I know it’s trendy to be an introvert these days. Or, perhaps the internet is just full of more of us than not. It was made for us, after all, the shelter of screens and keyboards and typewritten eloquence.

But I finally realized a few years ago that that’s exactly what I am. I mean, Myers-Briggs says I am one (I’m an INFP for those of you who are interested in those sorts of things, and which apparently means I’m perfectly suited to my job and somehow similar to the likes of Fred Rogers and James Taylor). But it never really clicked with me until I read this article about caring for the introvert in your life. And finally I could articulate what I’d unsuccessfully been trying to communicate to people for ages:

I’m not antisocial. But being social exhausts me.

I enjoy people. I like social events, and I can be incredibly outgoing in the right environment with the right people. But no matter what, once I’ve immersed myself in the people parade for a while and done the rounds of cocktails and such, I want out. I want to go away, turn off the noise, hide in a quiet room somewhere and get room service.

I go do talks at events, and I disappear. I do the conference thing during the day, but by night I prefer to socialize with small, intimate groups of people I know well rather than going to another dreaded networking social hour with bad wine and soggy fried wonton things. As a result, I’ve been mistaken for the snob who is “too good” to hang out with people, when really, I’m just intimidated, weary, and needing to replenish my emotional stores with the people I know love and care for me unconditionally (which are a very few, and I’m eternally grateful for them). It’s what equips me to go do it again the next day.

For conference calls, meetings, or those kinds of business things, I really have to get myself in the right head space. I need to leave gaps between meetings whenever I can so that I can readjust and prepare myself for the next encounter, especially with people that I don’t know well. And I always do manage to overcome it, but so many people are surprised when I tell them that.

“But you seem so social!”

I am social, when it’s on my terms. When the world thrusts situations at me, it takes me a few steps to adjust to them. I’ve gotten really good at it and you’ll never see me flinch. But inside, I am definitely having a conversation with myself (which, if you heard it, would make you even more convinced that I’d lost my marbles).

When I’m home – that is to say, not traveling for work or speaking or something like that – I am Home. I’m as home as I know how to be. I like my house, and the comfort of familiar surroundings. I have things I like to do, but I like to do a lot of them alone or with my daughter. I can’t imagine anything more undesirable than having a bunch of acquaintances in my house for some kind of cocktail party. I don’t know my neighbors that well, and that’s okay with me. They’d think I’m weird anyway.

My sense of adventure is found somewhere on an open road in a convertible holding the right person’s hand. Or wandering in the forest, or on the beach. Or having a quiet drink on a terrace looking up at the stars. I don’t crave adrenaline, or climbing a mountain, or racing down a ski slope. My appreciation for the majesty of my world is really rather found in a certain kind of solitude.

Oddly enough, my kiddo is the most social little critter ever. She hangs out the window of the car waving at passerby on the street and shouting hello. She always wants to bring cookies to the kid down the street she doesn’t know, just because “he might not have any cookies at his house, Mommy!”. She’s the center of attention all the time, loves being with other kids (and adults for that matter) and absolutely just can’t get enough of people and social situations.

It’s been an interesting journey for me, seeing the world through her eyes, given my discomfort with all things crowd-related. Watching her insatiable curiosity, her wonder at the world, her joy in simple things. Some of that’s being four. Some of that is the soul of my child, finding its purpose in the world, and I can see it in the depths of her cerulean eyes.

My “F” in my INFP is the whole foundation of my personality, and where I peg the charts. I feel. Deeply, at times painfully. To me, feelings and emotions are unruly beasts, but they are also sacred. And to be protected, which is why so few people see them up close. It’s why I can cry, watching my daughter make friends and bring joy to others. And it’s also why, while I may be home safely ensconced in my blanket on my sofa wrapped around a cup of tea or a glass of wine, I wonder what people think when I decline their polite invitation to dinner or lunch or a party.

At the lovely age of 36, I am finally making peace with my mess inside. With my powerful desire to be with and around a few special humans, and my resistance to being among the crowd. With my love for bombastic fun that can only and always be tempered with my need to find quiet and peace to reset. With my unbridled feelings that sometimes carry me places that I’d rather not go, and sometimes bring in the most catastrophically beautiful things that turn my world upside down.

I’m a hermit, sometimes. I am. It doesn’t mean I don’t see the world, or drink in all its amazement, or breathe in experiences and let them roll around in my spirit for a while. I just do those things quietly. I see you over there, too, and I watch in wonder while you tackle the world in a way that’s foreign to me. I love that it’s different. And while I have big words sometimes about taking the world by storm, in truth I’m likely over here contemplating something far less torrential, but with no less meaning to me. I indeed intend to change the world.

