Wandering Through Nothingness

This week, during a radio interview, the host read an exerpt from my book “Girls on Track.”  I listened as he read it and was moved.  The book hit bookstores about this time of year ”way back” in 2004.  I picked it up to read, once again, the words that I wrote and I, with both humor and melancholy was reminded precisely of where I was at that time in my life, and now with both melancholy and joy find so much gratitude for where I am.

With all the recent talk about women in politics, professional life, homelife, parenting and otherwise, I thought I’d write my words again…here…both for you to ponder and for me to feel their power once again.  I do admit that at times it can sound a bit preachy…so just smile when you get there, take what works and leave the rest.

Chloe is one of my best friends.  She is nine years old.  The last time I saw her, she ran up to me.  “Look Molly, look!”  She showed me the sparkles across her fingernails–the silver glitter of girlhood.  She was proud of the adornment, thrilled by the simplicity of it.

I admired those ten fingers–everyone one of them.  Each finger is different–each finger, a celebration of glitter, the result of a holiday manicure with her grandma.

I took her little hands in mind and I praised them–awestruck at what these two little hands would create in her lifetime.

I look at my own hands and the splendor there; the telltale signs of age in the raised veins, spots, and wrinkles.

These hands of mine have done much in their lifetime.

The little-girl hands that molded clay ashtrays at summer camp, which my father proudly displayed at his office.  “My daughter, Molly, made this.  Isn’t it beautiful?”

The girl-hands that delighted in holding a boy’s hand for the first time, hands that later that night pressed on his lower back as our young bodies slow-danced; the tender touch; the tender moment; this tender memory.

The hands of a young woman exploring her sexuality and the discovery there, the pleasure the sensation, the wonder of it all.  The same hands that ignited the passion in another, that first touch, that first innocent expression of first love.  The power of it.  So frightening and wonderful, at the same time.

The wife-hands that comforted a depressed and weeping hubsand, that held his shaking body, brushed back the stray strands of hair from his face, the hands which touched him more deeply than the mere body they embraced.

The mother-hands that held my babies while they nursed, changed diapers at three in the morning, gently washed baby skin, and touched their tiny toes and delicate fingers;  hands that played this little piggy, untangled hair, and blew kisses as they marched off to their first days of kindergarten.

The healing hands that placed Band-Aids on skinned knees and provided magical powers on hurt places.

The weathered hands that wash dishes, mend clothes, do yard work, clean house, and fold laundry.

The loving hands that reach out to my children in those peaceful moments when we interlock our fingers and sit in the still of the moment.

The hands of despair that lift to the sky, gesturing hopelessness, rage and fury.

The hands of hope that come back down again–with peace and understanding.

Womens’ hands have much to offer.  Our hands gently and lovingly sew the tapestry of our lives, each delicate stitch of which carefully holds together the lives of so many others.

Our world is crying out, at times with despair, fury and hopelessness.  But I believe that we can change all that.  Although women don’t yet balance out the positions we typically call powerful–I am certain that we can influence the world order, because we are powerful.  We know the world through what our hands feel, embrace, and love.  We build our lives on relationships, take time to touch our children, hug our neighbors and reach out to others.  We are in the “global trenches”–the frontline–working one-on-one with one another and with children.  We hold our crying babies, relate to their fears, and constantly reassure in spite of the chaos around us.

We can, with strength and tender appreciation, take the hands of our lovers, our sons, and our fathers and walk them gently into our world.  Show them the wonder of motherhood, the universal and immediate connection we feel with our sisters whether we live in the United States, Iraq, Syria or any other part of the world.  We can, each and together, take the hands of our husbands and sons and and softly place them on the first kicks of our growing babies and marvel at the life there.

We can walk them through the halls of our lives, through the countless hours we spend nurturing little broken hearts and hurt feelings;  gently take their hands in ours and coach them in the artistry of molding anger into growth and revenge into forgiveness.

It is time for mothers to do something–to speak up–to say enough is enough.

It’s time to lay bare Woman’s view of the world, time to finally release from our womb this long-overdue child, to cut the umbilicus and let her learn to breathe on her own–alone and unsure at first, but with growing strength and assurance.  With the gentle hands of love and caring, like the hands of a skilled midwife, we need to lift our world and our vision from the womb of our knowing and our experience and transition her into this new world–a world we can create, a world we can heal, a world that exists yet not been manifest.

We are that powerful.

