When it Comes to Women in Their 50s, Google is Shamefully Wrong

Apparently, we are dowdy, decrepit, and hard up.

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

I’m not sure what possessed me — boredom, gluttony for punishment, or morbid curiosity — but I googled Women in their 50s. According to their almighty algorithms, our sense of style is up there with the People of Walmart, our bones are as brittle as October maple leaves, and we’re toting vaginas that are enticing as Death Valley.

Good God! Call Kevorkian already!

I had half expected to see the famous pair of Jennifers @50, JLo and Aniston, topping (taunting) my search and spouting how great life as a quinquagenarian can be. (Say that one 50 times fast.) Instead, the article atop the page was WebMd’s Your Body in Your 50s.

This charming slideshow describes the delightful deterioration of your health when you reach half a century. Some of these include:

  • Diminishing Brain Health: No need to dwell on your cognitive decline — you couldn’t concentrate on it long enough anyway. Just eat more fish swimming in olive oil and you’ll forget all about it.
  • Failing Mentality: Warnings of depression brought on by menopause and alcohol. Their solution, “sit less and move more.” I’ll get off the couch eventually, but I need to gulp down my wine first.
  • Immune System Malfunctions: Not only does your immunity weaken, but it slows to sloth-like momentum and can even “attack itself by accident.” So, the Invasion of the Body Snatchers was just an allegory for a mid-life health crisis?
  • Hearing Loss: Excuse me, did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of zombie T-cells gradually devouring my organs.
  • Vision Loss: Did you know you can no longer shift your focus easily is because your eyes “get stiffer with age?” “Hey! Eyes up here mister! Oh, you’re 50+? I’ll give you a minute.”
  • Menopause: Their solution for hot flashes, mood swings, and painful sex? Antidepressants, sleep, and lots o’ lube. Pharmaceuticals and Slip N Slide sheets — mandated midlife mood enhancers.
  • Bone Disintegration: In your 50s, your broken-down bone cells outnumber the stronger ones. You’re just one trip and fall away from being left out on the curb. Best have a P.I. attorney on speed dial.

The odds of finding useful information are 50–50

I love going down a research rabbit hole, so I’m always game for the other topics the learned browser might suggest. In their “People also search for” box, they list Goals for a 50-year-old woman, Things to do when you turn 50 years old, and Finding purpose in life after 50. Looks like Google supposes that without their guidance, we are all wandering around apathetic, lethargic, and aimlessly waiting for the inevitable dementia diagnosis.

The People also ask section also lists these popular queries:

  • What should a woman in her 50s wear? According to AARP — Dark denim, more dark denim, and cardigans. So, Mr. Rogers on a casual Friday, got it.
  • What should you not wear in your 50s? Old fashioned skirts, fleece, and loud makeup. No Caroline Ingalls/Nike/Tammy Faye Bakker ensembles — understood.
  • At what age does a man stop getting hard? Yeah, I know, but it appears it’s something us horny 50s-year-olds with dehydrated vajayjays are very curious about. (If I’m understanding the math correctly — about half the men in their 50s suffer from ED.) The stiffer the eyeballs, the softer the johnson?
  • How do you sexually arouse a woman in menopause? Again, it looks like we are clueless (and obsessed) in this department, too. Their suggestions: Lubrication (Tip to 30-year-old self: Buy stock in Astroglide. It will come in handy. Yes, all the puns intended.), bolstering yourself with pillows (more cushion for the pushin’ against that delicate skeleton), and “going solo.” If we were experts at the last one, would we even need to ask this question?
  • What foods should you avoid after 50? Cut down on sugar, salts, carbs, and alcohol. Doesn’t the internet realize that a steady diet of banana bread, French fries, and cabernet is keeping me sane as I approach the last best years of my life?
  • What is the average weight for a 50-year-old woman? I won’t dignify that body-shaming search with the answer, but suffice it to say, I’m four pounds over. I’m tall, so it evens out. But, then again, I live in Los Angeles. I’m considered a behemoth.

