Knowing when to hold your tongue. To pull your punches. To turn the other cheek.

It’s a really fine balance in this life– sharing your joys, your triumphs, the sweet happy moments with the world– and knowing that when you put it out in the universe, there will be lovers and haters. You have to make a judgement call and calculate your risks. But above all, live and speak your truth. You know how I feel about truthy-ness.

Today is Easter. And while we are not currently members of a church, and did not attend one this morning, there was something sacred about the sunrise today. Something extra beautiful in the birds chirping this morning; something whispering “He is Risen” in my ear. No matter your beliefs, the message is universal: We are born again. We get second chances. We recover. We rise. We believe that there’s something better than today, so we wake up tomorrow. (We also eat more jelly beans than God intended for human consumption, but that’s another post altogether.)

You spent this week of spring break with your, and my, beloved cousins. We slept, ate, laughed, played, and just did life together for 5 days. 6 parents, 6 kids, 3 grandparents. 1 dog. It was blissful chaos and it was my church. Big One, on the second day they were here, you said “my feelings are going to hurt when they leave” and I said “my feelings always hurt when they leave, but that means we love them. It means they’re our people.”

I find myself saying that a lot lately– “my people, our people, he has people.” We’re working on something for one of our littlest people and it’s going to take our whole village. It’s not a story for today. But it IS a story of second chances. It IS a story where I hear a whisper in my ear every morning “this is right” “live your truth” “he has people.”

So babies, we must know when to be brave and truthful. We must know when our body says “get a second opinion.” We must know when it’s ok to share your JOY and shout it to the rooftops because it’s your church. You are superheroes and the world is yours. On this most beautiful Easter day, YOU are Risen. WE continue to be born again. WE will wake up tomorrow to take on the world with all our hearts.

xo

So, I just got back from the famed SXSWedu conference in Austin, TX. My head is spinning– and I am brimming over with passion for the type of work I get to do and the people I am lucky enough to be surrounded by. Mostly. I am also equal parts concerned that I can’t bring equal pay for women, access to high quality education for all, fix the diversity gap in tech and get people to stop being racist. Cause that would be ideal. For a lot of reasons.

Here were my biggest takeaways:

1) Love does, in fact, win. I went to a panel of real, actual medical experts with many letters after their names, who shared the disturbing fact that children in poverty’s actual sweet baby brains are changed, negatively, by the adversity they encounter every day. Their cells and their DNA literally shift due to chronic, toxic stress. My mama heart. BUT. The anti-venom? The silver bullet? Love and trust. Adults can buffer the adversity– TEACHER HEROES can create safe spaces of trust, and give hugs, and children’s brains start to heal. Olaf was not wrong: warm hugs.

2) There are girls in areas of the world that are literally willing to take a bullet to get an education. I saw a talk with the young woman who helped start the Malala Fund— and she spoke about the very real, painful truth, that we are engaged in a sustained war against women and girls. It’s being waged in classrooms in Pakistan, in the fields of Nigeria– and in the boardrooms and political halls of countries like the US. It’s being waged between women– Lean In! No, Lean Out!– in families over household work, in sexual harassment allegations in major corporations, and in places where the female body is considered so shameful that little girls are not allowed to play outside, lest they be seen as a temptation. There is serious work to be done and dear God, I pray, let it start now.

3) Mothers in Detroit, when asked what they need help with, respond “save our boys.” African American boys in the US are faced with institutionalized racism on a daily basis. Their sweet mothers have to teach them how to interact with the police (don’t stick your hands in your pockets, no sudden movements, be respectful, don’t raise your voice if stopped), due to the very real danger that they’ll be shot. The pipeline from school to jail is real for AA boys, and I listened to a panel, including Kaya Henderson of DCPS, talk about changing this paradigm. Did you know that 89% of school board members in the US are white? I would assume that’s part of the reason why we now need to backtrack and form coalitions like My Brother’s Keeper. How crazy is it that we need a mandate from the President to educate AA boys. If that’s not F’d, I don’t know what is. I mean, they’re kids. Educate them. Believe in them. Why is that not a given?