To hold the hands of our lovers, our fathers, our sons, drink coffee with them and talk into the black of night.  To trace lines of love on veins of age while we talk about things that really matter-like children, compassion, life, peace, and love.  We can run for office, lead a corporation, wear the suit and sitll hold onto our mother-self, tender viewpoints and feminine perspective.  We can be mothers, teachers, social workers and nurses and still be assertive.

We can, with just the slightest shift in vision,realize the power that resides in us, as both individuals and as a unified group, and use it.

I believe we are on the verge of a global transformation–a complete shift in the world order as we know it.  We are on the brink of a species-level evolution. There is  a claiming of space–where the world of the mother, the girl, the woman is coming to the fore, bringing balance, perspective and healing. We may still possess magical healing powers for skinned knees and give great butterfly kisses, but we are also passionate, wise and very powerful.  While I don’t know the exact course this transformation will take, there is one thing of which I am absolutely certain.

Our children will be safe, nourished, and loved…when mothers rule the world.

http://www.globalgiving.org/projects/girl-effect-fund/?gclid=CMXt2YnV0q8CFcOP7QodkDuzFQ

I really wanted to sleep in this morning.  I didn’t set my alarm, putzed around until midnight and then fell into a much needed sleep with the expectation of allowing only the rising sun to awaken me.

But I couldn’t sleep.

For the past three days I’ve been in Bentonville, Arkansas spending time with our Girls on the Run council there.  The three days were packed with joy, love and warmth.

On Thursday, the day of my arrival, I had the opportunity to visit with two schools.  Bellview greeted me with a a tunnel—in two rows they faced each other, their arms lifted and their hands clasped so I could run beneath them.  As I ran through they chanted:   Girls on the Run is so much fun!  They presented me with the most beautiful tutu, in their school colors of course.  I wore the tutu at my keynote talk the next day in honor of them and again in the airport as I had promised them I would do.  Their enthusiasm for the program and their open hearts filled me to the brim.

Then we moved on to Southside Elementary.

The girls there were in the middle of their practice 5k.  A very windy day, their little bodies  pushed through the strong headwinds and would then wrap around each lap with a fast and spirited run back again with the delicious tailwind pushing them from behind.  Every one of them finished.  Their coaches used streamers rolled out as finish line tape.  Every girl got to break through her own finish line, arms lifted, hearts soaring.

When Becca was done, she walked over to me, her face flushed, her hair blowing in the wind.

Becca is about 5 5’’—a tad taller than me.  She is in fifth grade.  She wears glasses, her eyes are tender and kind  with the slightest twinge of sorrow.  She pulled me aside.

“I want to tell you how much Girls on the Run means to me,”

“Why thank you Becca.”

“Yes, my mom is very sick and I can get very sad.  She has Huntington’s Disease.  When I think about that, I feel tears inside.  But when I come to Girls on the Run every one here lifts me up.  When I am down they help make it all a little bit better.”

We stood there for what felt like an eternity…the only words exchanged between us were those I heard in my own mind, recalling the tender touch and words of my own mother.  The wind whirled around us, its powerful embrace holding  us close to one another, in this moment, this experience, this memory I share with you now.

I hugged her.  She hugged me back.

The following night, the minor league baseball team hosted a Girls on the Run night at the local ball park.  I had the privilege to throw out the first pitch.

Catilin was there with her mom and her dad.   I met them both.  Her mom was in a wheelchair, quite thin, the illness had weakened her body, her ability to talk and walk, but her eyes…oh her eyes…alive, powerful, direct.

“Your daughter Becca was very open with me, today at Girls on the Run, about what’s going on at home.  I applaud you two, for raising such an empowered young woman.  Her ability to share her thoughts, fears and strengths as she did with me indicates a very strong sense of self.  She is quite a love to be reckoned with and as she grows up, I can only imagine the inspiration she will be to many others.”

Her Dad placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders.  “We’ve been very open with her.”  He paused, took a deep breath, looked Becca directly in the eyes and said,  ”Frankly, we know no other way.”

The sun was setting, long brilliant rays of its last light, pierced the black clouds of an approaching rain.  I wanted to yell, scream, shout…pound my fists at the approaching storm.  Why?  Why?  Why?

But then…I did only that which I could do.  I asked Becca if she would help me throw out the first pitch.

Sure she said.  “I’d really like that.”