The cyber search for meaning continues

Interspersed with the tales of health horrors and aging beautifully tips are the articles on reinventing, rediscovering, and reclaiming your identity. Finding the “courage and the freedom” to be your “true self.” It’s as if the first five decades of our lives didn’t amount to anything.

Did we spend all that time in hiding, waiting for the world to acknowledge our greatness? Were our personas that precarious?

I don’t know about you, but I think have done a lot in the first half of my life: I married my great love, raised two boys into adulthood, survived widowhood and breast cancer, traveled abroad, and reinvented my career more than once.

My list is not complete, and I plan on accomplishing much more. I have no doubt your lists are just as impressive.

Originally, I was going to say, “even more impressive.” I grew up believing it wasn’t ladylike for a girl to toot her own horn. That is the one thing I have realized in my 50s — I haven’t found my voice, I’m finally comfortable with using my voice. If that makes others uneasy, so be it.

Mid-21st-Century Modern

There still is a long way to go equal pay/opportunity department, but we are a lucky generation. Our current role models for those in our fifties include the aforementioned Jennifers, Padma Lakshmi, and Sheryl Sandburg to name just a few. There are hundreds of vibrant, intelligent women breaking through boundaries and straddling all industries for us to chose from.

When we were young women, the 50-something role models presented to us were The Golden Girls and Queen Elizabeth — aging females with one foot presumed to be in the graveyard.

It looks like Betty White and Her Majesty had other plans.

Do not deprive me of my age. I have earned it. — May Sarton


This post originally appeared in P.S. I Love You @Medium.com

Hope’s Revival

Image by RÜŞTÜ BOZKUŞ from Pixabay

Sadness slithers within your psyche
hissing gossip of false consolations
With cynical sympathy, he whispers persuasions
promising solace in isolation

Lulled by the illusion of tranquility
It’s easy to trust the ease of his eulogy
nestle into his assurance of serenity
and acquiesce to dismay

But, there is no peace in his offering
He leads astray — betrays
those who fall prey to his treachery



A rose-blushed horizon beckons
ushering relief for the weary
Foreshadowing beatitudes’ bliss
the ombre oasis glistens

No leisurely endeavor
the decision — the revision— to hope
To travail, prevail over adversity
Unveil your grace and regale in its glory

Be wary, he will try to tarry your journey
Dispel your desire, repel your joy
Cloak your comfort in delusions
Badgering valor with scheming daggers



Ye of wee faith
Will you at last awake from your hibernation
Listen to the inspiration presiding
already residing in your soul


Originally published in P.S. I Love You @Medium.com

Looking for Love? Maybe You Need to Change Your Point of View

What you find is up to you

Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash

Tucked in the upper right corner of my garage rafters lies a box containing an enormous vase. It has earned that spot because it is simply too large for any indoor closet. Scarlet and urn-shaped (an omen, perhaps?) it was a gift from my late husband on a bygone Valentine’s Day. He promised to fill it with roses each year after that. He made it to three.

Guiding like a beacon, it is the first thing I notice when pulling into my home. Sometimes, all I observe is the tattered, dusty edges of the box — how empty that picture of the crimson glass vessel appears. Most of the time, however, I recognize it as it truly is: A loving cup brimming with memories. It all depends on my point of view.


Now here I am, a dozen Valentines since my husband’s passing, without a holiday mandated significant other. Lavish bouquets will not be exhibited on my Facebook feed. No one is sending me sweet love notes this year.

But here’s the kicker — I am teeming with loves just as significant, if not more so, than the adoration of a spouse or partner. And, I bet, my fellow non-plus-oners, you are, too. You just have to recognize them and, most importantly, resolve to take heed of their beauty.

Only in the eyes of love can you find infinity
-Sorin Cerin

The Greeks defined eight types of love. Why eight? I’d like to think it’s because eight is the number of infinity. Universal love can’t be comprehended in a single construct.

My favorite synopsis of this Grecian octet is a blog post on the FTD website. I know, cheesy, but good content is good content. Plus, this is a Valentine’s piece, so what the heck.

