Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys

I once read a popular book on relationships by John Gray, PhD. It was titled Men are From Mars, Woman are From Venus. The general concept that I gleaned from the pages was that men and women think differently. When someone presents a problem, a man’s tendency is to try to solve the problem rather than responding with empathy or sympathy. Women share their problems hoping for emotional support, rather than a problem-solving session. The failure of the woman to appreciate the solutions offers is unsatisfying to the man, and the woman feels slighted because the man hasn’t given her the emotional response she had hoped for. Chaos ensues.

By birth, I am a woman. By vocation, I am a lawyer. While I am still a woman (and happy that I am), my law school education changed how I respond to other people’s problems. I have developed a tendency to listen, identify the problem, and offer a solution. Sometimes I put hours of (unpaid) time into figuring out a legal solution to a problem that has been shared with me. Imagine my shock and horror when, instead of thanking me for doing free legal research and offering a tangible solution, the person with the problem got ANGRY with me.

While it is not uncommon for lawyers to be maligned, most of us are pretty nice people. We charge money for our time because it’s all we have to sell, but many of us provide pro bono services to indigent clients, help family members and volunteer our time for other good causes. Forget everything you learned about lawyers from reading lawyer jokes (please).

This week I had a conversation with a friend who was frustrated. Her frustration stemmed from problems in an area that I have training and experience with. As she shared her pain and frustration, my mental wheels started spinning. I had solutions to those problems! Just as I took a breath to deliver my well-thought-out plan, I heard a little voice in my head say, “Not your circus, not your monkeys.” I swallowed my words and said nothing. I listened. I realized that not only did my friend probably already know the legal solutions to the problems, but she was also not the person who needed to act. The situation was largely beyond her control. She was telling her problem to her friend – not her lawyer. Instead of giving in to the urge to fix the problem, I needed to offer emotional support to my friend. She just needed to vent.

I’ve been a worrier since I was young. If I’m not worrying about my troubles, I’ll worry about yours. I finally understand what Mom meant when she warned me, “don’t borrow trouble.”

I posted earlier about wearing many hats. Sometimes those many hats lead to confusion. I am learning that when I am wearing the “friend” hat, I need to put the “lawyer” hat in the closet. The lawyer hat tends to make me look like I’m from Mars, anyway.

Ohana Means Family. Family Means Nobody Gets Left Behind or Forgotten

Posted by BecomingBetty

I spent the day with family today. Legally, we have no relationship. On paper, we are strangers.

I was born in 1967 and surrendered for adoption. I grew up always knowing that I was adopted. I can’t remember learning the fact. My Mom always told me that she and Dad picked me. Some days that made me feel very wanted and very special. Other days, it made me feel sad, because for my mom and dad to pick me, someone else had to leave me behind.

Like many teens and young adults, anything that made me “different” made me feel a little awkward and self-conscious. Adoption was one of those issues. I sometimes wondered what my birth family would think of me if they could see me at that time in my life. Would they be proud when I won the lead role in the musical, or when I was accepted to the university of my choice? Would they have come to the football games to watch me march with the band?

When I gave birth to my first child and felt that bond like no other, I wondered what it must have felt like to leave the hospital without me. My birth mother didn’t have a face for me then, but she was not forgotten. She was a part of me, and I was sad for her.

I didn’t know much about my birth family. My Mom always told me that the adoption caseworker had told her that my birthmother wanted me. I hoped it was true.

I found my birthmother in 1997. In-home internet access was a relatively new thing. I was bored one evening, and I put the details that I knew about my birth into a database on AOL, never thinking it would lead anywhere. After all, adoptees often searched for years and spent lots of money on investigators to try to find their birth families. I was shocked when, a few short minutes later, I received a phone call advising me that someone in the database matched me, and asking if I wanted to speak with my birthmother.

I called off work and drove 30 minutes from home the next day to meet her. I was terrified, but as I stepped through her door, the fear melted instantaneously. She and I were wearing the same earrings. She gave me a glass of water in the same drinking glasses that i had in my kitchen cupboard. We had some of the same artwork hanging in our respective homes. The meeting convinced me that nature plays a strong role in development.