4) There is an 18 month gap in developmental level between poor kids and middle-to-wealthy income kids when they get to kindergarten. That stat came from a Latino male colleague of mine in an awesome talk on diversity in the tech industry. He shared a blog post after the panel where he talks about being called “Pedro” and “Jose” along with other ethnic slurs over his career in tech. He’s a super well respected Education Evangelist for our company and he encounters that crap. I would assume (hope?) he’s not experienced anything blatant where we are, but we all know that cultural, class and racial bias are just simmering below the surface, sadly. As the mom of two half-Latino boys, this one hit way too close to home. What are we doing for our brown boys?

This seems like a fairly depressing wrap up. Yeesh. And it is- except, that I have to say that I left feeling buoyed by the passion and hard work of all of the people I was surrounded by. My head is still reeling and I don’t quite know yet what to do with all of it. I was sad that I didn’t get to see Goldie Hawn this pm, or attend the Hip-Hop history tour of China interactive session. Cause when you’re at SXScrazy, anything goes.

What’s funny about SX is that you’re in these intense sessions all day, and then you walk out into beautiful Austin and you’re all “tacos! shopping! artisanal cheese!” and people are feeling the party vibe. I, true to my introverted self, played it low key and cooool, aka curled into a ball each night just letting the day wash over me while slugging down a glass (or 2) of malbec in my jammies.

Being a feeler of all the feels- I have a hard time just putting this away into a neat box. I need to let it sink in and then decide what to do with it all. More on that to come, but I’ll leave you with a thought: what if we all, today, committed to just one small action toward changing ANY of the things above? What would you do if you knew you could not fail?

Babies! I am having a moment where it all just feels handled, fine, and I am not in control of every detail and I am not stressed about it. This is momentous, so I am memorializing it here. I am in another state for a conference, and one of you is home sick with Papa. We handled a long distance pre-school registration, a stomach bug, a half day at kindergarten, a house cleaning, travel and schedule changes… and it all just happened and is fine. I am away and it’s not all broken. First- thank the good Lord and the people I work with for TECHNOLOGY in such instances. But also, thank you to the woman who magically appeared in front of me Monday evening and shared this article on “busy-ness is the ultimate laziness.” Holy brilliance being dropped batman.

Carry on people of the world- cause guess what, even when things go wrong, the world still spins. Magic.

I recently had someone challenge me on the WHY. Why blog Kate? Why take the time and pour yourself out there for everyone to see (ahem, I actually think it’s like for no people to see, love you all, thank you for continuing to read me, all 3 of you). Isn’t it just adding to your list of stuff to do? Isn’t it being a little bit self-serving to write all about YOU? And then…and how do you take the time to fill yourself back up after pouring it ALL out? How do you allow grace back in?

In this place, I have written a few (lots of) things about mommy-hood; about surgery and weird lumps in my neck; about being brave; about running– that people have responded to and been like YES, thank you for saying that, for telling your truth, cause mine is also a little lumpy and yelly. I have been surrounded lately by this narrative of women, these really powerful truth tellers who are like “LOOK AT ALL OF ME” not because they want a spotlight, but because they realized that there’s freedom in showing the world what’s hidden inside (ahem, In Other’s Words) and that very often, it’s way more powerful to go “off script” (Glennon, preach) and provide a place for other women to go “ME TOO.” The me-too’s are why I have been writing more lately. Why I finally pointed people to this little space of ours. The me too’s are the GRACE, they are the filling up.

There’s a moment between finishing pouring out all of me, right after clicking “share” that gets really silent and creepy. Like oh SHIT should I have said all of that? And then oh it wasn’t really THAT bad– it was only mostly crazy and truthy and out there. Crap, now they all know. And then women start saying, “ME TOO” and I can breathe again.