Here they are, with a little commentary thrown in:

  • Philia: Brotherly Love. Kindred Spirits. The kind of person who understands that pineapple has no business being anywhere near a pizza, but completely understands why ketchup on tacos is the bomb.
  • Pragma: Enduring, mature love. A cultivated, shared history that has withstood the tests of time.
  • Storge: Natural, instinctual love. The instant love a parent has for their child or the immediate affection felt between childhood friends. BFs forever and all that.
  • Eros: Romantic, physical love. Hot, sultry hormones pulsating. Bounding with lustful energy. Soft caresses leading to wild abandon. Whew! Ok, I digress… Get a grip woman!
  • Ludos: Playful, flirty love. Infatuation. Frisky behavior that makes everyone else in the room gag just a bit.
  • Mania: Obsessive love. Jealous and possessive. Sheer madness.
  • Philautia: Self-compassion. Revering, accepting, and honoring yourself. Choosing love that builds you up.
  • Agape: Selfless love. Putting others above yourself. Recognizing and respecting the humanity in all of us. Sadly, there hasn’t been much of this going around as of late.

“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.”
-Audrey Hepburn

The Greeks never intended for these loves to be mutually exclusive. Like features in a luxurious landscape, they are to be planted together; complementing and highlighting what is sown alongside.

Love is never monochromatic. It can be dappled with a few complementary hues or bursting with psychedelic shades. Your preferences, your environment, help to select the flora.

So Cupid be damned! This Valentine’s I am going to shift my focus to the loves that presently adorn my life, instead of longing for those of seasons past. Like any landscape artist, I am working with the abundance of botanicals presented to me. Hopefully, you find it as breathtaking as I do.

But first, the fertilizer

Ever since my husband’s original cancer diagnosis (on the eve of 9/11 — another omen), one could say my life has been a reoccurring shit show. An endless carnival of freak occurrences and rarities that would amaze even Ripley.

Contrary to the old adage, my shit does stink. Big chunks of putrid stank bobbing in a viscous cesspool. That aroma, believe it or not, is peculiarly intoxicating and addictive. The compulsion to anoint oneself with sorrow’s perfume overwhelming.

But, to my surprise, it is within these piles that my loves have sprouted. Instead of prompting repulsion, these predicaments have fertilized my blessings. They laid the groundwork for my bountiful garden.

Mia famiglia: Storge-Agape-Philia

I used to take for granted my strong, extended family. I’m sure it’s partly due to my Italian heritage, but, to me, it was a given that everyone had one. Only recently, have I recognized my privilege.

My family is voracious in their appetite to make it all better and I admit, I lap up every morsel of their compassion. There is my mother, who bursts in with a month’s worth of homemade ragu and biscotti; her arms laden with bags of herbals and vitamins. Whether the ailment is physical or emotional, she has a supplement for it.

Her maternal might set to 11, my mother will nestle in for days or sometimes weeks to tend to her firstborn. Three square meals a day (always organic) her manna from heaven.

My father, in turn, will drive to the ends of the earth — and Costco — to gather provisions. Tucked within his bags of supplies will invariably be a surprise luxury item (jumbo shrimp, baby lamb chops, juicy rib-eyes) that he and I both adore. It’s a wink and a silent, “I’ve got you covered, honey,” that rings loud and clear in my heart.

Each of my siblings is steadfast as a succulent. A variegated array of devotion, their loyalty never waivers.

Then there is my cousin, who has made it his mission to make me feel attractive even though lately I feel about as appealing as a corpse lily. I know he is at the ready to beat down any dude he feels has done me wrong.

Treasured old friends: Philia-Pragma-Storge

Fortune smiled upon me when it granted me a fellowship of life-long friends. Most budded in elementary school with one germinating in our infancy. Beloved companions for 50 years, they are my roots. We have grown, matured, and endured alongside each other like a redwood forest.