As our friendship grew, we began finishing one another’s sentences. My mom would always be my mom – she, my “mum” felt more like a big sister. Like many sisters, we had a falling out one day over something silly, and we didn’t connect again for years. Neither of us was still angry, but both of us were afraid of reaching out – afraid of rejection.

We connected several more times over the years. There was no anger, no hard feelings. There was only love. Somehow, years would pass between visits. Life got in the way. It’s funny how life does that.

This week, she asked me to lunch. I was delighted to accept, and excited that my grandparents, too, would be available. we spent hours and hours today talking. We didn’t talk about adoption. We didn’t talk about what it felt like to grow up somewhere else. Instead, we talked as parents or grandparents and the younger generation would talk. We talked about pets and experiences. We talked about travel and hotels and antique stores. We talked about first jobs and cooking.

My adoptive family is my family. My birth family is my family. My husband’s family is my family. “Family” is that affinity we have for others when we are tied together by blood, shared culture, or the bonds of marriage. Family is Ohana. I like the concept of Ohana – it is much broader than a mommy, a daddy and the children who reside in the same residence. Ohana signifies the respect and cooperation that family members should have for and with one another.

Finding my birth family forced me to reconcile some feelings. I still remember looking at my “new” family’s pictures and seeing faces that really looked an awful lot like mine looking back. I remember some of my adoptive family – the only family I knew – questioning whether I would still want to be a part of that family now that I had found my “real” family.

I took the search farther a few years later and found the other side of my adoptive family living in another part of the country. We haven’t met face to face, but they are a part of my Facebook world. They, too, are Ohana.

I was adopted into a big, big family. My concept of family already included ten aunts and uncles, their spouses, and a whole slew of cousins. It wasn’t difficult to mentally expand that arrangement to include a few more. Somehow, life kept the birth family from becoming a close-knit part of my family, but we were, and remain “Ohana.”

Although we didn’t discuss my adoption or the facts and feelings surrounding it on this particular occasion, we discussed it enough in the past that I knew that I was never forgotten. Although I was elsewhere, I was safe and loved. I was never truly left behind. Likewise, the family I grew up with remains my family. I love them dearly, and although I don’t see many of them often, either, when we talk face to face, it’s like we are picking up where we left off a month or a decade ago. Ohana means nobody gets forgotten.

Yesterday was a special day for adopted persons in Ohio. For the first time, thousands of Ohioans who were adopted between 1964 and 1996 can apply to receive a copy of their original birth certificate and adoption files. For over 400,000 of us, finding lost family is a viable possibility.

More than 400 people waited outside of the Bureau of Vital Statistics yesterday to apply in person to see where they came from. My birth family and I have never petitioned the court for an order unsealing the records to confirm that we are “Ohana.” I haven’t decided whether I will apply to open that record. Having found Ohana, there is a fear that when opened, the family I lost and then found again might not be on that piece of paper. I don’t think that’s the case, but it’s possible.

As was stated in the Disney Film, “Lilo and Stitch,” “Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.” In my world, it doesn’t take blood to make you family. It doesn’t take marriage. Ohana, to me, are those people who are a part of me. Ohana is stronger than friendship. Family are the people who care about you even when you mess up. They are the people who love you even when you say hurtful things or turn your back on them. We may be separated from family for a time, but they are not left behind. They are not forgotten.

As thousands of adoptees apply for their birth records, there will attempts to contact people separated for years – for decades. Some of those people will have happy reunions. Some will meet and be glad that they were able to fill in the blanks on their medical history forms. Some will have doors slammed in their faces and phone calls ended abruptly. I pray that those who don’t have a happy reunion will be able to cope with the fact that the rejection isn’t about them – it’s about facts and feelings over which they had no control.

My husband has finally figured out much of my complicated family tree. I had to draw him a picture. It’s okay. My tree branches like crazy. Some branches die off, and new ones grow. The ones that aren’t with us leave a mark. Nobody gets left behind or forgotten.

Ohana.

It’s Not All About the Numbers

Posted by BecomingBetty

Today I rediscovered the joy of running.

