Yep. And you need to thank God that I ain't your colonel."

That? That was one of the most pivotal learning experiences of my career to date. A painful lesson in accountability and the futility of finger pointing--provided in a beachside lounge chair against a Caribbean backdrop.

Yup.

Let me be clear: Jana was wrong in some ways. She was. But Harry's point was that it would be more useful to focus on my part first before wasting energy trying to decimate her. He also told me that by the time a person looks at what they did and works on that, they're too exhausted to go blaming another person. And so. That's eventually what I did. And you know? The truth hurt. It was as clear as day: I was so busy focusing on things unrelated to my own job as course director that I missed my opportunity to catch what wasn't being done in a timely fashion. Which ultimately fell on me, the responsible party, not Jana.


Tonight I was called by a mentee about something that immediately took me back to this place. This person was singing a somebody-done-somebody-wrong-song and the more I listened, the more it became clear. This was something my advisee needed to own for what it was: His fault.

Yup.

And so. I told him just like Harry told me (minus the expletives.) "You messed up. Plain and simple. You used poor judgement and now you need to own it and work through the consequences."

And, like me, he countered with all the reasons why this faculty member who'd given him a hard time was wrong. His dialogues sounded like that of a victim instead of someone who truly just effed up. Big time.

I was loving in my discussion, yes. But totally honest and not even remotely yielding to coddling or adding to the narrative of this being victimization. He was mostly quiet. I can't tell if he felt seriously angry and betrayed, or if he just needed time to reflect. Either way, I will sleep well tonight.

I will.

Sometimes? Sometimes when you fuck something up, you just have to stand the rain and own it. Put on your big girl panties, raise your hand and say, "Yep. I blew that one." Then be mature enough to work through the solution and the consequences that follow. Anything other than that--especially a never-ending commentary of how terribly you were treated and how much it is someone else' fault--is not only exhausting, it pulls the drain on any patience or respect people have for you.

Truth.

Listen. We are human beings and, by design, guaranteed to mess some things up. But humans who lead other humans must push beyond pridefulness to own wrongdoing. Paradoxically, it garners more respect than people realize.

At least, that's what I think.

So the board review? It went okay. We broke even which technically isn't the goal. My boss was glad that "that woman didn't cause us to lose money" and felt satisfied with things being even-Steven. But me? Deep down I knew the truth. That my husband was right and that I'd gotten lucky. But especially that this was all my fault for not following through with my responsibility as the leader of that program.

I like thinking about leadership lessons. I think they're an essential part of being a great clinical educator, physician, community leader and mom. The accountability thread permeates our lessons of love in our home. It's my hope that telling my son that leaving homework in a desk is his fault (not his teacher's) will pave the way to recognizing fault and making improvements later. Or as Harry says "being a grown ass man" when things happen. So that zero or that silent lunch is on you, bruh. It's pretty amazing how innovative folks become once they've owned a screw up and decide to try to find a solution.

Homework included.

So yeah. Sometimes? Sometimes you just fuck up. And when you do, step one is to admit it. To whom, you ask? Well, that depends on the situation. But I can say there is one person whom you should always start with.

Can you guess who that person is?

Yeah.

***
Happy Thursday. And sorry for the f-bombs. Blame my husband. Ha.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . kicking it old school, yo.

Saturday Night.

The other day I went to see one of my patients in the evening. The nursing staff had paged and said this patient was feeling anxious and upset and had asked for me. Me specifically. I had some things to do at Grady and was in the vicinity anyway so decided to just come on in.

Yep.

A lot has been going on with my patient. A lot. There was fear involved. A lot of fear. And frustration, too. And the thing about fear and frustration is that they can make us behave in ways that aren't always in our character. And since I get that usually I don't take such things personally. I recite the mantra that I tell my students: "This isn't about you." Because it almost never is.

But still.

At, like, 8-something PM on a Saturday night, I went to see my patient. I tapped on that door and creaked open the hinge expecting to be met with relief. Or at least some raw emotion and readiness to talk which I could have easily worked with, you know?

Instead, fear flipped an ugly switch on and I walked into a barrage of really unkind words and behaviors. Passive-aggressive. Or rather just sort of nasty-aggressive. Not dangerous or threatening. Just mean, you know? And I've truly grown to care for this patient so not only did those words catch me by surprise--they hurt. My feelings were genuinely hurt.

Yep.

When the nurses called me, I was sure that the combination of the rapport we'd built so far and the fact that I was up there after visiting hours when the lights get turned down would allay whatever had been going on. I was wrong.