We have experienced the trials and joys of all that life has to offer from youthful shenanigans to the frolics of middle age. Boyfriends, careers, marriages, and births have been our summer solstice. The biting frost of illness and death’s devastation our frigid winters. We have a symbiotic history that grounds and nourishes us. They know and cherish me to my core.

The Posse: Philia-Philautia-Agape

My posse, along with their spouses and children, is my trellis — my backbone. Interwoven with strength and radiance, this sisterhood+ rallies like a fire brigade as soon as a distress call pings our group text. Ever ready for the rescue, they’ve arrived within minutes whenever I needed a lift to an appointment, a toilet unclogged, or gallons of libations to drown my sorrows.

These families have cheered on my children, coaching and stepping in as surrogate parents when my capacity was waning. Even more glorious, they have always included me in their social gatherings. I’m not weeded out as the solo attendee or tolerated as the pity invite. Within this lattice, I am welcomed.

The greenery

No landscape is complete without a bit of foliage providing an anchor or a touch of flourish. There is the former coworker who has become a dear companion and priceless dispenser of wisdom, the countless clients who unknowingly offered inspiration when I was desperate for validation, and, of course, my two sons who supply me with abounding purpose, pride, and hope.

“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.” –Henri Matisse

I’ll admit, I still pine for a season of roses. It’s easier to be content with discontent. When the next storm arrives, I have no doubt I’ll find myself, once again, slathering sadness like a warm blanket.

But when that happens, I am equally assured that one of my loves will sprout anew and tenderly wipe the tears from my eyes. My focus cleared, I’ll soon notice the grandeur blossoming around me.

So what is blooming in your garden? Which of the eight loves decorate your landscape? Are you dazzled by their brilliance? Or are you struggling to see splendor amidst some desolation? Are you basking in a verdant meadow or shriveling in a barren desert?

The view is up to you.


Orginally featured in P.S. I Love You @ Medium.com

How Do You Confront an Identity Crisis During a Pandemic?

2020 has prompted me to question everything.

Image by klimkin from Pixabay

No death, no doom, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a loss of identity.
― H.P. Lovecraft

To my family, friends, and acquaintances: please read the following at face value. It is not a cry for help, a play for sympathy, or a prompt to initiate bringing me back into the fold. It simply is a reflection upon the uncertainties I, along with many others, are feeling at this time.

Truth be told, I have been feeling tenuous for a while now. Many of the ideologies I have woven into my identity have become threadbare. The events of 2020 have prompted me to take stock of my mental wardrobe: Are my convictions valuable or vintage? Can they continue to spark joy or do they provoke dismay? Do they fit me any more?

The modern definition of identity was proposed by Erik Erikson as his fifth stage of psychosocial development. While our primary personality is established during adolescence, he postulated that our sense of self develops throughout our entire lifespan. Our “ego identity,” according to Erikson, is constantly being shaped by our interactions and experiences with others. A challenge to your ego identity can occur at any time, most likely when one experiences a major life stressor such as losing a loved one, loss of employment, confronting health issues, or experiencing a traumatic event such as — I don’t know — a global pandemic.

Developmental psychologist James Marcia further elaborated on Erikson’s theory. He proposed identity is based on the exploration of a variety of life domains including intimate relationships, religion, politics, and occupation. The status of your identity is either in crisis — “a time of upheaval where old values or choices are being reexamined” — or committed to a role within these domains.

Fear of commitment

Welcome to my 2020. Or should I say, 5150? Except my current detention is looking more like 72 weeks instead of hours — perhaps even longer.

Full disclosure: This is not my first identity crisis rodeo. That occurred a dozen years ago when I became a widow. I envision identity like a lasso — twisted of multiple strands and used to secure yourself to someone or some ideal. When I lost my role as a wife, I clung to the other fibers of my life for strength. I was able to keep the rope somewhat intact until recent events have caused it to further unravel.