One year ago today I bought my first “real” running shoes. I was painfully slow, and filled with pain – both emotional and physical. With each mile I ran, I found freedom. For the first several months,all of my running was inside on the treadmill. there I could run in the safety of home, with my television for entertainment, the air conditioning and ceiling fan for comfort, the bathroom mere steps away, and an unlimited supply of ice water whenever I wanted it. I could run in shorts or pajamas. I couldn’t imagine running outside. That soon changed.

As the weather became nicer, I decided to venture out to the local high school track. I couldn’t believe how different it felt. I hated every step that first trip. The wind made it harder to run. There were people there who might secretly (or not so secretly) make fun of me. They were all faster than me. They had nicer running clothes, too.

I posted on Facebook that I didn’t think I would ever really like running outside. A friend commented that she wouldn’t be surprised if I changed my mind. She was right. I loved watching the scenery pass, and I loved the feeling of actually moving forward. I enjoyed the sights and the sounds and the sensations. Sometimes I ran with music, and sometimes I listened to the wind and the birds.

Soon I was running at the track on a regular basis. I “branched” out and began running around town and on local trails. As winter fell, I found I hated the treadmill. I had fallen in love with running.

Although I tracked my pace and was delighted to watch it improve, I didn’t focus much on my pace. That all changed when I signed up for my first half marathon. I knew it was an ambitious undertaking. I had started as a person who needed to lose fully one half of her body weight. I couldn’t walk a mile without stopping. The race I signed up for had a time limit. I was slow (I still am). Not only was I asking my body to move much farther than it ever had before, I was demanding that it do so at a particular rate of speed.

I began tracking my pace on every run. I tend to get a little obsessive about certain things. Soon I was running with three different apps open, each with a particular feature the others didn’t have. The joy of running turned into anxiety about a slower than average day, or the fact that I hadn’t improved over the previous week. I pushed my body harder and faster, and when the race came, I still couldn’t keep up with the pace. I got swept. It was terribly disappointing.

Upon my return to the gym, I downloaded more apps that did more things. I put a sensor on my shoe and obsessed about whether or not the apps were properly calibrated for the indoor track. I lost sight of the joy I had found and focused on the numbers as a measure of success.

It’s been a long, cold winter. When the sun came out today, I went back to the high school track where I took that first outdoor run. I turned on an app to track my pace, but I turned off the feedback about pace and distance. I listened to music. I ran “faster” for one minute, then “slower” for the next minute. I didn’t stress about my pace.

When my run was finished, I looked at the stats. My pace wasn’t half bad, but that wasn’t what was important. I got out there. I ran. I burned calories. I sang. I had fun. I remembered why I started this running business in the first place.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Posted by BecomingBetty

Hanging out in bars has never been a part of my social experience, but I can appreciate the draw of the corner pub where “everybody knows your name.” I can see how it would feel good to walk into a place on your own schedule and have the people shout your name (Norm!) as you walk through the door. I’ve had that at times in my life. I grew up going to church several times a week with my parents. I continued to attend services there as an adult while I lived in the area. Everybody knew me, and although my attendance was expected due to my commitments there, it was comfortable. I had a built in support system of people with similar beliefs and values.

When I moved from my hometown to another community over an hour away, that changed. I “shopped” several churches, but they didn’t feel the same. Although the music was beautiful and the surroundings warm and comfortable, I didn’t know people, and so I would leave when the service was over – missing the connection that I had always felt at my “home” church.

At the time, I attributed the lack of perceived warmth to the church and the people. I was too myopic to see that a large part of the issue was (gasp) me.

As a person who has anxiety, I have a difficult time reaching out to people. I feel quite safe and comfortable interacting with the world from the safety of my keyboard. I have no difficulty in talking with potential clients or other people in the legal community because we have a common goal – resolving a problem. I have built-in subject matter to talk over with them. I can fill the down time with small talk and chit chat.

I have no stage fright or anxiety speaking to a large group of people. So long as I have a topic about which I have some knowledge, I can deliver a prepared address or improvise a short presentation. It’s superficial contact. It’s “safe.”

I’ve spent my adult life worrying far too much about what people think of me. I like it when people like me. I feel bad when they don’t. I think it’s human nature for many of us. That’s where the rub lies… people I’ve never met before are probably just afraid of being judged and found unworthy of love or friendship as I am.