It just might happen mostly in my pajamas, with a good book, a dog on my lap, and warm socks within reach.

{ 14 comments }

The internet has been chided as the playground of fools, the empty rainbow of the wishful, the funhouse mirror of the self important or the opportunistic. It’s been categorized, classified, vilified, celebrated, lauded, objectified, amplified, even censored.

And today, it triumphed.

What a world. What a time of change, of upheaval, of opportunity and inspiration. Of introspection and the awesome power of communication and identity to rise up in concert and create the smallest seeds of change that can reforge people, lives, and global societies.

I am…emotional, about this to say the least.

My small, personal journey perhaps pales in comparison to the risen voice of thousands today. But I am reminded – moved – by how much the trappings of communication have given way to the very essence of human connection in a way that has changed my life dramatically.

I have explored who I am through the writings of others, and sometimes, me. Through observation and sometimes deep consternation, I’ve seen and felt the actions of others and learned with difficulty what I don’t want to do and be (along with a good dose of humility when I’ve seen shadows of myself there in any case). I’ve learned about the sort of things I want my daughter to understand. I’ve absorbed, espoused, disputed, and eaten a few choice words with a fine glass of regret.

The love of learning has been re-ignited in me in ways that it likely hasn’t been since my childhood years, poking through the volumes of children’s encyclopedias. My amazement at the diversity and beauty of culture and people and passion and art has been magnified in ways that I’ve few words to describe. Hatred and judgment has stung me personally, and saddened me from a distance. Hope and generosity have landed unexpectedly beside me and shone a light on the gentle kindness that lives in the most unassuming and beautiful of places.

My passion has learned to apologize in its overzealousness, and yet breathe a bit more freely in the moments when it used to fear being seen and felt. Fearlessness and insecurity have had some not-so-quiet discussions with one another, and realized that each could learn a bit from the other.

I have learned to let go. I have loved with abandon. I have feared, despaired, cried, challenged, affronted, ignored, embraced, laughed…breathed, and did them all again.

Thank the heavens we can do this. Can look at the path beneath our own feet and question its destination, let alone change it if we so choose. That we can walk it with belief and resolution. That we can always find freedom in the contemplation of not just where we are, but where we see ourselves hence. What a gift. What terror and freedom and exhilaration.

Today, I fear nothing more than I do being compelled to stay still. To have shoes that as yet have no scuffs or scars or smudges of dirt. To have said that I didn’t because I didn’t know how to start or how to get there. To hold my breath for fear of the rush of air that the gasp will bring.

The imaginationless can stand aside, including those that would not deign to indulge my optimism, my hope, or my wonder (even those small little trolls in my own mind). There are treasures yet among these well worn paths. And my shoes are yet finding their stride.

{ 10 comments }

On the one hand, we’d all do well to expose ourselves to the opinions and thoughts of those we disagree with in order to broaden our perspective. See things from multiple angles. Understand motivations and behaviors of others so that our own decisions and actions are better informed.

In fact, the internet I live on and in talks about it a lot. We, in fact, are eager to critique those whom we feel are too insulated. We talk about the fishbowl or the echo chamber or those that fear criticism from others as being weak of conviction in their own ideas enough to defend them or stand toe to toe with their critics.

My friend Tom recommended a book I’m eager to check out called The Big Sort about how our tendency to gravitate toward like-minded people is detrimental to our communities and ability to relate to one another. It’s a fascinating idea.

But there’s a flip side.

Welcoming diversity of thought is one thing, tolerating those who deliver said thought with damaging effects? That’s another. And I’m not sure it’s an easy distinction.

For example, some political commentators make my blood boil, but if I step back for a moment I can at least learn something in the process about what I believe, or don’t, or what their angle might be. It’s depersonalized to a degree, so it makes it much easier to swallow, or at least process without so much emotion.

But I’m an admittedly emotional creature, so sometimes the price for accepting someone’s divergent opinion is personally difficult to pay because of the impact that their behavior has on me. Personally. My feelings about them, myself, my work…whatever.

In other words, does accepting diversity of opinion mean always tolerating jackassery? Do I have to suffer assholes simply because their viewpoint is different than mine, and hearing them out is somehow going to make me a better, more informed person?