I removed myself from that room and headed out to elevator. I snapped this photo of myself in the vestibule because I wanted to look at it and reflect on how I was feeling. Because my feelings were complicated.

Very.

The hospital was so empty at that hour that I stepped onto an empty lift and leaned my head against the wall on the way down. I could feel my pulse quickening and my face getting hot. Next thing I knew, my eyes welled up with tears and, before I could even stop them, I started to cry.

Kind of hard, actually.

I can't fully explain what I was feeling. Some of it was that my feelings were hurt. But that was only part of it. Mostly, I was just sad. Sad for my patient and this fear and this ugly behavior that came with it. Because that kind of thing almost always impedes excellent patient care by robbing even the most well meaning providers of their empathy. And empathy is a necessary element in quality patient care if you ask me. This patient didn't need anything else to work against all that was already happening.

Not at all.

So right now I'm feeling so sad. Like, every time I even think about the gigantic mountains that so many of my patients like this one are up against I want to steal away over and over again into the quietest elevators to weep into the crook of my white coat--just like I did on Saturday night. With no one looking or hearing or judging. Then, just maybe, even crying out into a vacuous airspace to my God or the Grady gods or any being with powers willing to take this on. Something, anything to defy the suffocating pragmatism and wrestle down the hopelessness I feel in such moments.

Maybe that would make me feel better, you know?

Then, when the doors pop back open, I can shadow box before re-emerging. Pop out of that elevator like a rejuvenated ninja with a new fight and a thicker skin. Believing in the little rays of light that sometimes seep through the darkness faced by so many of my patients, this one included. Or maybe even embracing some lofty idea that I could be that ray of light.

Maybe.

I am realizing that our patients aren't the only vulnerable people in the hospital. We are vulnerable, too. We so very are. Our universal precautions don't protect us from one of the most infectious exposures we face in caring for patients. . . .love.

On Saturday night, my patient was mean to me. Really mean. And yes, it was about fear but still. I have nothing in my little bag of Internal Medicine tricks to eradicate the effects of all that. I don't.

You know? Sometimes? Sometimes, this job is hard, man.

Yeah.

***

Complicated.

"It's complicated," you said with a shake of your head. "You know? I mean, you know. Stuff is just so complicated with us."

I knew exactly what you meant by "us." You were referring to our shared culture and how tricky it is to navigate through it sometimes. And sure, it isn't that way with every black family. But still. I understood what you were saying.

"I'm sorry this is making it harder for you," I responded. I was leaning on my knee with my hand wrapped around my chin. I couldn't really think of much else to say.

"When somebody says they had sex with dude and they're a dude, tell the truth--deep down what do you feel inside?"

Your question caught me off guard. "Me?"

"Yeah. You."

"Well. I guess I don't think much of anything. I think it's your business, you know? But if you're asking do I feel bothered by it, no. I just don't. I know some people do. But I don't."

"A lot of people feel disgusted. I see it in their face when somebody is all obviously a gay dude, you know? I have friends like that. And they just don't care what nobody thinks about them. And see, me? That's what I don't want. I don't want that."

"Hmmm."

"Does that sound crazy?"

"What--not wanting to be looked at with disgust? No. Not to me."

"What would you do?"

Your questions were making my head hurt. I had never been asked these things so directly. But it was good. Good to be put in a position to challenge empathy.

"What would I do if what? Like if . . . I guess I want to understand what you're asking."

"If you loved a woman. Like the way you love your husband." You pointed at my wedding ring when you said that.

My first instinct was to answer immediately, impulsively. But then I decided to respect your question and actually pause to think about it.

What would I do if I loved a woman the way I love Harry? What exactly would I do?

Well. The truth is that I can't be fully sure. But I can guess. And that postulation would be based upon more than just me being "true to myself" and all that sort of thing. It would be grounded in how my family has always treated me and how sure I am that my parents would love me no matter what. And, as a result, they'd love who I love, too. I'm pretty sure my true friends would stick around and that I'd likely have just as everyday-boring-what's-for-dinner-wash-the-dishes-boring as I do now.

Just with a woman.

"Probably most of the same things I do now. Just with a woman."

"You'd still go to church?"

Lord. These questions.

"I think I would."

My head began to throb right after that because I started sifting through what it would look like to go to my church with a wife instead of a husband. And though I can't say it would be a no-go, I can say it would complicate things. That's for sure.

"So you'd be all out in the open? Like, you wouldn't be scared?"