I’ve gone to the same gym for two years. I avoided eye contact with people until recently. As I attended more frequently while training for my recent half marathon experience, people noticed. Occasionally I’d get a wave. I started smiling as I ran my laps. Soon, people would stop and TALK with me when I took a water break. They’d introduce themselves and we’d chat until we found something outside the gym that we have in common.

The more people reached out, the more I smiled and waved. The more approachable I became, and the more connected I am. This morning as I walked to take the stairs to the second floor, I was able to greet an instructor there by name, and she said “Hi, Betty” with a smile in her voice.

I’ve found a place where people greet me by name. Sometimes they notice when I’m ‘missing. We have the same problems and at least one common interest. Today, I said “good morning” to people who I’ve never talked to before. They smiled, and said it back. One day I’ll introduce myself, and someone else will know my name.

I’ve never been good at networking, but I think that’s about to change. I found a church I really like. I’ve been there a few times. I know now, that it won’t feel like “home” until people know my name. I think I’ll buy a necklace that spells it out.

Celebrating Life – The Anniversary of My Decision to LIVE

Posted by BecomingBetty

Tomorrow is an important anniversary for me. I will celebrate one year of learning to love life again.

Sometimes depression creeps in unnoticed. We keep on doing the things we need to do, but we stop caring about the things that used to matter to us. We may continue to care about others, but we stop caring about ourselves. For me, it was like that. I can’t point to an event that triggered it. I don’t know why things changed. I just know that in the days and weeks leading up to March 9, 2014, I was in a dangerous place. I didn’t think anybody really cared.

You see, at over 300 pounds I was having a lot of health issues. Daily life was difficult. Losing half of my body weight seemed like an impossible task to contemplate. I was having “heart palpitations” and began to feel as if I was about to lose consciousness on more than one occasion. I came to believe that I was dying. Rather than seek medical help, I decided to let nature take its course. I wasn’t about to take steps to actively end my life, but I didn’t want to make the effort to save it. I guess you’d call it passive suicide. My overeating and inactivity were robbing me of life in a very real way, and I didn’t care enough to stop it.

I wish I could tell you what, exactly, flipped the switch in my head. On March 9, 2014, I made up my mind to call my doctor and ask him to prescribe an antidepressant medication. It was a Sunday. The office was closed, but I made up my mind.

I called first thing on Monday morning. My doctor was out of the office for the week, but I had a prescription bottle and an appointment for the next week before noon that day. Opening the bottle and putting the first pill in my mouth, I felt both a sense of failure for not being strong enough and a sense of relief that maybe, just maybe I could feel better.

I have a group of online friends who I have “talked” with in various places for 7-8 years. They are my invisible (not imaginary) friends. I have plants they sent to my dad’s funeral to prove they exist. I confessed to them my feelings of failure over needing medicine.

I confided in them about the tremendous loneliness and the feelings of isolation I was experiencing. One of them suggested I try running. I chuckled at the thought. I tried going to the gym the next day. I had a panic attack. I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of judgment. I made my husband turn around and take me home.

A fellow attorney practicing in another part of the state (not one of the previously mentioned group of invisible friends) who I have never met in real life sent me a message suggesting we virtually work out / run together and sign up for a race.

The “Arthur” video began showing up in my facebook feed over and over. I’d watched it dozens of times before. I’d even purchased the DDP Yoga videos in 2012, shed quite a few pounds, and did a great job of learning to get off the floor (a skill I’d retained) before eventually giving up and going back to my old ways and regaining nearly every pound I had lost.

I watched the video again. This time, when Arthur began running, the tears streamed down my face.

I’ve learned in my life that when I start getting the same message over and over from different sources, God is trying to tell me something. I listened. I decided that if I wanted to live badly enough to put medicine in my body, then I wanted to live badly enough to take back my life. If Arthur could learn to walk again, and learn to run, then so could I.

Those of you who have followed me the past year know how the rest of the story goes. I started walking, and then I began running slowly on the treadmill. I got over the fear of the gym and added weights to my workout. I hit the yoga mat and did some DDPYoga. I swam laps. I posted on Facebook (a lot).

