1.) Consult a reliable weather source for the 5-day forecast at your travel destination to determine appropriate clothing to pack.
2.) Immediately forget what it said.
3.) Select shirts to pack based on their proximity to the top of your dresser drawer. *

*Note: Quantity to pack TBD by how many need to be removed from said dresser for the drawer to close completely for first time since you did your laundry.

4.) Repeat step 3 with yoga pants, paying no mind as to whether tops and bottoms form any cohesive, matching outfits. *

*Note: This logic applies to shoes as well.

5.) Pack every pair of clean underwear you own.
6.) Confirm the date, time, and departure gate of your flight.
7.) Recheck the weather forecast for potential thunderstorms that could impact your flight.
8.) Repeat steps 6 & 7 on a continuous loop to ensure neither has changed.
9.) Pack a book to read on the plane.
10.) Observe that the book was published in 1991.
11.) Sit on the floor overcome with childhood nostalgia for forty-five minutes.
12.) Ask Siri, “What ever happened to the original members of Destiny’s Child?”
13.) Pack your passport.
14.) Pack your wallet.
15.) Pack your cell phone charger.
16.) Pack an umbrella, just in case.
17.) Pack jeans you haven’t tried on since 8th grade, just in case.
18.) Pack a graphing calculator, just in case.
19.) Recheck the compartment of your carry-on bag where you packed your passport to make sure it’s still there.
20.) Confirm the date, time, and departure gate of your flight. (x2) *

*Note: You will never be too sure you haven’t been misreading AM and PM this whole time.

21.) Google poisonous bugs and contagious ailments in your travel destination.
22.) Text your mom a picture of a suspicious bug bite on your butt to ask if it’s malaria.
23.) WebMD the side effects of Malaria pills you haven’t been prescribed.
24.) Pack your toothbrush.
25.) Consider the possibility of the airline losing your luggage and convince yourself it will 100%, absolutely be lost forever.
26.) Frantically stuff ten additional pairs of underwear in your carry-on bag so you are prepared for the inevitable disappearance of your luggage.
27.) Say aloud to your empty apartment, “MY PASSPORT IS PACKED IN THE FRONT COMPARTMENT OF MY CARRY-ON BAG.”
28.) Arrive at the airport a minimum of 3.5 hours before your scheduled boarding time.
29.) Suppress mild nausea until you can confirm at your travel destination that your luggage has not, in fact, been lost forever.
30.) Realize you forgot to pack your goddamn yoga mat.

Ready to plan your next yoga retreat? Join me in Barbados!

I consider myself an outgoing introvert.  When I’m alone in a social setting, I feel equally as comfortable striking up conversation with a nearby stranger as I feel observing the scene quietly without the security of companionship.  I genuinely look forward to spending time with groups of friends at parties, concerts, and sporting events, but I’m just as enthusiastic about retreating to the echoing solace of my empty apartment.  I’m not shy about expressing my opinions, but I prefer to have a chance to process my thoughts alone before considering whether to talk them through with someone else.  (That’s probably why I write a public blog inspired by my private thoughts.)  From my perspective, the difference between being outgoing and being extroverted is that outgoing individuals are simply confident around people, whereas extroverted folks are energized by being around people.  I’ve learned that I need time to myself to recharge so that I have enough energy to give freely to others.

Because I’m sociable, people tend to be surprised that I consider myself an introvert. Recently, someone asked me if I get lonely because I spend a lot of time alone.  I replied that I don’t, but I didn’t put much thought into why that may be.  Now that I’ve had time away from the conversation to introspect, I can better articulate the difference, at least in my mind, between being alone and being lonely.

I try not to use the terms “alone” and “lonely” interchangeably because sometimes I experience one without the other.  For instance, my favorite way to spend a rainy Sunday is inside my apartment practicing yoga in a ratty sweatshirt without uttering a word to another soul.  On the other hand, sometimes I feel lonely when I’m in a room full of people who share a belief system or set of values that goes against mine.  I’m talking about people who say things like, “leggings aren’t pants,” and “nobody cares how high you can kick,” and “the store manager will escort you out of Trader Joe’s now, ma’am”.  Being alone is more about our state of being than it is about how we think, feel, or interpret our surroundings.  Loneliness stems from our emotions, perceptions, and reactions to our surroundings.