The first thread to break loose was with my church. Don’t misunderstand me, my core faith is as strong as ever, if not stronger. It’s just the man-made constructs that have disappointed me. When I was initially widowed, there were the standard outpourings of support and they were much appreciated. But once the dust settled, things took a turn. Slowly, steadily, (and I’m sure unintentionally) I was isolated. No longer included in couples’ events, I was relegated to coffee meetups and the occasional ladies’ lunch. Dinner party invites became nonexistent. I looked into the widows’ support group, but at 44, I was significantly younger than the rest of the members. There was no place I felt I belonged — or noticed for that matter. I would sit in the pew by myself, missing my husband more than ever. Feeling lonelier each time, I eventually stopped attending.

The next thread tattered by disillusion was my political affiliation. A lifelong Republican and Californian, I will never forget the feeling of being 18, newly registered, and attending a local Ronald Reagan reelection rally. I was thrilled to see a sitting president in person and proud to cast my first presidential vote for a man I felt possessed honor and character.

I wish I could generate anywhere near the same feeling of admiration for our current candidate. When did buddying up with our adversaries become a GOP construct? Putting policies aside, I wish my president to be a person of integrity. I continued to be baffled by how many Christian leaders (and friends) can support him as a man of God. They somehow excuse or refuse to acknowledge his consistent name-calling and slander of opponents, mocking of the disabled and women, and utter lack of humility. This list can go on and on, but suffice it to say, I feel like I’m in an alternate universe where right is wrong and up is down.

So now I’m left, or rather, was left, with my occupation. I had finally settled into my dream career: travel event planning. COVID-19 not only unraveled that thread, it chopped it with an ax and seared the ends. I’m a 56-year-old woman with a convoluted resume looking to reinvent my career yet again. California has more than 2.5 million unemployed workers. How do you like those odds?

Compounding matters, I suffer from an autoimmune disorder that has flared and left me at limited capacity these past few months. I’m not sure if it’s safe for me to return to work, let alone be physically up for it. As an added bonus, my current medication has caused me to gain 20 pounds and completely altered my appearance. Not only do I not feel like myself, but I don’t even recognize the woman in the mirror.

Temporary Restraining Order or Stay of Execution?

Marcia would most likely conclude I am residing in the moratorium identity status: in the midst of a crisis but seeking alternative identities. Working through the explorations leads to a commitment or “identity achievement.” Major life events — such as the death of a spouse — can create instability which triggers a MAMA cycle: moratorium-achievement-moratorium-achievement. I went through such cycles when I lost my husband, working through the identities of the widow, single mother, and middle-aged single woman.

Healthy adults will go through many MAMA cycles in their lifetime. It’s the natural progression of aging and growth. Some may term these events as reaching a “new normal” or acceptance of whatever stressor has been thrown in their way. Here’s the thing: most will encounter one upheaval at a time. What’s one to do, as in my case (and I’m sure many others) when you doubt multiple affiliations (religion, politics) and experience more than one loss (occupation, health) simultaneously? When a global crisis has disrupted society so much you’re constantly on guard, wondering what tomorrow’s shit show will be.

Do we hide, locking the world away? Do we appeal to God or fate to give us more time to sort this all out and/or complete our penance? Is there a remedy for this dilemma? Or vaccine to prevent it from happening again?

At the end of my rope, but not alone

I may be feeling unstable, but I’m not the only one. 2020 has taken its toll on everyone. A recent government survey reported 41% of U.S. respondents felt symptoms of anxiety and depression, compared to just 11% in 2019. As the year drags on, uncertainty continues to litter our collective psyche. We try to discard it, but our dumpsters are overflowing.

In a Popular Science article discussing mental health and the pandemic, Dr. Mary Alvord, a psychologist in Rockville, Maryland, states:

Humans look to have a known universe. That is how we keep ourselves safe,” he says. “It’s frightening to feel out of control. Sadness, hopelessness, fear — those will wear you down.

I honestly don’t know if these statistics make me feel better or worse.

What I do know is a few strands of my rope have remained intact and will be no matter what my revised identity turns out to be: My two sons, who not only support but motivate me to keep it together. My parents and siblings, who continually encourage and assist in any way they can. And my posse — my closest friends — who are always available to provide a listening ear, words of wisdom, and a glass(who am I kidding — a bottle) of wine when needed. These are my lifelines.