Soon the weather warmed and the outdoors called. I ran on the high school track. I ran through town. I ran on trails. I ran on the beach. Although I sometimes took Jimi the Wonder Dood with me, usually this was time to myself. I started seeing the wonder in nature- in leaves and waves and birds. I talked to God. He talked back in rustling leaves and wind on my face. He talked to me through “cheers” when friends “liked” my runs on Facebook.

It wasn’t quick or easy. I still had days when sadness pressed on my heart and made it difficult to do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Slowly, though, I returned to the land of the living. I stopped just going through the motions. I devoted more time to getting my soul back in order through prayer, meditation and lots and lots of sweat.

The popular adage says that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I’m making lemonade and trying to give it away. One year ago I really didn’t care if I lived or died. One year ago, I thought that nobody cared. One year ago I couldn’t have dreamed how wonderful life is today.

I still take those pills. I take another for my thyroid and one for my blood pressure. It’s part of my daily routine. The pills didn’t fix me. I had to do that myself with a lot of help from God and my friends and family. I still run. I still get sad once in a while. It’s no longer overwhelming.

I’m a little frightened to post this, but I feel it is necessary. It’s scary to admit that you struggle with depression. I worry that it could hurt me professionally. I fear that people will think less of me if they know that I have problems just like anyone else. I believe that we need to move beyond the stigma that mental health issues hold. I believe that if people in pain knew how many people suffer with them, people would be more inclined to seek help before it becomes easier to think about dying than to think about living.

Writing this blog post is me making lemonade. It’s not the “koolaid,” if it’s not your thing – move on.

I don’t believe that God tests us like Job in the Old Testament, but I do think that he gives us opportunities to understand and help others when we face trials. I think that he gives us the grace to move through our challenges if we ask. I think that when we are taught lessons paid for with blood, sweat and tears, it is only right to share the lessons that we have learned.

Please don’t give up. Don’t passively wait for your vices and problems to kill you. If you are depressed, there is hope. Medicine is not shameful. Therapy is not shameful.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Don’t be afraid of failure. Don’t be afraid of judgment. Never, ever give up.

Today, I celebrate the life I have been given. I am excited to see what the next 365 days holds. I am a work in progress. Next year you will see another brand new me. I can’t wait.

To those of you who have “liked,” “commented,” or “shared” my writing in the past, thank you for encouraging me. To those of you who are new to this page, welcome. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share with you.

Today, I am celebrating life. Welcome to the party.

~Be~

Ditch the Witch!

Posted by BecomingBetty

I wrote this several years ago (2012) at the beginning of one of my “practice starts” to my healthier lifestyle.

*****************************

There is this woman in my life – she makes things so hard

she never leaves me alone
she goes everywhere with me
she sleeps with my husband (that’s awkward!)
she makes me carry her up the stairs
she makes me carry her down the stairs
she shares my clothes
she eats my meals

She’s mean, too:

she won’t let me ice skate with my kids
she won’t let me ride a roller coaster at Cedar Point
she won’t let me do fun things with my husband

Every step I take, I carry her with me.

Letting the other woman into my life made sense at the time. She helped me hide from the people who might want to get too close. She protected me from attention I couldn’t handle. She helped me come up with excuses for why I couldn’t go for a walk or dance at a wedding. She was my partner and co-conspirator (and made a wicked hot-fudge sundae, too!)

I weigh as much as two of the *real* me.

Every step I take is twice the work.

I’m going to ditch the witch!

She won’t go away all at once. I’ll have to push her away ounce by ounce. She knows she’s on her way out. I’ve started packing her suitcase. Most of the size 26 clothes are already in it. She can have them. I don’t need them.

I won’t send her away hungry. The cupboard is full of processed foods with gluten and refined sugars. She loves that stuff, so I’ll pack her a care package.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I’m going to run on the beach, ride roller coasters and chase kids and grandchildren.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I’m going to buy skinny clothes made for one person – not two.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I don’t need her anymore.

*********************************

Update: her suitcase is getting pretty full. She’s been given the eviction notice and she knows her time is limited.

I’ve added to the things I’m going to do when I ditch the witch

I’m going to run (and FINISH!) a half marathon.

I’m going to run up and down the stairs at the high school stadium

I’m going to zumba and kickbox and yoga and RUN her right out of my life.