Loneliness feels like you’re not connecting with people around you.  Being alone means you’re taking time to connect with yourself.

Loneliness is fearing the rejection of no one wanting to spend time with you.  Being alone says, “I want to hang out with me, too!”

Loneliness stems from pursuing something outside yourself to avoid feeling bored, restless, anxious, or disappointed.  Being alone stems from creating peace within yourself.

Loneliness is mourning a connection you’ve lost, or longing for one you’ve never felt before.  Being alone is cultivating space in your heart to breathe new life.

Loneliness makes you feel isolated and vulnerable, as if you are a victim of the universe.  Being alone makes you feel liberated and empowered, as if you are ready to receive every gift the universe has to offer.

Being alone isn’t something I inherently avoid, feel ashamed about, or pity.  In fact, I see it as a potential remedy for loneliness in situations where we’ve been ignoring our intuition or stifling our voices to sustain a relationship that wasn’t meant for us.  Having said all that, I recognize that being alone and being lonely aren’t mutually exclusive.  Most emotions aren’t black or white, and it’s normal to feel like we fall within some grey area of “alonely?” on any given day.  Ironically, loneliness is an experience most of us can identify with and feel connected in sharing.  So the good news is that if you are feeling lonely, you are not alone.  The better news is that if you are open to allowing yourself to be alone, you may meet a version of yourself who changes your perspective.

Hypothetically, let’s say you’re about to live abroad for a year on an assignment for work.  You receive a generous stipend from accounts payable to cover your expenses.  Your company recognizes the importance of work/life balance and gives you the freedom to spend your stipend however you choose, but they enforce the policy that no employee will receive more than has been allotted should you run out of money.  You’ve also been told that any money you don’t spend on the trip will be reabsorbed by the company at the end of the year, so there’s no cash out.  Therefore, as an employee, it would make the most sense to try to spend every penny, but to take care to spend each penny responsibly.

Similarly, as I set intentions for 2018, I welcome the New Year as though I am about to receive a 365-day stipend on an assignment from the universe.  Each day is mine to spend however I choose, but once the day is over, I cannot buy it back.  By budgeting my time as if it were a commodity like money, I can identify how to reduce waste and limit the resources I give to things that don’t add value to my life.  But there’s no reason to be stingy with my time, either.  A day that’s not used to its fullest will still expire, so the awareness of time’s impermanence can act as a motivator to find more meaningful opportunities to give freely with a warm hand.

Time is relative in the sense that we generally need some reference for comparison to determine its significance.  For example, living abroad for a year seems like a long time if it means you’d be a continent away from your spouse or children.  On the other hand, the same 365 days is hardly any time at all if you’ve been diagnosed with a terminal illness.  Even the significance of the length of a single minute changes based upon whether you’re sprinting through an airport to catch a flight or trapped underwater in a frozen pond.  I bring this up to emphasize that although time is always passing at the same rate, the context of our lives shapes how valuable the time is to us.  Just like money, time is a precious, limited resource that affords us freedom, depending how we perceive it.

As I reflect upon 2017, I ask myself the following questions:

• How much time did I wish away, hoping for something bigger or better in the future?
• How often did I find myself reluctantly saying “yes” because I felt too guilty to say “no”?  And vice versa?
• How many times did Netflix ask me, “Are you still watching?”
• How much time did I spend filtering the moments I shared on social media compared to the time I spent being present in the moments that inspired the posts?
• Did I prioritize people who treated me like a back-up plan?
• Could I have been more patient with people who needed compassion?
• Were my actions in alignment with my goals, or did I spend my free time doing what I want now instead of what I want most?

While I generally find New Year’s Resolutions to be arbitrary or cliché, I also believe there’s no time like the present when it comes to focusing on self-improvement and commitment to personal growth.  Wishing everyone a happy and healthy New Year!