"Ummm. It all sounds scary because that's not my reality. But hiding sounds much scarier to me. It sounds scarier than anything we've talked about so far." I bit my lip an let myself continue pondering your queries.

"Yeah. I can see that." You turned and faced the window. Not in a rude way, though. I think you just wanted to feel the sun on your face. I could still see the side of your cheek and your eyes. They looked like brown pools of water when you gazed into the sunlight. It was beautiful, actually.

"I . . .you know. . .I have a super supportive family," I added on. I needed you to know that. I didn't want to trivialize your feelings. "A lot of people loving and accepting you for who you are can make you brave, you know? So I think with that, it wouldn't be as hard for me."

You shifted back toward me and turned one side of your mouth upward. "I could see that when you walked in. Somebody told you that you were important when you were a little girl. And you believed it."

Damn.

"I . . .I don't even know how to respond to that."

"It's true, though, isn't it?"

I nodded slowly while still holding your searing eye contact.

"Stuff would be easier for me if that was my story. But it's not."

Since I didn't know what to say to that, I just stayed quiet.  After a few moments I spoke. "I feel a little scared that the hiding is standing in the way of you getting better."

You just stared at me without speaking when I said that, lost in your own thoughts. I waited to see what you'd say, the pause uncomfortable and prolonged. Finally, I couldn't take it any more.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I said.

"You know what I'm thinking, Dr. Manning? I'm thinking shit is complicated. That's what I'm thinking."

"But it doesn't have to be." As soon as I said that I immediately wished I hadn't. I hoped you didn't take it the wrong way. Easy for me to simplify the biggest hurdle of your young life. "I'm sorry I said that," I whispered.

You chuckled. "That's okay, baby." I immediately felt relieved. You raised one eyebrow and then added, "You want to know the real secret about complicated shit?" I widened my eyes in response to that, nudging you to go on. "The real secret about all complicated shit is just that--it's complicated for no reason. It never has to be complicated at all. But for whatever reason, it just is."

And that? That was some real talk right there.

And this? This is Grady. The place where I am challenged and pushed to search my heart. And think long and hard about what hides in the shadows of my mind.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Fitness Self Esteem.

Us at Ryan's Run 2015

A few weeks ago, I took the kids with me to do a 5K organized by a group of friends from Zachary's school. The race--called "Ryan's Run"-- was put together in memory of my friend Katie's son whose untimely death came after a painful struggle with mental illness. The proceeds all went to the Central Night Shelter for Men where Katie serves as the director. Walking distance from Grady, Central Night Shelter has helped countless numbers of my patients. Thanks to Katie, not only do I have an inside track to helping my patients but also a wonderful place for my family to go and volunteer.

Yeah, so Ryan's Run would raise a substantial amount for a place that has looked out for some of my most vulnerable patients but especially it would shed light on the often silent pain endured by those who fight with mental health issues. My point in saying all this is simple: It was important that we were there.

Very important.

So when I got the kids up that morning, even though they were grumbling about being sleepy and it being earrrrrrly--I wasn't taking no for an answer. No, ma'am. No, sir.

With Katie and the guests at CNS. 

Anyways. So the race was awesome and super well attended. The sky was extra blue and the laughs extra light. I got to run right beside Katie and reflect on her boy and even wave at a few of the guys from the shelter who'd come to cheer her on from the street. And truly, it was special and amazing and as beautiful as it all sounds.

Yes, it was.

And although I loved that day and that race, that actually isn't the point of this post. That said, the point is related to it since it comes from  something that I noticed that day. It's  been lingering in my head ever since.

Yep.

So, check it: The kids and I get down to the race which started up at the Georgia State Capitol just a few blocks away from Grady. We parked at the hospital to keep things easy and trucked it on over for the 8 o'clock gun. Like I said, the sky was a technicolor blue and there was even this nice and unseasonably cool breeze to boot. So yeah, everything was cool--literally and figuratively.

As we walked over, the kids began to make some small talk.

"Mom? How far is the race again?" Zachary asked.

"It's a 5K. Which is 3.1 miles."

"THREE MILES?!" Isaiah exclaimed. "How far is the fun run?"

"I think that's only a mile."

"Well. I'm only doing the fun run." Isaiah folded his arms and started shuffling his feet.

"I think you guys can totally make it 3 miles. You don't have to run fast, son. And besides, you ran cross country, Isaiah. This will be easy for you."

"Okay, I'll try. But 3 grown up miles seems really far for a kid to run."