I struggle with this, because then I feel as though I’m somehow less if I can’t find a way to let them in. Less tolerant. Less in control of my own reactions and emotions, and less sophisticated in understanding them. Less diverse of thought myself, and perhaps less nuanced than I thought I was or might like to be. Less capable of taking the high road that I so admire from down here in the sometimes ditch.

So..that’s my question. One for which I don’t really have a clear answer.

Is there a line between accepting diversity of thought and tolerating what we deem as poor behavior from others? When is it okay to shut the door? When do we need to step outside our comfort zone and get brave enough to face down things we don’t like or don’t understand? Is it ever okay to say no, I won’t entertain that not because the thoughts aren’t valid, but because you can’t find a way to deliver them in a way that’s not offensive?

I know these aren’t black and white answers and I’m not really expecting that. But I’m curious to hear how you process this stuff, or how you approach the world that is different – sometimes radically so – from your own. Not in the way you read in a self-improvement book about how you should do it, but how you do, warts and all.

I’m exploring. I’m sure there aren’t really good answers. But as with all things, I’m writing to discover what I think. That’s part of the adventure.

{ 12 comments }

I love to cook (and eat, but those two kind of go together, no?). And in my world, there is nothing better than simple food that’s comforting, especially during the cold months of the year here in Chicagoland.

A couple of weeks ago I made this bolognese and the ensuing lasagna, and several folks asked me to share my recipes for both. I’m long overdue here, but here they are in all their glory. Please note that I’m an inexact chef, which means I cook a lot by taste and tweak. That means that these recipes are my closest approximation to what I actually do and put in there, but there’s always a bit of improvisation going on. That’s half the fun of cooking, and I hope you’ll do some tweaking of your own.

Veal Bolognese

A good bolognese is actually one of the simplest things in the world. The key is patience, and letting it cook for a long, long time. It’ll be torture, but the wait will be worth it and your house will smell awesome. And if you don’t get far enough to make the lasagna, grab a great hunk of crusty italian bread and just dig in. That’s dinner in itself.

Ingredients:

1 lb ground veal and 1 lb ground pork OR 1 1/2 lbs ground veal and 1/2 lb ground pork (this is the way I do it)

1/2 lb ground round or chuck (beef)4-5 slices of bacon or pancetta

1 medium onion, finely chopped

2 celery stalks, finely chopped

2 carrots, finely chopped

2 oz dried porcini mushrooms (reconstituted and chopped) or small container crimini mushrooms, finely chopped

4 or 5 garlic cloves, minced

Extra-virgin olive oil for sautéing and drizzling

2 bay leaves

2 sprigs rosemary

2 cups milk

1 (28-ounce) can crushed or pureed tomatoes, San Marzano if you can get them.

2 cups dry red wine

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Chop the mushrooms, carrots, onion, celery and garlic as finely as possible. If desired, chop or mince together in a food processor or blender. (Depends on the eventual consistency you want; I don’t mind small vegetable pieces in mine but the purists might tell you that finer is better).

In a heavy-bottomed pot, cook the bacon until brown and crispy. Remove bacon pieces and set aside. Add olive oil, bay leaves, rosemary and cook gently until fragrant (less than a minute or two), then add vegetables and cook 5 to 10 minutes until slightly tender.

Raise the heat a bit and add the ground veal and beef; cook until the meat is just no longer pink (don’t overbrown), breaking up with a wooden spoon until the meat is in tiny, crumbly bits. Add the milk and simmer until the liquid is evaporated, about 10 minutes. Add tomatoes and wine and season with salt and pepper. Bring the sauce to a boil, lower the heat and cover. Simmer for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, stirring now and then, until the sauce is very thick. If needed, cook last 15-20 minutes uncovered to reduce and thicken.

That’s it. Have extra? Freeze it. It reheats beautifully later.

Lasagna Bolognese

So, there’s two ways to do this lasagna.

Traditionally, lasagna bolognese uses a bechamel or a besciamella sauce, which is a white sauce (recipe below). You can also do it with a more American-style ricotta mixture to layer with, which I’ll also include here. The only difference in assembly is that you either use the bechamel sauce OR the ricotta mixture when layering. The bechamel lasagna will be thinner and a bit more loose in texture (and incredibly rich). The lasagna with the ricotta layer will be thicker and more firm, and milder in taste with the familiar mozzarella gooeyness. All depends on your taste. I love them both for different reasons, and alternate them with my mood.

I use no-boil flat lasagna noodles from Barilla, because it’s just easier that way (the noodles cook right in the pan while the lasagna bakes). But if pre-boiling noodles is your thing, it’ll work just fine that way, too.