As a fourteen year old, I remember sitting in my dad’s car anxiously picking my cuticles in anticipation of telling him I didn’t want to try out for basketball.  I wanted to pursue ballet more seriously and couldn’t make the time commitment to both.  I was reluctant to break the news to him because he had been my coach since biddy ball and we bonded over playing sports together.  Since my dad had no vested interest in ballet, I was afraid he would be disappointed.  I was even more afraid that by giving up a pastime we shared, he would think the time we had spent together  wasn’t meaningful to me, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.  When I finally brought it up, he was unconditionally supportive of me finding my own passion rather than blindly adopting his.  I remember him saying something along the lines of, “Of course you should do what you enjoy!  Basketball, ballet, whatever– you can do anything you want!”  He then continued, “You could stand on the porch and spit into the yard for all I care…but you better be able to spit farther than the rest of the kids in the neighborhood.”  That message stuck with me.

Growing up, I was fortunate to have a mother and father who encouraged me to explore my interests, no matter how eccentric.  Despite the fact that they both held demanding full-time careers, my parents always made it their priority to chauffeur me from one activity to the next and they rarely missed a game or recital.  They gave me the freedom to express myself creatively and trusted my judgement to find meaningful ways to spend my time.  They had faith in my work ethic and believed in my potential to achieve anything I set my sights on.  The thing was, I exhausted myself trying to be the best at it all.  I put so much pressure on myself to do right by my loving parents, I could’ve pinched a lump of coal into a diamond with my ass crack. Even though I generally had no problem meeting their expectations, or anyone else’s expectations for that matter, I felt the ubiquitous suspicion that I was never working hard enough, always disappointing someone, or failing to meet my own expectations.

Needless to say, my “second place is first loser” mindset did not bring me closer to feeling successful, regardless of how much I was achieving or who approved of my achievements.  Even when I vowed that trying my best would be a healthier, more reasonable expectation to set than being the best, it still often left me unsatisfied.  The barometer I used to measure success needed to be calibrated.

One thought process that didn’t serve me was that I sometimes measured success using outcomes outside of my control.  For example, I’ve always had the desire to be well liked.  While my behavior is within my control and I can predict how others would like me to behave, ultimately I cannot control people’s reactions and their consequential feelings about me.  When I wanted to be liked in high school, I acted agreeably, gave lots of compliments, and I could read most situations accurately to identify what to say to make my friends feel supported.  It worked pretty well!  By those measures, I should have felt successful.  So why was my self-esteem still low?  And despite having friends, why did I feel so lonely?  In hindsight, I think it was because the process I followed to get the outcome I desired made me feel like a phony bologna.  Perhaps I would have been better off if I didn’t measure success by how much other people liked me, but by whether I could make true friends with whom I authentically “belonged” rather than simply knew what to say to “fit in.”

Furthermore, I think defining success has been a confusing task in the past because I haven’t explicitly outlined what I value.  Values determine the way we measure our worth and the worth of others.  For example, I admit that sometimes I’m guilty of getting swept away by the prospect of gaining status and money.  I’ve always admired stories about innovators and entrepreneurs who started from the bottom, overcame adversity, and had the tenacity to work toward becoming CEOs of Fortune 500 companies.  I still applaud those people, but now I recognize that their status and money are simply means to an end, and not the end to value in itself.  By simply valuing others’ status and money, I ran the risk of following a crappy process to get more of it for myself.  Now, I deserve some credit; I trust myself and have too much integrity to ever do something as awful as lie, cheat, steal, or treat someone poorly to gain status or money.  That said, the process I may have chosen to follow would’ve probably induced a great deal of anxiety and insecurity as I worked toward an empty goal that I ultimately would have never quite felt like I achieved.  Instead of valuing status or money as the end gain, now I value affecting positive change, regardless of the prestige of my title, and all the priceless life experiences I’ve afforded with the money, time, and effort I’ve invested.  A general rule of thumb is that positive values stem from actions and behaviors within our control that lead to enrichment of ourselves and betterment of society.