I’m going to ditch the witch (3/4/2015)

I Wear Many Hats

Posted by BecomingBetty

On a recent trip to Walt Disney World, I had fun trying on many of the fun hats. My teenaged daughter rolled her eyes, but I had fun anyway. The truth is, though, that I really DO wear many hats.

In my personal life I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, friend, niece, stepmom, grandma, and reluctant dog groomer.

Professionally, I am a lawyer. I am an optician.

As a self-employed lawyer married to a self-employed eye doctor, sometimes I am a medical biller. I am an adviser, an advocate, sometimes a photocopying maniac, file clerk, janitor, courier, and receptionist.

I wear many hats.

Some of them are more elegant than others.

Some of them fit more comfortably than others.

Some of them make people a little uncomfortable.

When we wear many hats, it’s important to recognize that sometimes we put on the police hat when someone really wants the chef hat, or the nurse hat. Having been taught to think like a lawyer, I approach problems differently than many people. When I hear someone else talking about their problem, my first inclination is to try to help them solve it, or at least to give them some idea of what they may be facing. Sometimes that’s not the hat they need to see.

I have a friend who is a psychologist. She told a story, once, about going to see her sister, who was having a bad day. My friend listened to her sister rant about the bad day. Before deciding what to say next, she paused. “What do you need from me today?” she asked. “Do you want to know what I think about what happened? Do you want me to tell you what I think that you should do? Do you want me to hug you and tell you that everything is all right? Do you want me to tell you that you’re right and they are wrong?”

Tell me what you need.

Tell me what hat you need me to wear.

That’s the problem when you have too many hats! It’s difficult to decide which one to wear. One goes with your outfit, but it’s too dressy. One will keep the sun out of your eyes, but it clashes with your shoes.

My lawyer hat is not warm and fuzzy. I’ve spoiled a couple of budding friendships by bluntly delivering my legal synopsis of a situation when really all that person wanted was for me to listen to them.

When a potential client comes to see me, they get “the talk,” in which I explain that my role as their lawyer means that thy may not like what I have to say. It’s my job to be realistic and tell them their options and the consequences. If they want someone to make them feel good about themselves and their situation, they need to go see my friend the psychologist.

I’m getting better at keeping track of my hats and wearing the right one. It’s not always easy wearing many hats.

The Bus of Shame (or, The Saddest Ride at Walt Disney World!)

Posted by BecomingBetty

Last Sunday, I had the great pleasure of participating in RunDisney’s Princess Half Marathon at Walt Disney World Resort. I lined up at 4:30 a.m. in a parking lot at Epcot Center with about 15,000 of my fellow runners for the happiest half marathon on the plant.

On the long walk to Corral “N,” we passed a large truck with the label “mass casualty response unit.” This was more than a little disconcerting. Still, although the air was chilly and I hadn’t had my coffee, I lined up and excitedly waited for the first group to be released at 5:30 a.m. As you may have gathered, it takes some time to release nearly 15,000 runners on a course. Consequently, I was still waiting to begin my run for another hour. I spent that time reflecting on the journey that had brought me to where I was.

I thought back to the day in March 2014 when I took my first steps in several years on the treadmill. I was elated when I finished my first mile. Soon I traveled to a running store and purchased “real” running shoes and downloaded an handful of running apps. Although I often felt slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter, I kept going.

A few months later my lovely “bonus daughter” (also a runner), told me she was planning to run the Princess Half Marathon. Although I knew it was a lofty goal for me, I registered and began training. Over the course of 2014 and early 2015, I logged over 400 miles. Sometimes life got in the way, and between unexpected life events and illnesses, I missed out on several significant blocks of training. As the race date approached, I knew that I could go the distance, but my times were still slow, and I knew it was questionable whether I would be able to maintain the required minimum pace, although I was doing well on my training runs on the nice flat, climate-controlled indoor track.

I obsessively checked my training times, read blogs about the wicked “balloon ladies,” (the pace group for the 16 minute/mile). I crafted my tutu, packed my bags and felt moderately confident that I wouldn’t be “swept” and have to ride the “bus of shame” back to the finish line instead of running through the happiest finish line on earth.