This recipe will make a hefty-sized pan of lasagna that will easily feed 6-8 people, but you can expand the recipe as needed and feed an army.

Ingredients:

Lasagna noodles (1/2 to 1 lb, either no-boil or pre cooked)

Veal Bolognese or whatever other sauce you want to use, like a vegetarian marinara

Grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese (splurge on the good stuff, trust me it’s worth it)

Bechamel Sauce OR Ricotta cheese mixture

Ricotta mixture

Sorry this is pretty inexact, but it’s really a feel and taste thing. You want your cheese layer loose enough to spread easily, but you can add or subtract grated cheese to your taste, depending on whether you want yours stringy and gooey or not. The more mozz you add both here and in the assembly, the more of the cheesy stringy yumminess you’ll end up with (and the milder the flavor overall).

15 oz container of ricotta cheese

2 eggs

a splash or two of half and half

2-3 tbsp finely chopped parsley

a handful or two of grated parmesan cheese

another handful or two of grated fresh mozzarella cheese

1/4 tsp dried thyme

1/4-1/2 tsp dried oregano

salt and pepper

Bechamel Sauce: (this is Mario Batali’s version, but they’re all just about the same)

5 tablespoons butter

4 tablespoons flour

3 cups milk

2 teaspoons salt

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

In a medium saucepan, heat butter until melted. Add flour and stir until smooth. Over medium heat, cook until light golden brown, about 6 to 7 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat milk in separate pan until just about to boil. Add milk to butter mixture 1 cup at a time, whisking continuously until very smooth and bring to a boil. Cook 10 minutes and remove from heat. Season with salt and nutmeg and set aside.

Assembly and Baking:

Bechamel version: Start with a layer of bolognese, a sprinkling of grated Parmigiano, a layer of noodles, a layer of bechamel, and then repeat until you’ve got 4-5 layers or until you’ve used up all the noodles and sauce (that’ll all depend on how much you started with and the dimensions of your pan). The top layer should be pasta with bechamel over it. Top the lasagna with grated Parm. Bake at 375 until the edges are browned and the sauces are bubbling, about 45 minutes to 1 hour.

Ricotta version: Start with a layer of bolognese and a sprinkling of parmesan, then a layer of noodles, a layer of the ricotta cheese mixture, then bolognese sauce, a bit of shredded parm and mozz cheese if you like, then repeat until all the sauce and noodles are gone. Top layer should be noodles with bolognese over it and a generous layer of grated cheese. Bake at 375 loosely covered with foil for 45 to 75 minutes (depending on how thick your pan and lasagna is), then remove foil and bake until top layer of cheese is just golden brown (another 10 minutes or so). No foil? No worries. Bake without the last layer of cheese, and add the grated cheese 15 minutes before the end of baking time to melt and brown.

Most importantly for either, let it REST before serving. The sauces and cheese need a chance to cool down a bit so you can get nice pieces when you slice into it. Freezes well if you wrap it nice and tight; also even better the next day.

Cheers and happy eating.

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I seem to be invincible. To a lot of people.

So I’m going to give you the secret of everything I know, everything I do, how I manage to keep it all together with work, job, projects, and being a single mom.

Ready?

The secret is….sometimes I absolutely and utterly crumble under it all.

Sometimes the weekends aren’t so much a respite from the work week as a chance to get overwhelmed by everything. The dishes that never seem to ever be done. The dog and cat hair that collects around the floorboards like so many mocking little monsters, taunting me and the vacuum cleaner who cowers in the corner, longing for its home in the closet. The laundry that always seems like too much, never quite getting put away so that the occasional favorite pair of pajama pants becomes a victim of the dogs’ tug of war.

After travel, it’s inevitable that no matter how hard I try to keep everything put away before I go, a toy or a shoe gets destroyed by one of the pups, bored out of their skull while Mom is gone. Some furry person pukes on the couch or pees on the dining room rug. And so instead of walking in the door relieved to be in my own tidy house, I come back to a maelstrom of plastic shrapnel, ruined belongings, and messes to be cleaned up before my suitcase is even unpacked. It’s a house that I love, but that on most days I wouldn’t want anyone to see.

Weekends are time for Abby, too. A very precocious, demanding Abby. One that’s not quite yet independent enough to fully occupy herself while I prepare dinner, and can singlehandedly dismantle one room while I fruitlessly try to reassemble another. She is curious and adventurous and can throw the most wicked of temper tantrums that can shake the very foundation of my own confidence in parenting. At three and a half, we’re still wrestling with potty training and my nerves sometimes show signs of wear, because I wonder just what I’m not doing (am I gone too much? Do I work too hard? Was I absent the day they taught the magic formula?).