These days when I define my success, I ask myself a few questions.  First, do I value the process rather than the result?  Next, am I responsible for my success, or am I relying on something external?  Lastly, if I don’t enjoy the process, do I really care about the result?  If I can answer all of those questions favorably, I consider it a success.

• My freshman year of college, I had an Ed Hardy poster hanging in my dorm room above my bed.  In my defense, they handed it to me on my way out of the store. In the store’s defense, it was after I handed them the $7.99 it cost to purchase it.
• I talk to my mom on the phone so often that I have to deliberately coach myself not to habitually end conversations with, “Okay love you, bye” before I call my boss.
• One time, my ex-boyfriend was studying my face intensely as if he wanted to lean in for a kiss.  We locked eyes as he pulled me close to whisper in my ear, “You have a fuzzy face.”
• My co-worker and I were using my iPhone to test the functionality of our website on a smartphone.  It didn’t occur to me that when I opened Safari, the app would load my most recent search by default.  So now my co-worker and I both know: “How come raw cauliflower smells so mich [sic] like fart?”
• I’ve had expired turkey burgers in the back of my freezer for about the same length of time a U.S President can serve a full term in the White House.
• My family likes to reminds me about the time I ate four hot dogs at the beach as a three year old.  Since it’s only a vague memory to me, I’ve incredulously asked them, “Did I eat all the buns, too?” as if I’m half-expecting one of them to rationalize it like, “Oh god of course not, you were doing a lot of Crossfit back then.”
• When I drive in the rain, I get self-conscious if I notice I’m using my windshield wipers at a faster speed than other cars on the road.
• I wasn’t sure how to pronounce a close friend’s FIRST NAME for almost a year because I was too proud to ask her and afraid to offend her.  I introduced her to at least a dozen of my other friends during that time, but fortunately we were always someplace loud or crowded so I could mumble her name quickly and pray someone else would ask her to repeat it.  To this day, I don’t know if she knew what I was doing but was too polite to call me out.
• I tell chatty people at the gym that my headphones are noise-cancelling to give me an excuse to ignore them if they try to interrupt my workout.
• I get genuinely embarrassed singing in the car by myself when I imagine a judgmental serial killer crouched behind the passenger’s seat listening to me.
• When I went home for the holidays, I found my third grade diary at my parents’ house.  On a page titled Secrets, there was a single sentence written by me in lavender milky pen: “Sometimes I pick my nose and wipe the booger on an object.”  I don’t remember writing that, but I sure remember doing it.

***

There is a Hawaiian proverb called the Bowl of Light that metaphorically describes the evolution of the human spirit.  It explains that when we are born, we are like a shining bowl of light that represents our innately radiant, untarnished souls.  When we operate on the foundation of love, respect, and gratitude, the light serves as kindling to ignite and spread more luster.  On the other hand, when we are critical, judgmental, or harbor resentment, we drop a stone into the bowl that blocks out some of our light.  The more we allow stones to accumulate in our bowls, the more we become dull, stagnant, and burdened by their weight.  To bring the light back into our lives, the proverb encourages us to “huli the bowl”, which means turning it upside down to shake out the stones.

While that solution seems practical, letting go of stones isn’t always such a simple task.  Even with enough self-awareness to see that stones can perpetuate destructive thought patterns and poor coping skills, carrying them may feel like a safer option than discovering what lurks beneath the void they fill.  For example, I fixate on every pucker, crease, and blemish on my body out of fear that accepting my imperfections would foster complacence with my own mediocrity.  I have been stingy with forgiveness and deemed others unworthy of compassion when it has been easier to hold a grudge than to swallow my pride and admit I was hurt.  I haven’t made peace with accepting the apologies I will never receive, but still long to hear.  Other stones aren’t so heavy; they’re more like pebbles that bury themselves at the bottom of the bowl, only to rattle around and come loose at random.  For example, I’ll jolt myself awake at 3:00AM to replay the time I blurted out, “Good, how are you?” in response to a toll booth worker who said good morning or “Thanks, you too!” to a waiter who told me to enjoy my meal.  I ruminate over my faux pas as a constant reminder not to repeat them.  For better or for worse, some of my stones are wedged tightly into my bowl and won’t budge easily.  They aim to protect me, but could use some repurposing.