We threw out the first pitch,  Becca and I.   Becca’s mom and dad watched.  My guess is this will be her mom’s last trip to the ballpark.

As I write now, I think about the literally hundreds of thousands of girls involved in Girls on the Run and the stories unfolding in each of their young lives…their willingness to share them with me.  They  sprinkle them like the petals of broken flowers along the cobblestones of my own life’s path.   What a privilege it is for me to share this journey with them.  I am so, so grateful.

I am back home again, nestled comfortably under the blanket of my own life.  Every morning I light a candle and take a few moments to stare into its flame, watch it burn, flicker, shine.  And on this morning, I lovingly hold Becca in the power of this moment.  And I ponder…wonder…wish to know  why we often stop feeling so free to share ourselves…why we stop trusting…why we hold back these beautiful opportunities to connect with our sisters.  Why we are so afraid to say, “I am hurting, I am scared, I need you to help lift me up.”

In twenty years, Girls on the Run will be woven into the lives of literally millions of adult women.  From what I can tell, the world will be a different place then.  The shift is already occurring.  Becca will be all grown up.  And perhaps somewhere tucked into the many memories she will have of her mother, will be the moment we shared on the pitcher’s mound in Bentonville, Arkansas…and if my prayers are answered on this morning, while the candle burns here in my living room in Charlotte, NC,  she will with the same vulnerability she shared with me on the windy day of her practice 5k, seek out one of her sisters and say once again, “I am hurting, I am scared.  I need you to help lift me up.”

The world I live in begins with me.  Today is as good a day as any, to begin.

I’m working on an upcoming TEDx talk and could sure use your input.  To get you thinking…let me start here…in 1996 I started Girls on the Run International.

Here’s the original “blurb” I used back then to help folks understand what the program was all about.

In 1976, I bought my first pair of running shoes. I was fifteen then and like most fifteen year old girls, trying to figure out who I was inside a changing body. I was desperately wanting to be liked by the beautiful crowd–popular with the boys. But I couldn’t fit into the box the world placed over the spark of my spirit. The box told me things I knew in my soul weren’t true: That the way I looked was more important than who I was inside. That being a woman meant keeping emotions like anger to myself. That having a boyfriend meant giving up part of my own identity. But I stepped in anyway. Hours spent trying to mold my body, my lifestyle, my life into what the box required were extremely painful.

So I ran. I’d strap on those running shoes and head for the woods, the streets, wherever my feet would take me. I felt Beautiful. Strong. Powerful. I felt a part of something greater than myself.

On July 7th, 1993, I remember it well. I put on my running shoes and ran at sunset. I’m not sure what instant of the run the box disappeared, but like a glass womb it shattered around me and pushed me out, born to an entirely new freedom. It was a moment of personal awakening.

A year later, I began work on what was to become the Girls on the Run program. The concept, however, was born long before that July run. It was born in 8th grade when a boy in my class told me with disgust that I looked like a boy. It was born when a young woman, weighing 85 pounds and starving herself, told me she need to lose weight to be beautiful. It was born when I took a pregnant thirteen-year-old on a long walk in the woods.

Girls on the Run is a lot more than a running program. It will, I believe, create an entire generation of girls who can live peacefully and happily outside of the Girl Box.

In the year 2030, I’ll be 70. My daughter will be 32. If I have anything to say about it, she will never have to climb out of the Girl Box. Girls on the Run will shatter the Girl Box, like the spirit did for me that July night and help her and other girls feel comfortable simply being themselves.

Since 1996, the program has reached nearly 400,000 girls and our numbers continue to grow.

I’ve learned a lot.  I’ve learned that the “Girl Box” or “Boy Box” shows up in many different ways for each of us.  The Girl Box messages I, “bought into” were generally focused on two things, my appearance and my “social place.”  Girls were, back in the 60′s and 70′s generally slotted into only a few professional positions.  Thankfully that has changed.

I’m working on an upcoming TEDx talk and would love to hear from you and in your words, what limiting/stereotyped messages you received growing up, either from within your own familial circles or from the larger societal/cultural/systemic context within which you lived.  These may not be related to gender.  I don’t need to know specifics unless you want to share them.

Also…when in your life did you begin to realize that these messages were not necessarily real or true or accurate?  Was there an a-ha moment or was the process more subtle?

You’ve probably figured out by now…that I LOVE connecting dots.   I’m working on a “big idea” and am just still in the trying-to-figure-it-all out phase.