By the time my corral was called, I was cold and my feet hurt from standing in one place. My timing app wasn’t working right, my glasses were fogged and smeared so I couldn’t read the screen anyhow, my earbuds were malfunctioning, and I had absolutely no clue what my pace was. I just knew it felt slow.

I had a blast running among other “princesses” (and a few princes) wearing tutus (the princes, too!). I pumped my fist as I ran by the speakers playing the theme from Rocky. I sang along to “Don’t Stop Believing” and I smiled my way into the Magic Kingdom. As I passed through the park, I remembered the long, long lines at the porta potties I’d passed, and I popped into a “real” bathroom. Still blissfully unaware of my pace, I readjusted my tutu, washed and dried my hands and popped open a packet of caffeinated jelly beans.

As I joined the pack of princesses, I heard the news – the balloon ladies had passed by. My trip to the bathroom had cost me precious minutes, and now I had to try to fight my way through the pack of princesses to catch up. I flew through Cinderella’s castle and as I exited the park again, I spotted the balloons waaaaay up ahead of me.

I tried my hardest to pick up the pace. The news filtered through the pack that we had until Mile 8 to catch up, or we would be swept – transported to the finish. I tried hard to weave through the other back of the pack princesses. I could see the balloons getting closer. We passed by several security people and I overheard one tell the other, “the race is over for these ones, whether they like it or not.” I passed by a woman sobbing loudly. I asked if she was okay, and she answered through tears that she was okay, just devastated that she wasn’t finishing.

I pushed harder even though I knew I was wearing myself out with 5 miles left to go. I could see Milepost 8, and I could see the balloons. As the balloons passed the mile marker, two large buses pulled across the road. Medics were there to help those who needed assistance, and we were asked to board the bus.

The driver told us each, “great job.” The ride back to Epcot seemed to take a very long time. There wasn’t a smile to be seen. We had been swept. We were on the vehicle that had been dubbed “The Bus of Shame” by numerous bloggers. My heart sunk. My Facebook was broadcasting my splits to my friends. I really thought I could do it. I had failed to reach my goal. I was sad.

As we exited the vehicle, some of the wonderful volunteers staffing the event met us with high fives and medals. Although we had not finished the 13.1 miles, they draped a shining medal around each of our necks. They showed us where to get our bananas, our drinks and our snack boxes.

I wandered over to the “real” finish line for a few minutes and watched the crowd cheer for those who were finishing. My heart sunk into my shoes, and I moped my way back to the bus that would return me to my hotel for a much needed shower.

I called my husband, and told him I’d only made it 8 miles. I posted on Facebook that I’d only made it 8 miles. I waited for my bonus daughter (who finished! Yay for her!!!) Then, I took a nap.

Naps fix almost everything – especially attitudes.

My high school friend, Lyle, posted one of my statuses from early 2014 on my wall – one where I was overjoyed that I was able to run for a handful of minutes without stopping. It was at that moment that I realized there was absolutely no shame in having been swept after 8 miles.

I thought back to my first 10K race in September. I finished dead last, but I was thrilled to have finished. That race was only 6.2 miles. My Disney run was 2 miles longer (more if you count the long hike to the corrals before it even began!)

Since I started running in March 2014, I’ve completed four 5K races and a 10K. Yesterday I finished my 500th mile. I’ve run on trails and tracks and through parking lots. I’ve had scores of wonderful experiences and only a handful of negatives. Best of all, I’ve lost over 70 pounds, I’ve regained the ability to physically do many things that I couldn’t dream of for a number of years, and I’ve made new friends and reconnected with old ones.

Although that bus ride was still the saddest ride at Walt Disney World, there is no “Bus of Shame.” Every back of the pack princess on that bus was someone who set a lofty goal and spent many hours training getting to mile 8. While I apologize to the runners who had to fight their way through the pack in order to pass me, I’m so glad that I tried. I’ll be back next year, and I may even wear a tiara.

What’s Your Personal “Brand?”

Posted by BecomingBetty

I played a Facebook “game” several weeks ago. I asked the people who follow my feed to describe me in just one word. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was humbled, and a little surprised, to see that most of the people commented that I was kind, compassionate, giving, or some variant of that sentiment.