The good news is that the direct translation of “huli” is transform.  In other words, the proverb doesn’t simply call upon us to dump the bowl and get over it.  When we aren’t ready to let go, we have the choice to polish our stones until they transform into crystals.  This transformation not only allows the light to pass through, but also gives us the capacity to shine in prismatic, multifaceted patterns that reveal new perspectives we wouldn’t have seen had it not been for the stone dropping in our bowl.  Polishing our stones teaches us the strength of our character by shaping adversity into opportunity.  Essentially, we have the power to reframe feelings and experiences that once buried us into ones that enlighten us.

I first heard the Bowl of Light proverb on an ecological jungle reserve in San Pancho.  At twenty-five years old, this had been my first time out of the country.  Though most of my friends had studied abroad in college or found other opportunities to fill their passports with stamps, I had always found excuses as to why the timing wasn’t right.  Maybe I was too busy.  Maybe I was trying to save money.  Maybe I had a tomato plant I couldn’t leave unsupervised for the week.  Maybe I had JUST promised my second cousin’s best friend I’d be at her cat’s bar mitzvah that weekend.  The truth was that I had crippling anxiety, an inflexible relationship with food, and I was unwilling to so much as dip a toe into the moat I had dug around my comfort zone to keep out that which I could not control.  So when I was invited on my dream yoga retreat to volunteer at a no-kill animal shelter and the first thought that ran through my head was, “but what if they expect me to eat simple carbs?”, I realized my comfort zone was no longer swaddling me; it was suffocating me.  Despite remembering only enough Spanish to ask for the bathroom, not traveling with a buddy or having cell reception to contact home in case of an emergency, and praying with every fiber of my being that the TripAdvisor reviewer who said he got crabs in his cabin was referring to ones of “the Little Mermaid’s crustacean pal” variety and not the “uncomfortable Uber to Planned Parenthood” kind, I booked the getaway.  In the months leading up to the yoga retreat, I was troubled to find myself eager to get the trip over with just to be able to say I did it.  Knowing that someday I would probably regret white-knuckling this incredible opportunity I was so fortunate to experience, I vowed to try my best to be present and open to receiving whatever I was meant to gain on the trip without worrying about proving anything to anyone once I got home.

After a shaky attempt to meditate my jitters away on the evening I arrived in San Pancho, I was told the story of the Bowl of Light from a Shala in the mountains overlooking a sunset so beautiful, it washed over me with a soothing reassurance that I was exactly where I needed to be in that moment. As I sat in stillness feeling the dampness of twilight raise goosebumps on my skin, I resolved to begin to repurpose that which weighed me down into something resilient and capable of shedding light on a new perspective.

Thank you Dia Moeller for once again turning my long-winded, flighty explanations of abstract concepts in my brain into something beautiful.  You are as refreshingly unpretentious as you are extraordinarily talented.

A disorderly collection of passing thoughts, insights, and short stories inspired by true events at my gym.

_

If you wear yoga pants when you do yoga, swimsuits when you go swimming, and tennies when you play tennis…don’t come around me when you wear a windbreaker.

_

If I want to ignore a gym rat, I’ll wear headphones. If I want to attract a gym rat, I’ll flex my traps. Why? Traps catch mice! (And they’re as cheesy as my puns if you take the bait.)

_

If you sacrifice alignment, control, or safety to finish your set, you’re lifting too heavy.  If you don’t look like you’re crushing a bowling ball with your butthole on your last rep, you’re not lifting heavy enough.

_

If you wear your hair down to do cardio, how do you keep from:

a.) Getting it stuck in your sweaty armpits by the warm-up
b.) Getting mistaken for Weird Al Yankovic by the halfway mark
c.) Getting a deeper understanding of why Britney Spears shaved her head in 2007 by the cool-down

…Asking for a friend.

_

Gotta run!