Eventually, with some introspection, exploration, and a little luck, I’ll channel my inner Wonder Woman and reconstruct the lasso of my truth. Surprisingly, I have found a gentleman who doesn’t view me as frayed and fragile, but as a woman of substance and strength. He wants to join me on the journey to discover a more suitable church to grow our faith. From now on, I’ll let my conscience — not my political party — be my guide when voting. As for health and occupation, I will keep praying and hoping that good news is just around the corner.

It has to be, doesn’t it?

Hope’s Revival

Sadness slithers within your psychehissing gossip of false consolationsWith cynical sympathy, he whispers persuasionspromising solace in isolation Lulled by the illusion of tranquilityIt’s easy to trust the ease of his eulogynestle into his assurance of serenityand acquiesce to dismay But, there is no peace in his offeringHe leads astray — betraysthose who fall prey to … Continue reading Hope’s Revival

Tribulation

Tormented by prose,
there is no repose until composed
Stowaway brainchildren shoplifting daydreams
pilfering notions and whims
Tinkering with mental trinkets to keep themselves amused

Answering a Craigslist Ad Led Me to the Job of My Lifetime

How a random ad and a bit of kismet transformed my career

engin-akyurt-pTrGsjcZBf4-unsplash

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

I had spent months perfecting my corporate interview attire: Navy sheath dress. Mid-heel black patent pumps. Black leather tote just the right size to stow spare copies of my resume and sturdy enough to stand upright beside my discreetly crossed feet. My online research had indicated that a slouchy handbag puddled on the floor would project unprofessionalism.

It never occurred to me that sheer desperation would soon prompt me to answer a small ad on Craigslist. I certainly didn’t envision that hitting send would embark me on the path to self-discovery and career fulfillment.

Not your typical job applicant

I was at the end of my rope and at the precipice of drowning in debt. Widowed eight years earlier, working full-time at this stage in my life was not part of my initial life’s plan. But, my sons were now both away at college. I had depleted what reserves I had. I needed a steady income — and a reason to get up each day.

Out of work for quite some time, I was the most unlikely candidate for every position coming across my Indeed feed. I was just recovering from a six-month stint on disability and over 50. My resume was all over the place: Public Relations straight out of college, stay-at-home-mom, part-time elementary school librarian, full- and part-time volunteer positions, and a recent stretch as a content creator. (Turns out, their particular office environment was not a good fit and partially led to my illness.) Instead of presenting a steady rise to success, my CV read like an Emergency Room EKG: Glitchy ups and downs and currently flat-lining.

A kind relative had treated me to a session with a job counselor. Since the traditional format would only highlight gaps in my experience, she suggested I create a skills resume. This style did not have to be linear but focused on my areas of expertise. She also advised treating my volunteer work skills with the same importance as those garnered from paid employment. When all was said and done, I thought my innovative document conveyed I could tackle anything presented to me.

When people would ask what type of job I was looking for, I could never give them more than a vague answer. I could only describe the feeling. “I want to work at a small company where I can make I difference,” I would attempt to explain. “It could be public relations, event planning, insurance, I don’t care. Just somewhere that appreciates my work more than just hours on a timesheet.”

And so, I applied for nearly every position that struck my fancy: Public Relations Manager — I’d carnival pitched with the best of them. Administrative Assistant — Gatekeeping? Making copies? Correspondence? I’m quite adept at multitasking. Non-Profit Volunteer Coordinator — I had just spent four years rallying troupes and raising funds for a large high school football program — I could do that one in my sleep.

I visualized myself being a star employee in any of these positions. The problem was no one was taking a liking to my sparkle.