There are stories all over the place right now about Malala, and women apologizing to others about treating them poorly at work before they themselves were mommies, about “leaning in“, about MEN who lean in… it’s a buzzy time about women. It’s almost like it’s trendy again to be a woman (please note mild tone of snark). And to admit fault. To admit that we HAVE treated each other poorly. That we still don’t get paid enough. The world is LEANING IN all over the place… we should be like BOOM! That’s right! LEAN IN MOTHER-F-ERS! And yet, in small circles of daily interaction, there’s still this palpable feeling of needing to hold it all together: be skinny, be wise, make organic bento box lunches, be a master yogi, place in the 5k, get promoted, AND make wild, spontaneous love to your partner at least 3 times a week, because you are SUPER WOMAN. It’s like we feel we need to keep the world spinning by sheer force of woman and mommy will power alone– that’s a) impossible and b) freaking exhausting.

What if we all stopped for a minute? What if we all just sat and held space for each other? Listened to each other’s stories? REALLY HEARD our sisters?

For one thing, I got all weird and brave and auditioned (for the second year) for Listen to Your Mother here in Charleston. I don’t know if I’ll be cast; I wasn’t last year. But the power for me is in showing up and telling my story. That other women heard it and laughed a little, and nodded their heads in solidarity at the sad/scary/truthiest parts. I did a brave thing, which has a ripple effect in the world.

So, I am going to keep showing up for my friends. I am going to read their stories and cry and laugh with them. I am going to tweet the crap out of beautiful quotes and share their power with the world.

I am going to trek to wild mountain villages in almost no-degrees to meet shameless-truthy womenfolk. (Again, Glennon, ugh, the love.)

I am going to blurt out all the things right here. Cause dammit, you all said ME TOO.

xo

You are a boy who feels all the feels. I am watching you stomp your little feet and ball your fists; not able to get the words out. Your emotions ready to spill over, but only coming out in bursts: “I. Want. The. TABLE WITH THE UMBRELLA!” The other folks trying to nicely eat their meals outside on this sunny, cold Charleston day look at me like, “wow, spoiled much?” What they don’t know is that I am afraid that I am watching my little boy spiral into a hole I don’t know anything about. I paste on my calm-stern face and inwardly, silently pray that you will just move on and lower your voice, knowing that the synapses in your brain are probably telling you to do the exact opposite.

Six months ago you started kindergarten and I bravely marched you down the long hallway toward your class where a very kind woman took you away from me. I mean. Where your wonderful, patient and very talented teacher kindly encouraged me to go. You were fine. She looked at me and said “you ok Mom?” and I cried. A lot. Into her shoulder. A few weeks before I had stalked her on Google and found that we had a friend in common on Facebook. Look out teachers, we Mommies are armed with social media. So, I did the only logical thing and emailed the friend in common and was like “Give me the dirt. What’s her deal. Is she like a serial killer or anything?” She assured me she wasn’t. I read blog after blog about how you needed to be able to open all of your own packages in your lunch (Shit! I hadn’t even THOUGHT of that, we started practicing opening string cheese that very day), and I ordered your monogrammed LL Bean backpack. Check! All set! Look out world!

Back to the kind lady (who allowed me a sob or two into her shoulder and then gently told me to go). Back to the realization that the saying “everything I need to know I learned in kindergarten” was wrong. In fact it should read, “Everything Mommies need to know they learned from kind kindergarten teachers.”

Since that day, she has gently coached all 24 families in her care, helping us navigate the wide world of REAL school. Including the day she requested a second conference with me. The day she talked about assessments and your attention span. Frustration. Anxiety. Nothing I was surprised about but being confirmed out loud by the other woman in your life. There it was. She said all of the right things and maybe the most right thing “Mom, this is just who he is. We take him as he is and we work from there. He’s your perfect boy.”

She was also there for us the day I explained that the fresh scar on my neck had in fact been cancer, but no, I was ok. She pulled down the neck of her own shirt, and showed me her scar. Of course. She also had a surgery.