When I was younger, I regularly looked after my neighbor’s cat.  The cat had hyperthyroidism, so she was prescribed oral medication to take before each meal.  My neighbor warned me the cat didn’t like taking her pills, but said she’d feel much worse if she was off her meds.  The feeble feline was fairly frail as a result of her overactive thyroid, so I figured she couldn’t put up much of a fight even if she tried.  But when I went to grab that pussy like my name was Donald Trump, the cat channeled the spirit of the late Meowhammad Ali.  She thrashed, clawed, bit me, and even hid the tablets under her tongue to cough up after I walked away.  I had her best interest in mind, but she could only infer from my approach that I wanted to hurt her.

I could have followed the path of least resistance by deciding to stop trying to give her the pills.  Avoiding the situation altogether was the easiest, most painless solution for me, but ultimately it would have been a very selfish one that led to an even less undesirable outcome for both of us.  Our interactions would have been harmonious on the surface, but the cat inevitably would’ve gotten sicker and before long, there would be no more cat for me to look after.  I started thinking creatively about how I could make med adherence more mutually beneficial.  Each pill was about the size of her favorite salmon-flavored pellets, so I began feeding her a few treats with the pill mixed in before I put out her food bowl.  When I tried this method, the pills softened in her mouth first so that they were easier to swallow and tasted more pleasant.  Our new system served us both because she started getting stronger and I walked away without a scratch.

While this is a literal example of delivering a hard pill to swallow, we’ve all likely had to do this in the figurative sense.  Any relationship with depth carries the potential for having to relay bad news, express a difference of opinion, or have an otherwise awkward conversation—including the one about ending the relationship.  It’s especially uncomfortable to have hard conversations with people we care about, as we risk becoming the target of resentment for causing them pain.  We don’t want the burden of hurting someone on our shoulders, so we convince ourselves we don’t need to address these situations to avoid facing our own egos.  (What’s a matter; cat got your tongue?)  The downside of skipping a dose is that even though figurative pills can be hard to swallow, they’re delivered with the intent to mend the health of a relationship.  If we don’t deliver them to preserve a superficial facade, the relationship will suffer more profoundly long-term.

On the other hand, if we hide the pill in a sea of salmon pellets, our recipient may get full before they swallow it.  When we’re too sweet with our approach, the importance of our message dissolves into its sugar coating.  It is critical to be direct and authentic in our delivery so that there is no doubt that the recipient absorbed the pill.

When I’m delivering a hard pill to swallow, it’s helpful for me to consider how the other person wishes to receive it.  Rather than thinking about how I’m in the mood to deliver the message or even how I would want it delivered to me in a reversed scenario, I do my best to read the individual and take his or her perspective.  I focus my efforts on articulating my thoughts in the manner that person will be most receptive to hearing.  It’s not about manipulating someone by telling them what we think they want to hear; it’s about having the capacity to show empathy and the willingness to be vulnerable with someone whose wellbeing we value.  If we force feed someone information the way we feel like saying it, they may respond combatively or defensively, which only reinforces their opposition.  But if we avoid the truth or equivocate, we’re not communicating with their best interest in mind, either.  Treating others as we want to be treated is a good rule of thumb with respect to common human decency, but there’s something to be said for treating others as they want to be treated, too.

For two years, I’ve worked closely with one of my colleagues.  We typically don’t go more than a few days without connecting over the phone, via email, or in-person.  Because we’re in constant communication, we’ve established efficient workflow processes to which we contribute equally and collaboratively.  Despite our mutual respect and genuine connection, she still initiates every interaction with the same opening line:

“I’m so sorry to bother you.”

Initially, I thought I must have accidentally given her the impression that by simply doing her job, she was a nuisance.  But as I began taking note of her interactions with others, I realized she apologized to everyone…for just about anything.  This got me thinking about the power of apologies, particularly in the workplace.  In general, I feel a strong moral obligation to apologize when I have done something wrong or hurtful.  Furthermore, I see an organizational leader who exercises humility by taking culpability for missteps as more likely to achieve greater innovation and support from one’s peers than one who is unapologetically pig-headed.  Having said that, there is no benefit to saying sorry reflexively.