Take a chance on me

When I realized my unconventional resume wasn’t making it past corporate filtering algorithms, I decided to take a chance on Craigslist. Nestled among the posts for telemarketers and dubious work-from-home opportunities was an ad for a Customer Service/Office Assistant position with a small, family-run company. There was a little subtle wit in the ad that told me these could be my people. The ad ended with a “Must Love Dogs” tagline, so I included a postscript in my cover letter. Written in the voice of my pup, Jenny, I assured them of my dog-friendliness and snuck it a bit of my creative writing in the process.

A boisterous Samoyed greeted me upon arrival. While attempting to avoid him, my heels scraped into the cracks of the shale path that led to the office — a converted detached garage next to the owner’s home. My straight dress was a bit snug causing me to do a little shimmy and then “plop!” into the rolling chair offered to me. Careening across the floor, I quickly regained my bearings and faced the staff of three: Founder (S.A.*), Son (M.A.*), and Assistant #1(Q*). M.A., the main interviewer, was clad in a faded millennial style t-shirt — appeared threadbare, but most likely brand new and purchased on Melrose — and shorts. The others were dressed just as casual. “No need for an office attire budget,” I noted to myself as the white beast of a dog rummaged a Luna bar out of my tote.

The meeting started with brief company history: Just over 30 years earlier, S.A. was a newly sober travel agent. He realized that most vacation spots are rife with alcohol and loads of temptation. Counting on strength in numbers, he reached out to his friends in the twelve-step community to see if they would like to join him. He had over 200 people on that first trip. By the next year, they were buying out entire resorts for a week and the company was born.

Fellowship, self-care, and fun were the hallmarks of the trips — nicknamed “Sober Villages.” The entire premise was you could have just as much joy — if not more — on a vacation without the assistance of alcohol. Their signature trips had grown so popular, they were adding additional events to their roster. Hence, the need for another assistant.

I hesitantly noted that I wasn’t “in the program,” certain it would be an immediate disqualification. They assured me it wasn’t an issue. While S.A. and Q were sober, M.A. was not. I would just be balancing the foursome.

The trio then took turns commenting upon and complimenting nearly my entire resume. It was the first time my volunteer experience was given equal weight. I was flabbergasted. There was no need to pitch how my atypical skillset could best serve their company as I had at countless other interviews. “If someone is bright and willing to learn,” Q explained, “you can teach them anything. What you can’t force is chemistry.” I knew all my random talents and bag o’ tricks could be utilized and appreciated.

Call it providence, serendipity, the universe’s plan — whatever you’d like — but there are times when things inexplicitly progress like a prewritten tale. You feel a little unsettled. You can’t quite control the narrative, but it’s oddly comforting. This was one of these times. I knew within ten minutes I wanted the position. By twenty, I knew I had pretty much nailed it. Before I even arrived home, I received the call asking when I could start.

Alchemy is the art that separates what is useful from what is not by transforming it into its ultimate matter and essence — Philippus Aureolus Paracelsus

To date, I’ve worked on four Sober Villages and several side tours. My job has allowed me to visit Mexico, Turk and Caicos, Jamaica, Italy, Greece, Croatia, France, Spain, Monte Carlo, and Hawaii. An extremely limited traveler before the position, I am now the envy of my at-home friends. “If you should ever need an assistant…” is a common request when I regale tales of my adventures.

I’ve made my mark on the company by creating a Day of Service on each of our big trips. Giving back is a pillar of the twelve-step program. The projects entail identifying a local school in need of assistance, then soliciting our guests and our host resort for donations. We have collected and distributed thousands of dollars in school supplies, water systems, and playground equipment. It all culminates in a single workday where hundreds of man-hours are devoted to repairing and beautifying the school. These days are my proudest career moments.

This position has provided the opportunity to create my personal job title: Director of Client Relations. I have been able to craft something uniquely precious — and entirely my own. I’ve been granted the gift of knowing my talents are valuable. With each trip, I have become more secure in my role and confident that this amalgam of tour operator, travel logistics, party planner, and client care was my true calling. I have discovered my artistry.

COVID Epilogue

Travel bans have placed my career in limbo and I am uncertain whether it can be resurrected. Will I be able to forge a new path? Transform yet again? With a stroke of luck and, perhaps, a bit of help from Craigslist, anything is possible.