"Not my kids." I looked over my shoulder and smiled at him. Which didn't exactly make him feel any different but that was okay, too.

Zachary was mostly tuned out during this exchange but finally chimed in."Hey Mom? Who else will be there?"I named a few people from his school including some of his mates from his grade level. And that seemed to be enough to make him content. Or, at least, cool enough for him to not have anything more to say.

Yeah.

So anyways,  we get to the race and say all of our hellos to friends and other parents. We aask the predictable questions about summer plans, camps, and the like. And while we were standing there, Zack sees a couple of his buddies from 2nd grade and notifies me that he's going to go and run with them. I nod and watched him scurry off. And again, this was cool, too, since Ryan's Run was totally a family affair and everyone in that crowd was like an auntie or an uncle to my kids.

Yep.

So the "ready, set, go!" gets yelled and we all take off. And by "take off" I mean that some of us started running at our regular pace while others lit out as soon as they had the green light to do so. And you know what? Zachary Manning was in that latter group.

Yup.

You know what else? That dude ran next to a few kids and adults that run fast on a regular basis. And let me tell you--that boy jumped right in there and ran all 3.1 of those miles in under 26 minutes. He sure as hell did.

Damn.

I admit that I trotted pretty slowly. Time wasn't really something I was thinking about for this race but I also knew in my head that I hadn't been doing much training either. That said, Zachary had never run a full 5K or much of anything close to that in his life. Does he run and exercise a lot? Sure. But had he run a 5K before June 15? Nope. That didn't stop him from knocking out those three sub-8 1/2 minute miles like it wasn't nothing, though.

No, it did not.

Interestingly, Isaiah--the one who actually has run distance before--found the big race daunting. The whole adults-running-next-to-him thing made him question his ability. That and the fact that it was an official 5K.

Now.

This. This is exactly what I'm reflecting on today--this whole idea of what I like to refer to as "fitness self esteem."

Yes. That.

Now. Let me explain. See, fitness self esteem is separate from regular self esteem although the two can and often do intertwine. Just because you have a  high regular self esteem doesn't mean that it's that way across the board. You could think super highly of yourself in most settings but still have an abysmal fitness self esteem.

Confused yet? Please. Stay with me, I'm going somewhere and am trying to unpack this.

Okay. So check it. My son Zachary? That kid has a super high fitness self esteem. That is, he has every belief in what his mind and body can come together to achieve. He doesn't waste much time factoring in the reasons why he couldn't or shouldn't be able to do things. And because of that, he goes extra hard at most things with the idea that success is attainable. Which translates to--you guessed it--success.

Yup.

Me? Admittedly, I don't have a naturally high fitness self esteem. Nope. I think I decided a long time ago that my body wasn't really that athletic and that most things that I can do are simply because I've pushed myself. But the truth is, I probably don't nudge my body even close to what it is really capable of doing. Mostly because I've convinced myself of some false limit.

Yep.

Now see. . .that Zack? When he showed up at Ryan's Run, it never even occurred to him that he couldn't run those 3 miles. All he knows is that he's--to quote him--"an active kid." That's enough to keep him believing that he's in the running to actually win whatever contest he enters.

Yup.

What that means is that he attacks physical things with a different zeal. He pushes himself and doesn't hit the pressure release valve when the going gets tough. You know why? Because he gets it that his real limit lies somewhere beyond the point where most people choose to give up. Yup.

Still with me? Cool.

Man. When I first started running, I was super intimidated by it. Hearing someone even utter the words 5K or any K for that matter gave me butterflies. But even now that I've done 7 half marathons, three ten milers and a bunch more "Ks" since then, I recognize that I am still plagued with a sometimes shaky fitness self esteem when it comes to running. Which totally holds me back from some probably achievable goals as a runner.

Now.

I get that someone reading this is like, "So what? Why not just get out there and have fun! You're doing plenty, woman!" I get that. But I see all of this as a life metaphor, you know? I do.

But more on that in a moment.

Okay, so one of my running partners is a Tuskegee sorority sister of mine named Valen M. When I run with Valen, I try not to be intimidated but I so am. It's like she finds a way to get inside of my head to kick my low fitness self esteem straight in the butt. She tells me exactly what my body can do, demands more of me and then holds me to her standard. And no. She's not like a trainer or anything like that. Instead, she's just a friend who happens to have this really high fitness self esteem. Even though I always feel a little scared to run with Valen,  I always leave feeling totally badass.

Yep.