I thought of an analogy on apologies.  An anology, if you will.  Imagine you just started dating someone special.  During the honeymoon phase, you hold hands with this person, you hold doors for this person, and above all, you hold farts in with this person.  The first time your special someone farts in front of you, it will inevitably catch your attention and evoke a reaction.  (And if the reaction isn’t laughter, then I’m probably enjoying writing this a lot more than you’re enjoying reading it.)  Regardless of your response, the deed itself is noteworthy.  Now imagine you’ve been married for 35 years.  At this point, your spouse has passed so much gas in front of you that it’s completely negligible.  You are desensitized at best, and rolling your eyes at worst.  Think of an apology like a fart.  Save it for when it is necessary and appropriate.  And most importantly, when the timing strikes…you better make sure it doesn’t stink.

From my professional experience, albeit limited, I have found that people often say “sorry” as opposed to “thank you” when they receive constructive criticism.  Instead of interpreting critique as a reprimand for inadequate performance, consider reframing it as an opportunity to learn and grow from someone who has a fresh perspective.  If the feedback brings attention to a mistake you made, assess what the consequences of the blunder were before deciding whether you should ask for forgiveness.  For example, if your boss catches a grammatical error in a memo you wrote, instead of saying, “Sorry for the typo”, you might say, “Thanks for your attention to detail. I will proofread more carefully in the future.”  If your boss has to remind you about an impending deadline, instead of saying, “Sorry, I forgot about that”, you might say, “Thanks for being patient.  I will put a recurring appointment in my calendar so  it won’t be your responsibility to remind me about that deadline anymore.”  When the error is inconsequential, it’s more meaningful to acknowledge it by setting a plan to prevent it from happening thereafter than simply saying you’re sorry.  People who demonstrate perceptiveness and receptivity to feedback come across more mature and competent than ones who simply show remorse.

Another instance I see sorry used in the workplace is as a disclaimer.  These are the “sorry, but…” sentences.  Not only does the qualifier come across insincere, but it also raises a red flag that you’re about to say something your recipient likely won’t be open to hearing.  As a result, your credibility diminishes and the person you’re talking to will likely tune out.  It creates an unnecessary and disadvantageous dynamic of power.  If your message is thoughtful and relevant, there’s no need to preface it with “sorry” because that implicitly gives the other person permission to reject it.  I have also seen “sorry, but…” as an opener for a message to a colleague who hasn’t followed-through on his/her responsibilities.  No one wants to come across as a nag, so we pepper our notes with apologies to show that we’re not trying to be pushy and that we are empathetic to our coworkers’ busy schedules.  Be that as it may, meeting deadlines is non-negotiable in a professional setting and there’s nothing unreasonable about holding colleagues accountable for the job they’re paid to do.  Apologizing for either your ideas or your requests comes across passive and helpless.  Thanking people for their time and attention or simply saying “excuse me” if you have an interjection comes across assertive, but totally respectful.

CliffsNotes on the Do’s and Don’ts of Apologizing in the Workplace:

Don’t apologize for having ideas or sticking to your convictions.

Don’t apologize for asking people to do their jobs.

Don’t apologize for inconsequential mistakes that would be better acknowledged by developing a plan to prevent the mistake in the future.

Do thank people for their feedback, patience, time, attention, etc.

Do apologize when you are sincerely sorry for what you have done.

Do be prepared to say why you are sorry.

For those of you who have read A Message from the Heart, consider this the prequel:

On December 30, 2013, my father had a left ventricular assist device implanted in his chest.  An LVAD is a battery-operated mechanical pump that functions as portable life-support for folks in end-stage congestive heart failure.  When the heart becomes too weak to work on its own, the LVAD manually pumps blood from the heart to the body via an external battery pack that connects to a port passing through the individual’s abdominal wall.  The intervention is often used as a “bridge procedure” for heart transplant candidates who have exhausted their treatment options and anticipate long wait times on the transplant list.  This extraordinary device saves lives by not only allowing candidates to live long enough to receive a match, but also to wait for their transplant from the comfort of their homes rather than the confines of the ICU.