I got to thinking about that, and realized that to some extent, each of us has a personal “brand.” I try to keep my blogs and my Facebook posts upbeat and positive. There’s enough negativity in the world that I don’t feel a need to add to it. My opinion may differ from yours on any topic from gay marriage to vaccinations, but it’s doubtful that anything I have to say is going to change your mind.

Mama always said, “if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I was well into adulthood before I realized how those words to live by would shape who I have become.

Do you know what your personal “brand” is? It’s a little scary to ask the question to find out. I’m glad that I did, though, and I’m going to do my best to live up to that brand.

No More Suzy_Sunshine

Posted by BecomingBetty

Long, long, ago in a period of my life that I have come to think of as “the lost years,” (otherwise known as law school), I encountered an internet forum for moms. There were forums for moms of toddlers, and others for dieters. There were rooms for new people and people from each state. There were religious groups and groups for discussing racial issues. There were news groups and coupon groups. There were also “Debate” groups and “Mean Girl” groups.

The “Mean Girl” groups sucked the unsuspecting into their presence through personal invitations meant to make the invitee feel welcomed into a secret circle. Once there, the newcomer’s personal profile was scanned to find photos, journals, and anything else that might reveal personal insecurities and vulnerabilities. The “Mean Girls” would dish out what they could. The clever and the thick-skinned fired back, and were welcomes into the tribe. The others left feeling hurt, violated and shocked by the level of meanness that could be dealt out by strangers.

The “Debate” groups were more to my liking. There, we discussed current events, mommy-wars topics like breastfeeding vs. bottle feeding, vaccinations, leashes for kids, and *gasp* the mean girl groups. Sometimes the distinction between the two types of groups blurred. Internet debaters can have a wicked way of getting their points across.

I spent a lot of time in one “debate group.” The group was filled with women who possessed quick wit and a snarky sense of humor. Somehow, I became one of the people on the “inside.” I belonged to secret groups and was an admin. We discussed situations with other members (and we discussed other members). My main online persona was generally thought of as kind and warm, but she had a mean streak, and it could cut deep.

One day, I reached out to a member who lived not too far away. We were going to meet in real life. She told me something about herself that she didn’t generally share in the group, and I did the same. I was nervous about meeting her, and she was nervous about meeting me. Before we had the chance, she shot me a private message asking if I had created another screenname that was meant to make fun of the condition that she had revealed. I was crushed that she would think that. We never did reschedule that meeting.

Along the way, a person (or persons) called Suzy_Sunshine joined the forum. Suzy was smart – really smart. Suzy was also very mean. She reached out to me in private message several times, but I was wary, and I never really engaged. Suzy sent the group into a frenzy with her meanness. Nobody and nothing was off limits for her commentary. Nothing was sacred. She hurt some people deeply with her words.

I thought that my own online person and Suzy_Sunshine were so different that I was absolutely shocked one day to read that several long-time members had decided that Suzy was an alias for me. I was aghast and posted as much. I was forced to recon with my own behavior. I was forced to examine my online behavior and own it.

I know there are some of you who will read this and chuckle. Others will be baffled. The short version of the story is that although I was never Suzy_Sunshine, I was guilty of playing the internet mean girl. Shortly thereafter, many of my “invisible friends” opened up their lives to me on Facebook. The more I saw of their real lives, the less inclined I was to think of them as faceless entities sitting in front of a monitor.

Another invisible friend with whom I had gone through a falling out pointed out several instances where I had talked about others who believed I was their friend in an unkind manner. My sharp, pointed wit was pointed out where my words had been used to wound rather than to uplift. In short, I behaved badly, and I had to own it.

I have come to count on those invisible friends a great deal. I share many thoughts, ideas, achievements and fears with them. They have lifted me up, made me laugh, shared their insight and trusted me with their own fears. I have watched their little ones grow into teens and young adults. I know the names of their children, their husbands and their pets.

The internet can bring out both the best and the worst in people. I’ve seen myself on both ends of that spectrum. I no longer have to prove that I am right on the internet – not that I’m not tempted sometimes! Anyway, I was never Suzy_Sunshine (and I’m not sure I want to know who was), and I hope that I’ll never again be mistaken for someone who would intentionally hurt even an invisible person somewhere on the internet.