Everything I am learning in life. From your kindergarten teacher.

So it’s not news that I run now. It’s really hard for me to call myself a “runner” but apparently that’s what I am. At age 35, in the year I would get cancer, I decided to get a sport. A real one. A sport that I had, for the previous, oh say 30 years, shunned, hated, associated with people NOT ME. I thought that everyone who ran 1) loved every second of it; 2) was a size 0 rabbit food eater; and 3) most importantly, NOT ME.

Last year, when I decided to get all uppity and try to check something off the old bucket list, I signed myself up for a real 5k. I even invested in fancy shoes (which, incidentally I found out yesterday were the entire wrong SIZE.) I ran that 5k last Mother’s Day weekend and absolutely wanted to cry/puke/scream the whole time. Except when I heard people cheering. Except when I saw women several pounds heavier/years older/whatever the *thing* more/less than myself out there and making it happen. Except when I saw the finish line getting closer. Except when I ran across that line and a woman from a local running group shoved a flower into my hand. Except when I felt like I would cry with pride.

And there it was, the elusive runner’s high. I don’t know if it was endorphins, or exhaustion, or the sense that I had narrowly escaped death (I have a flair for the dramatic at times, go with it). But I was FREAKING IN LOVE WITH RUNNING.

The thing about running is that you are out there with only yourself as competition, but surrounded by incredible buoyant support. The running community, for the most part (there’s an asshole in every bunch, just like life), is the most team-loving, comrade-in-arms group of crazy people I have ever met. Cause when you cross that line they ALL know you just went to battle with some serious self doubt. With some pain. With some “I cannot do this and I am going to puke or die but I have to put one foot in front of the other.” There’s no one stopping me from just sitting down, except me. Ok, I have a coach or two who might come grab me– but that’s the good news too. There are people out there willing to slow down their OWN race and run with me. To go back for a friend who needs a boost across a finish line. My favorite moments in races have been watching friends I know who have had personal struggles get across that line. It’s better than my own finish. I cry, every time.

I am not the most graceful, elegant, skinny, fast, or talented runner. But I get out there and do it. And the “just doing it” (yes, Nike, way to grab that one early on) is the whole thing. It’s so cliche, but it applies to all of the other life stuff too.

Flashback: me, in elementary school, huffing and puffing around a freezing cold track. Like every other American child in the 80’s I was subjected to the “Presidential Fitness Challenge” where only the 2 lithe, freakishly fast/strong 9 year olds got all the prizes every year and the rest of us shuffled into PE, terrified and awaiting certain personal failure. I remember watching those gazelle-like friends and thinking “how the hell did they just run like that? what is wrong with me? why am I fat/slow/ugly?” Turns out, growing up in a house with smokers and having exercise-induced asthma and then being chucked out in the cold in the NJ spring = not awesome for my little lungs. But I took it so personally. And I started to write my inner story of “not an athlete” and “not a runner” right there on that track. I gasped around and made it to a 13-something mile. And then had to gulp down the tears.

If I could go back to that awkward little pre-pubescent me, here’s what I’d tell her:

1. You are going to live an amazing life that is so far beyond the confines of this track.
2. You are going to be 35 and regularly run a sub-10 minute mile and feel awesome while doing it.
3. Fuck them. Cause they don’t matter. You being awesome is what matters.

Life lessons all around.

xo

Lucky for you babies, I went to sleep-away camp multiple times and then worked at a day camp for 4 summers. I have camp songs for days. You find this entertaining now and will be horribly embarrassed in about 10 years. It’s gonna be awesome, trust me.

One song in particular popped into my brain this week, “Lion Hunt.”

We can’t go over it, can’t go under it, guess we’ll have to go THROUGH it.