With my  super strong sissy, Valen

There was this one day that Valen and I were running through Candler Park and we turned the corner going toward the big hill in front of Mary Lin Elementary School. And she looked at me and said, "No walking. At all." Yeah. She did and that was that. And when I almost, almost, almost got to the last few feet toward the top of that hill, I threw my hands up and started to walk.

"I have to catch my breath!" I huffed.

"You could have caught your breath in 60 more seconds, Kim! Trust your body! Come on!"

And you know? She was right. I wasn't dying. I was just tired. And. . I don't know. . . .just accepting of this idea that at my very, very, very best all I can run is a 10 minute and twenty second mile over a long distance. I also told myself that hills like that one can get almost tackled but not totally. And if they do even get quasi-tackled? It's still not to my full physical capacity. But my Zachary? Chile please. He would have gone balls to the wall and taken that hill, chopped it up, melted it down and put it around his neck as a finisher's medal.

Yup.

I have this other very good friend and fellow running mate named Frieda J. (aka Free-Free.)  We've run a bunch of things together. And that Free-Free? Man. She's another person with a high fitness self esteem.

Yep.

Case in point:

Like, tomorrow a bunch of us are signed up to run the Peachtree Road Race--this huge 10K that goes up Peachtree Road in Atlanta on the 4th of July each year. This year, Free-Free keeps saying that she wants us to run a sub-60 minute 10K. And seriously, like every other text message she sends me says that (followed by a bunch of emoticons.) But every time she does, I respond by telling her "no way" or coming back with some sort of snappy reply that lets her know that sub-60 isn't in the cards for me.

My super speedy Boston marathoner friend, Julie E.

And yes, if you are one of those speedy-racer runners who is snickering at this as a goal, then all I can say is good for you. But for me, that just isn't something that I can see right now. It just isn't.

Sigh.

And okay, part of it is that I have not really been training so well. But mostly, I think it's something else. My body is strong and able to do so much. The more I think about this concept of fitness self esteem and Zachary's sub-26 minute 5K, the more  I take pause.

Yup.

I mean seriously . . .  COULD my body run 6.2 nine-minute-and-some-change miles tomorrow? You know? Probably. I mean. . . if my mind allowed me to push through some discomfort. . . .sure. I know I could. But I guess someway somehow it has gotten into my head that doing that just isn't in me. And now I've guzzled down my own Kool-Aid on the subject.

Sigh.

So. Here is the REAL question: If it isn't your fitness self esteem that could use a boost, what then is it? And in what areas are you the equivalent of a Boston Marathoner? See, for me? When it comes to writing or teaching or public speaking? Shoooot. I'm like Meb Keflezighi, man. Fast, furious and expecting to be the one to bust through the ribbon every time. And even when I don't? I still see myself as a Boston qualifier the whole way.

That Isaiah? He thinks that no one has a more analytical mind than he does. If something is broken, he holds out his hand, sure that just placing the non-working item there will surely lead to it getting fixed. By him. And guess what? It almost always does. Is it because all of our broken items just didn't really require much? Or is it really because Isaiah goes into problem-solving with a tenacity that exceeds that of most others?

So what are you a total boss at where you feel like you're in the zone? And more importantly, where have you thrown down speed breakers because you've convinced yourself that you just have to catch your breath?

Hmmm.

Sure. There are the obvious physical differences between some us. Of course. But really. . . are people who run 8 minute and lower per-mile speeds or who do crazy Cross Fit routines or who run first place in the Boston like Meb K. just wired differently than me? My vote is mostly no. I see plus-sized men and women flying by me in half marathons all the time.  Folks who, like the bumble bee and his wings that shouldn't aerodynamically work, believe that they can fly. And so they do.

There is a huge mind portion to fitness self esteem--and esteem in many other things--that has to be dealt with head on if you want to achieve full potential.

Pun intended. Ah hem.

So me? As for the sub-60 minute 10K tomorrow, well. . .let's just say I'm still a work in progress. Both mentally and physically. But I will let this idea marinate in my head some more and start doing the work to tackle my fitness self esteem. Because there is a such thing. At least I think there is.

Which again, is nothing more than a parallel to all the complexities of self image, right?

Yeah, man. That's all I got.

***
Happy day-before-the-Peachtree-Road-Race.  What's your fitness self esteem stopping you from doing? And what other areas are you being held back in because of limits you've mentally set?

Post Peachtree Road Race follow up:

So. . . did Free-Free run a sub-60 10K on July 4? Didn't you see that text from her? Damn right she did.