*Initials used instead of names in keeping with twelve-step protocol.

This post previously appeared on
Change Becomes You | The Good Men Project | @Medium

We Are a Nation Birthed From a Temper Tantrum

Is there any hope for a peaceful outcome for our Grand Experiment?

child-4073641_1920Image by Sarah Richter from Pixabay

Before it became a symbol for intolerance, the Don’t Tread on Me or Gadsden Flag was the battle cry for the Revolution. According to Dictionary.com:

The snake was an established symbol for America at the time. Benjamin Franklin notably used it, saying the rattlesnake never backed down when provoked, which captured “the temper and conduct of America”

When in the course of human events

From the Revolution to slavery to Manifest Destiny, our national consciousness has been fixated on mastering our domains. Right vs. wrong is entirely subjective for both the collective and the individual. Road rage to riots — our causes are so just, those whom we may have to cut off, conquer or suppress are inconsequential. Our dogmas are myopic. Our aim may or not be true.

It becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another

We began as a nation of runaways, now bereft of a soothing parental influence. Left to our own devices, unity and goodwill are being abandoned. Our sources of information — our leadership — are driven by what will garner the most advertising dollars, the most votes — the most power.

With divisions smouldering for decades, society seems to be at the brink of a bonfire. Quarantine combusting within an election year has anxiety overriding logic. Our economic stability and physical well-being are uncertain. Conflicting statistics and social media are kerosene fueling the kindling. Fear stokes. Frustration smokes our reasoning. Is it any wonder we are kicking and screaming until we get what we think we want? Is it even our fault?

People are not disturbed by things but rather by their view of things — Albert Ellis

Known for creating the foundation for modern cognitive therapy, Dr. Albert Ellis is widely considered one of the most influential psychotherapists in history. According to Psychology Today, “No individual — not even Freud himself — has had a greater impact on modern psychotherapy.” He coined the term Low Frustration Tolerance (LFT) in which adults, much like a child, cannot tolerate situations they find frustrating. Nor do they think they should have to.

This was not an entirely new concept. The Stoics argued that frustration and angst stemmed from trying to make reality fit our needs. Philosopher Alain de Botton explains, “At the heart of every frustration lies a basic structure: the collision of a wish with an unyielding reality.’’ Freud echoed the reasoning, arguing that neurosis stems from turning away from the unbearable. Ellis took it one step further, stating LFT is more than basic exasperation:

To become disturbed by frustrating events, an additional belief is required: that reality must conform to our wishes, or it will not be tolerated. In other words, frustration intolerance arises, not just from the wish that reality was different, but from the collision of demand with reality.

An individual — in our case, a society — suffering from LVT, holds a wide variety of irrational beliefs. They are greatly exaggerated and often don’t make sense. Indicators of LFT include:

  • Focusing on present and immediate gratification rather than on future goals
  • Feeling sorry for themselves while neglecting the feelings of others
  • Seeking out easy rather than difficult challenges
  • Showing impatience
  • Engaging in awfulizing matters, or making things worse than they are
  • Angering easily

Sound familiar?

That they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness

We have been taught since grade school these words are to be revered. The American Dream of prosperity for all was to be the envy of the world. Somewhere along the way the communal “they” has been replaced with my life, my liberty, and my happiness. The rest be damned.

Is it possible to regenerate empathy and connection? Or have we become too self-absorbed with our resentments? Can we foster compassion instead of defensiveness? Replace outrage with grace? Why are differing points of view continually considered a threat?

The injustices of this world are complicated and not easily unravelled. It will take time and patience. We need to comprehend that not all grievances are equal. An individual — or a community — suffering unbearable hardship doesn’t diminish another’s pain, but it may outweigh it for a while. Perhaps, along with rising up, we should be lifting up. Maybe, when we are all standing shoulder to shoulder, can we abide in peace.

With a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor. — The Declaration of Independence


This post previously published on Illumination | @Medium