While the LVAD was miraculous in many ways, my family understood that it came with a laundry list of risks, and it was merely the first step in my father’s journey to receiving a heart transplant.  Prior to receiving clearance to have the bridge procedure done, he had been in the ICU for thirteen weeks and his condition was rapidly deteriorating.  He had coded more than once when his doctors tried to perform far less invasive procedures, so his doctors weren’t confident he could tolerate a 6-hour open heart surgery.  Even if he survived the operation, his risk of life-threatening complications such as stroke, GI bleeds, and thromboembolism became greater the longer he had the LVAD.  His health would obviously be far more stable with the LVAD than without while waiting for a transplant, but his projected wait time on the transplant list was up to four years, so we still weren’t sure if the device would buy us the time he needed.  Moreover, while we were hopeful about his quality of life improving enough to go home, we realized there were many unique considerations that went into making accommodations for him once he left the hospital.  We would need to buy a back-up generator for our home in case we lost power so his batteries wouldn’t die.  We would need to have his clothes altered to thread his tubes through his shirt so he could conceal his heavy batteries in his back pockets.  We would need to buy a special showerhead, washcloths, and buckets so that he could learn to wash himself without getting his batteries wet.  We focused on the wonderful prospect of my father receiving the gift of life, but couldn’t deny feeling overwhelmed that no amount of planning could prepare us for the uncertainty of the road ahead.

The night before the operation, I sat with my father at the foot of his hospital bed.  Although he was hooked up to over a dozen IVs and could hardly sit up, I remember him pointing to a bridge outside his window and telling me how grateful he was to have such a beautiful view of the New York City skyline from his room.  He always managed to find small joys in his day.  Despite spending so many months in the hospital that he began referring to it as his “NYC office” to his colleagues, I don’t think he ever actually identified as a patient.  He tried so hard not to look sick in front of me, which always made me feel guilty because I knew it drained him of the little energy he had.  But on this night, I saw his irrepressible spirit soften for the first time.  He propped himself up in bed to shred passwords to his confidential work files.  He wrote down where his assets were located and compiled a list of people for my mom to contact “just in case”.  It was hard to believe that this was the same man who used to toss my chubby little seven-year-old body a thousand feet in the air at the lake where we used to swim together, even after the thousandth time I begged him for just one more turn.  This was the same man who, when I was eleven, lifted up two teenage boys by the backs of their shirts at the mall when they tried to steal my Bath and Body Works shopping bag full of bubblegum scented body glitter.  The same man who, when I was 23, taught me that in times of conflict, strength in character will always prevail over physical strength.  Though I was disheartened knowing there wasn’t anything I could do to change my father’s circumstances, I knew I could give him strength by reminding him why he was fighting.

There are three things my father loves more than anything in the world: his family, his job, and puppies.  Knowing that the first thing he would do if he made it through surgery would be to check his iPad to respond to work emails, I made a deal with him that night.  If he promised to survive his operation, I promised to email him a picture of a cute puppy first thing in the morning every single day between his LVAD and his heart transplant.  That way, no matter how weak he felt on any given day, no matter how frustrated he was that his quality of life was restricted, and no matter how anxious he was that the next time he raced to the hospital would be for a stroke rather than a transplant, he would have at least one reason to smile waiting for him when he woke up.  In a situation where I had so little control over the future and couldn’t be by his side each step of his recovery, this would be my way of showing him that no matter the circumstances, he was the first person I thought of when I opened my eyes each morning.

On December 30, 2013, my father followed through on his promise, and I followed through on mine.  So by the time he received his new heart on December 4, 2014, I had spent nearly a year making a routine of hitting the snooze button on my alarm, rolling over to grab my phone, and queuing up his “Puppy Pic OTD” email.  It had become such a habit that I decided not to stop after his transplant.  Now, exactly 900 days (and 900 puppies) since his LVAD surgery, I have not missed a morning.  Though my puppy pictures are a minor and admittedly insignificant gesture that have no implication on his health, they continue to serve as a reminder that his family will always help him find strength when the going gets “ruff”.

If you have a puppy you would like to be featured as his “Puppy Pic OTD”,
please email me at kayla.mantegazza@gmail.com!