You can email me privately at mollybarker1960@gmail.com or if you prefer just write out your thoughts on the comment section right here.

Alright…so I’ve been at this for sixteen years…and I’ve heard a lot.  A whole lot from kids.  Kids say whatever they want.  Of course, while this practice could lead to difficulties later in life, when you are a kid, pretty much anything you say is okay because, you are a kid.  It’s that simple.

I thought this morning I would, because its Friday and I’m just feeling so blessed to work at Girls on the Run, share a few of the funniest things I’ve heard.  I would love it if you are visiting here…you might add your own.  I know there are thousands and thousands of these, because our coaches have shared them with me over the years.

So here goes…some funny stuff for your Friday morning.

I was delivering the GOTR lesson on emotional health.  My question to the girls to kick it off:

“Can anyone here name someone in your family who you think is emotionally healthy, and why you think they are emotionally healthy.”

Quite a few of the girls had shared when one of them raised her hands.

“My mom is the most emotionally healthy person I know…especially since she started taking those pills the doctor gave her.  She and my Dad smooch and hold hands all the time now.  It’s actually kind of gross.”  (Insert big grin.) (My two cents worth here too….hooray to THIS mom for seeking medical support and being so open with her daughter about it!)

I was delivering the lesson on drugs and alcohol and my question to the girls to kick it off was, “Can anyone here name a few drugs you’ve heard about?”

Most listed those we’ve traditionally heard about in the classroom and in the news, marijuana, alcohol and some prescription drugs. Gillian raised her hand.

“Yes Gillian?  Which one would you like to mention?”

“Tabasco.”

I always give the kids the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh Tabasco…I could see how that might be harmful to your body.  I mean…too much of that probably isn’t good for your stomach and would probably burn your mouth.”

It took my daughter Helen, yes…a fourth grader…to inform me that what our good friend Gillian meant was tobacco.   Oh well…I still think Tabasco can be bad for you.

Some of the best conversations at GOTR are had, waiting for the girls’ rides to get them.  I was sitting with Meredith when she informed me that today they had a substitute teacher for her class.

“Molly, you just wouldn’t believe this woman.  She said the F word today.”

“WHAT?”  I said.  “The F word?  Did you tell someone?  That is absolutely inappropriate for the classroom. I should let someone know.”

“I know…I know!”  We were bonding, when I realized that perhaps she and I weren’t really bonding over the same word.

“Meredith…I need to be sure we are talking about the same thing.  Which word is the F Word?”

Meredith cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered to me…”You know…fart.”

Lesson 8 the girls get a chance to practice a 5k for the first time.  Zoe walked slowly to me, with her head hanging low and shared the following quite dramatically.  “Oh Molly…I simply can’t run today.  I am in a period.”

Not quite sure, what she meant.  “Zoe, you are in a period?  What exactly do you mean, honey?”

“You know, in a period of time when you feel cranky, sick and need people to help you.  I’m in a period right now…my stomach hurts and I don’t think I can run.”

I was walking a lap with one of our girls who…how shall I say it…enjoyed watching the clouds go by a bit more than she enjoyed watching the earth under her feet go by (gotta love ‘em!) when we came across a broken bag of potting soil on the edge of the track.  (Someone at this school had done a lovely job of planting flowers and other beautiful plants around the track and on the play ground.)  Without skipping a beat, Nicole pointed to the bag and said “Wow.  Someone needs to pick up that pile of shed before someone slips on it.”

I probably should have said something, but I was laughing so hard on the inside that I just didn’t have it in me.  If you still haven’t figured out why this is funny, just say what she said out loud.

This really wasn’t something a kid said, just something they did.  I was sitting in our “getting on board” circle getting ready to begin the lesson.  Every once in a while when the kids seem really jacked up, I let them run one lap and then we sit quietly for a minute, with our eyes closed, to just get ourselves “centered.”  We were all sitting “criss-cross-apple-sauce” with our hands on our knees and our eyes supposedly closed when I felt, ever so lightly, the touch of the little girl next to me.  She was delicately tracing, with her index finger, the veins on my right arm.  (Over the years, all that running and my “highly developed vascular system” have been the topic of conversation for the girls in some of the FUNNIEST ways.)  I opened my right eye and looked at her.  She whispered.  “Is your skin glued to your muscles?”