No matter the day, I feel a bit of the guilt for the email I didn’t get to, the checkbook I didn’t balance, the post I didn’t write, the project I didn’t work on, or the speech I should have better prepared.

Some will say that none of that matters. That none of that is really, truly what’s important.

But it is. Peace of mind is important. Having a home where you feel safe from the storms of the world is important, one where you can find comfort and give comfort to those you love. Feeling caught up to yourself and your world is important. Believing in your adequacy as a parent is important. It’s not the things or the moments themselves, but the sense of balance they do or don’t represent.

And so, sometimes, even after a second cup of coffee and a good night’s sleep, I just collapse on the couch and cry and wonder if I’ll ever, ever get ahead of it all.

Something happens then.

I crumble. I have my moment. I collapse in a heap and surrender to feeling sorry for myself and I cry until the tears won’t come anymore.

Then, I breathe. Shakily, at first. I flick the tears from my face, squeeze my eyes shut hard one time, and open them again. I clench my fists and release them. I look up at the ceiling, then down at the dusty floor. I ask someone somewhere to lend me a little bit of strength, a dash of will, a pinch of faith. I promise to give it all back when I have some to spare.

I look around me at the flotsam and jetsam of my little world. The dog sprawls on the loveseat, safe and sound from the place she would have been had I not found her in a shelter several years ago. The spot on the carpet fades a little bit more, one more load of laundry buzzes as it dries. I decide those shoes weren’t all that comfortable anyway, and the handful of fuzz along the floorboard gets swept out the patio door in a gust of crisp fall wind.

Abby comes to me and asks for a hug, and doesn’t care that she has to crawl over a pile of folded towels to come sit by me on the couch. She tells me she loves me, and asks if we can get a Christmas tree this year with a big, shiny star on top. And if we can go sledding when it snows. And if we can watch a movie, together, Mommy.

And I say yes.

Yes, we can.

image credit: Shayne Kaye

{ 38 comments }

The other day, someone accused me – in public – of being an “oversharer”. I find that a funny label, a bit because it’s so different in the eyes of the beholder, and the observer.

For example, I’m a liberal sharer of my thoughts and views on much of what I do professionally, and some of my passion points around books or science or the English language. But I never share much online about my family, nor my religious or political views, nor the personal relationships I have with friends or otherwise.

And typically, I don’t talk about things related to health or medical issues, mostly because I don’t care to make people uncomfortable with such personal details. But I’m making an exception today, because I feel like it’s time for me to share openly a little more about an issue that’s important to me.

Throughout my teenage years and adulthood, I have suffered on and off with episodes of depression. To me, depression has been a very real part of my life and of the lives of those I love, and it’s very real. It’s not simply “having a bad day” or being in a funk. Depression is serious, it’s damaging, and it’s something that is often misunderstood.

It’s my personal belief that we have to work harder to remove the stigma that comes alongside issues like depression, because undiagnosed and untreated, it is one of the leading causes of suicide, especially in young adults. In fact, in 2006, it was the 11th leading cause of death in the United States (which ranks it ahead of homicide and illicit drug use). It’s tragic, and preventable.

In the years since my initial diagnosis, I’ve gotten a bit more comfortable with talking about what I’ve been through, especially when I’ve seen how many people are living with depression or related illnesses, and are so afraid to speak out. For the person dealing with the diagnosis, all sorts of things come to mind: I’m crazy, people will think I’m just dramatic, I’m broken, I’ll never get past this, I don’t want to have to take drugs in order to cope. For those that are watching, misinformation and the general lack of conversation about the topic leads to all kinds of misunderstandings, judgments, and crummy labels at worst. At best, those around the depressed person feel helpless, a bit desperate, and unsure about what to say or do.

That’s why we don’t talk about it most of the time. It’s confusing and scary, and downright uncomfortable. All by myself, I can’t do much to change that. But I can try.

I can share a bit about my story, more bravely and openly than I normally would, in hopes that someone else takes comfort in the fact that they’re indeed not alone.

I can talk about it openly so that perhaps people will educate themselves a bit more about the causes and treatments for depression, and understand more deeply what happens to and with those that suffer from it.

I can hope that by sharing my story, others will share theirs, and that we together will change the perceptions that surround depression for our own sake, and for the sake of those that love us.