Then you stomp your feet and rub your hands and run THROUGH “it”: the raging river, the dark tunnel, the lion on your heels. And the song goes on and on through various terrifying situations (seriously, kid songs, ammiright?). I think that’s the best description I have of where we all are right now: we are GOING THROUGH IT. You are along with me on my personal adventure through tunnels and over raging rapids– and honestly, I am ok. I’ve had people ask if I need to speak to someone, ahem, professionally; if I want meds; if I am really “just” tired. And the answer is, I am more authentic in this moment in our lives than probably ever before.

One manifestation of this is being President of the Fuck It Club. We have many members and our motto is, well, Fuck It. Meaning, if you are feeling something or want to do something or feel like running til your legs fall off- (say “fuck it” and) DO IT. Rest assured world, I am telling you the truth these days cause the energy it takes to put on a happy face is a lot and my reserves are low. So when I am smiling, I am really, authentically happy. If I am introspective, chances are, I am thinking. If I look exhausted, I am. But I’ll take a nap or a break, and be back.

In a way, this is liberating. I mean, who are we putting on all these airs for anyway? Why haven’t I always just been myself? Well, because we live in a society and a time where your public profile is everything and people know how you feel before you’re even fully feeling it. I am a serious selfie taker (there’s a whole thing on how that makes me a narcissist or a psychopath…whatevs) and filter user, so I have complete control over how the world perceives me through this little inter-webbed land of screens. And so, where before I was putting it out there for people to be like “oooh girlfriend has it TOGETHER” now I am all “holy shit I’m a little broken, but so are all of you. Cool.”

Babies, learn this with me k? Note: as toddlers, this is NOT actually a challenge for you. I mean, you will hurl yourselves on the floor in the middle of Target with straight up wild abandon, striking fear in all those (me) who cross you. So perhaps my ask is that you, ahem, refine your technique, but stay true to who you are. Be a part of the Fuck It Club. Let your freak flag fly. Be someone authentic so that others may let their guard down around you too– that’s where the real stuff of life is.

xo

You need not always be strong, but you must be brave.

I have been thinking a lot about the difference between those two words: strong and brave. A friend commented to me that she was worried about people telling me to “be strong” or “you are such a strong person.” Both well intentioned and caring, genuine things to say. But like her, something about it stuck with me. What does it actually imply? Does it mean that I can’t be weak, that I can’t have moments of darkness or of not knowing? A lack of muscle; a lack of fortress; no shutters to batten down?

Able to withstand great force or pressure.

What if, sometimes, you need to crumble in order to build back up again? What if you need to get so weak that someone has to carry you across the finish line? What if there are days where you just can’t, and it’s ok?

Brave.

Brave is being terrified and doing it anyway. Brave is one foot in front of the other. Brave is taking the leap and trusting that the parachute will open at the last minute, violently pulling you up… only to gently float you back to earth a moment later. Brave is showing up even when you can’t find the words to say. Brave is letting yourself cry when you want them all to think you’re fine.

You both idolize super heroes, fire fighters and army guys right now; a group of larger than life avengers and protectors, commonly associated with the word “strong.” And when I think about them, running toward the emergency, the fire, the disaster, the battle… I think: brave. It must be really scary, even if not in the moment as the adrenaline pumps through their veins, moving them forward… but after, when it’s all done. When it’s quiet. When they have time to really feel the feels, and process what happened– ostensibly, their job– but never routine, never not fear-inducing. And the most scary part to me, in their shoes- would be waiting for the next alarm to sound.

So, here I am, doing my very best to be brave. You are helping me by needing me. You need your mama to show up in all the ways little boys need their mamas– for hugs, tying shoes, blowing noses, reading books, finishing projects, refereeing arguments… so I am. Just one foot in front of the other. Brave. Onward.

“Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not of words. Trust movement.”
~Alfred Adler

So after all of the words I DID have about cancer and it’s gumption and how just angry I felt… I now seem to have absolutely no words. I am back at work, and you’re back at school and we had a great last week of the holiday break despite cancer and flu… but there’s a quiet wall that I can’t seem to break through.