I can reassure a family or a friend that they play a critical role in the healing and treatment of those around them suffering from depression, even if their role is just to be strength when someone has none.

I can raise a little awareness for a difficult subject in hopes that it just might save someone’s life.

I’ve done a lot of this stuff behind the scenes for years, and I realized that I was doing exactly what I didn’t want other people to do. I was hiding it, keeping it quiet so as not to make others uncomfortable with talking about something so visceral, so personal.

But discomfort alone isn’t a reason not to talk about it. So here I am, putting it out there. I know you’re out there too. There’s more of you, thinking that you’re some kind of pariah because of your diagnosis, or ashamed to talk about what you’ve been through because you couldn’t somehow prevent or control it.

Please don’t be silent. Lives truly hang in the balance because others think that there is no hope for them. We, together, can change that perception, and make sufferers of depression of all kinds know that not only do we understand, but we know there’s light in the darkest of places.

Won’t you share your story? Learn about suicide prevention and depression? Ask someone near you how you can help them cope?

This is a story that will always be with me. It’s part of who I am, and part of many people that I know and love. It’s important to me not to be silent any more. Thanks for listening.

image credit: MedEvac71

{ 82 comments }

I’ve had the honor of being mentioned in some lists this year that recognize women doing good things in social media (my industry) and business. I deeply appreciate being recognized for hard work, and for contributing something of value to my field.

So I hope it won’t come across as ungrateful when I mention that I don’t particularly identify with the alliances, groupings, or other things wherein my gender is the central pivot factor. It’s really just because, well, I’m a person first.

And there are probably lots of other monikers or classifications I’d put myself in before “woman” jumped to mind. Musician. Mom. Professional. Bibliophile and word nerd. Lover of science geekery. Equestrian. I’m passionate about being those things, and they are what I most identify with.

I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in things like women’s networking groups, or mom groups, or sororities, or anything that’s particularly female-only, or ever gotten really hypersensitive about feeling like I’m being looked at or treated differently because I’m female.

That’s not to say I don’t understand that gender disparities and discrimination aren’t real – they are the same way that racism or bias for sexual preference are, too. And I understand full well the gender-based atrocities that happen to women in other countries, and would unequivocally stand against such things.

But it’s just not where I choose to park my wagon, fortunate as I am to live and work in a culture that allows me to make choices that aren’t based on those biological facts. I’m a person that has so many dimensions, interests, and identifying characteristics that have far more to do with my intellect than my gender. And I never, ever want to fall back on my woman-ness as a reason for why something didn’t happen for me – for better or for worse. That just feels – well – like a copout.

Perhaps I’m lucky that I don’t feel like my gender has ever been in my way. Perhaps I’m too naive that I think my work, my contributions to society, my role as a parent and friend and professional can be determined by what I do and who I am beyond something as mundane as being a girl. Perhaps it’s shortsighted of me that I don’t get all riled about anything but the most blatant offenses of language – I figure most people railing against “chicks” or “broads” are really frustrated at much more than the fact that those people have a vagina.

So I’m going to continue to thank those that choose recognize me as a shining example of my gender, because perhaps it will show a young woman somewhere to realize she can be whatever she wants to be, if she’s feeling like being a girl or not is a defining factor.

But as it stands, what I’m really aiming for is to be recognized as an outstanding professional, parent, contributor, and person, regardless of my female persuasion. To inspire people, not just women. To challenge the way things are done, make waves, create impact, and give back something bigger than my own humanity.

The way I figure it, the indelible mark I make on this rock when I leave won’t care whether or not I was a chick.

image credit: Dominic’s pics

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I have a weird thing.

I have this presence on the internet, mostly because of my job and my work (thanks to my employers). I appreciate it. I do.

But the problem is this.

That awareness – much of which I did not ask for – implies expectations that I cannot fulfill, no matter how many hours I work. Yes, I have a job. But that’s one piece of things, yes?

I go to a conference and part of my job is to be present, engaged, available. But is there dispensation when I say that my professional persona is off the grid, and anything else (or not at all) is just me, the person, the very fallible human being behind it all? When I want to be with my friends and colleagues by selection, not by design?

And what does that tell you about the value of relationships in business? How can you aspire to be in someone’s inner circle, and really think about the commitment that entails?

To those that question my commitment, responsibilities, and integrity when I’m striving always to find a balance between what I owe and what I’ve earned: to hell with you.

My job is part of who I am, but it never, ever defines me. And you can judge for yourself whether I meet your criteria of “authentic”. Doubt me? Have the stones to face me down in person. I dare you.

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