Here’s the problem- I am a do-er, a help-er, a swoop-in-and-make-it-better-er (it’s a word, stay with me)… but that’s when it’s someone else. I keep going back to the ME part of all this and being super surprised that the gal we’re talking about with the cancer that was cut out of her neck… was me. And at the same time feeling like, gah, there’s not even really a thing happening. It’s done and gone and I am running and dancing and smiling and working and doing socially appropriate things. So what’s that silent little dark brooding kernel of “meh” sitting underneath my heart? It’s Cancer. And he’s an asshole.

It’s only been a few weeks. I must remind myself that I would tell you, my babies, or a friend or your Papa– “be kind to yourself, it’s only been a few weeks, you can’t expect this to just be fine after so little time; the doctor said ‘cancer’.”

While I seem to have no words, what I do have is the desire to run. To run and run and just be out there pushing this body of mine further and further. Running and I were not always pals, but about a year ago I finally committed to really doing a 5k. So I did one, the day before Mother’s Day. And it hurt and sucked and I wanted to barf… but I did it. And when I was done, I thought, “I want more.” So this past year I’ve become a runner. And it still hurts and mostly sucks, but the thing is, is that the movement and pushing through the pain, really feeling my body, knowing how to nourish it, knowing when to push it and when to say I am done; it’s all basic. Visceral. And I don’t have to talk.

My brain has no words, so I am letting my body take over and do the work. The words will come back. Until then it’s short sentences. I’m ok. We’re so lucky. Yup, dodged a bullet. Totally the “easy” cancer. Great to be back. Yes. Ok.

In October, I sat in our car in the parking lot of the urgent care, calling the ultrasound place thinking “I wonder if I will look back on this moment and think, wow, that’s the first time I thought maybe I had cancer. This is the first step in a long list of steps and I have to just do it. I have to get there right now. I am going to remember this moment.”

On Monday, I was told, after all of the poking and prodding and surgery and negative biopsy and second opinion and the kind dermatologist who took care of me at the moment I needed it– that indeed, Fred was fucking cancer. (I am using the f word rather liberally this week, mainly preceding the word “cancer.”)

Even typing that gruesome word gives me pause (hence the need for the f bomb before it). It hasn’t really seeped all the way in yet. I get a weird fluttery feeling in my stomach when I have to say the word and I’ve watched my friends and family get really nervous and upset around me. I’ve had people from near and far offer so much love and support. And somehow, I still don’t believe they’re talking about ME.

To be clear, the prognosis is the best there is, no further treatment right now; just to get healthy, get running and dancing again and take care of my body so no little rogue cell is able to take root again. Regular appointments to check the other side of my thyroid. Easy peasy yeah?

Except, the doctor said “papillary carcinoma” and then I forgot all of the other things. Cause no matter what comes after it, the word is out there. Cancer. Carcinoma. I have watched numerous people I love go through all types of cancer; I have danced and run in their names; I have donated and sent flowers and cried and loved and been relieved. And waited, just waited for news. I have been in a lot of the places you can be when it comes to cancer: lover, daughter, friend, long distance internet support. Griever and cheerleader. But never here.

Intellectually, I know that the statistics say that I dodged a bullet, that I am fine. That all in all, this is a blip on the radar. But in my heart, my mama heart, it’s absolutely terrifying. It will get less so, I know. But today, it feels scary. It feels scary to know that the scar on my neck was cancer treatment. And that if just one cell managed to escape- that in fact, we’re not done with this.

I am not at the point yet where I am ready for silver linings and “carpe diems” and memes– we know I’ll get there, cause I always do. But for now I am pissed and offended at the gumption of fucking cancer to add me to this club. I won’t stay in this place cause I’ll take the rage and move it along into bad-assery… but for now. I get to have a moment.

I will say, that on the day your mama was diagnosed with cancer, we danced and made cookies and read The Lorax for the 15 millionth time and made sure to love each other really well, so even in my attempt to be rageful, we know I am bathed in light. Love you babies.