My very first time coaching…the girls decided it would be fun to give me a nickname.  They brainstormed for several minutes.   Eventually they ended up with Molly Muffet, of course taken from the popular nursery rhyme.  Unfortunately by lesson two, the whole thing had been shortened to Coach Muff and as hard as I tried to get them to keep it at Molly Muffet or actually create something entirely new, I’m afraid Coach Muff stuck for the whole season.  I just loved when I was at the grocery store and a kid would shout from across the frozen food aisle, “Hey Coach Muff, what’s up?”

Sometimes it takes the girls in our program a little while to get out of that “I have to run to be loved” mentality.  I remember one girl in particular who could be quite hard on herself.  She wasn’t physically in shape (yet but was by the end of the program) to run but just had that feeling (many of us have had it) where she needed to come up with excuses for why she couldn’t run and needed to walk instead.  (What’s funny about this…she could have walked anytime she wanted and that would have been just fine.  It was what she was telling herself on the inside that made it difficult for her to walk…not me or my assistant coach.)

She stopped after a run-walk-kind-of lap and stopped next to me.  “Miss Molly.  I simply can’t run anymore.  My eyelash hurts.”

I assured her that walking was just fine.  (The joyful end to this story is this…she ended up learning how to pace herself, worked up to being able to jog the whole 5k and in the process came to a higher level of kindness to herself.  I just love when that happens.)

So there you have it…a few of the funniest, sweetest and just down-right genuine things a kid says.  What are some of yours?  Do tell!  Let’s rock this Friday and let in the sunshine.

In honor of this particular post…I will close with one of my all time favorite people IN THE WORLD…Art Linkletter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBMOhM31EyM

When I was a kid…I was a tomboy.  Every afternoon it was kick the can, flag football and freeze tag well into the early hours of evening’s darkness.  Mom would holler her trademark  (and very Southern might I add) “WHOOOO-HOOOOO” and I would return home, hot and sweaty, for dinner.

I loved any game that involved my own two feet and rules.  Hide n’ Seek, Capture the Flag, Duck Duck Goose.  These were just so much fun!

While later on in my high school years, I got better with a ball and a stick as in field hockey and tennis, the sports I could never master were basketball and soccer.  Something about using my body as the contact point on the ball intimidated the heck out of me.  I wanted some distance from that.  I was too timid, reluctant, hesitant…three traits that make being successful at those games, virtually impossible.

When I started Girls on the Run, there were no curriculum-driven sports programs in existence, at least not that I am aware of.  Positive youth development programs existed, but at that time, none were centered around sport.  Back when I started this, many folks wondered if something like a Girls on the Court or a Girls on the Field couldn’t work also…and my guess is they could…but because I wasn’t as well-versed (nor attracted to) in sports that used a court or a field I couldn’t figure out how to make that happen.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the game of life and the rules of being human.  Through the Naked Face Project I’ve discovered that there are many rules I’ve followed blindly, just because…because everybody else followed them.  I never once questioned the need for makeup, primping, being pretty.  I just valued it, I guess, because everybody else valued it.  (Again…let me strongly reiterate…there is NOTHING WRONG with makeup, primping or wanting to be pretty…but for me I like being intentional with my actions and if I’m doing something “just because” I want to explore that a little more deeply. )  I’m beginning to see that there may be lots of rules I’ve followed without ever questioning why:  the rules of being a single mom, the rules of dating, the rules of what a divorced couple looks like, the rules of being successful, the rules of being in a relationship.

I’ve started to create a new context, court, field, track, playground for the work I do and the life I live…and it goes a little somethin’ like this:

At that volatile time of adolescence we leave the comfort of childhood and march into adulthood.  The change in expectation can be immense.  It is during this transition where we develop our concepts of worth, self, courage, success, beauty, strength and power.

At this time, we either consciously or unconsciously go marching into the human experience. Before this transition period…we unabashedly share who we are with the world.  We just are…so good at just being ourselves.  There are no “human rules.”  I mean just watch any little girl (or boy for that matter.) twirling, playing…she is truly delighted with who she is.

While taking these vulnerable first steps into  young adulthood, the spirit of WHO we are begins to analyze how to navigate this gift/journey/struggle (all of course depending on how we look at it) we call the human experience.  I know that for me ever since that time, there was this huge game of tug-o-war between the strong, empowered, self-assured girl, ME-girl with the OUT-THERE-girl who wanted so much to be liked, popular with the boys and accepted by others.

This project has opened my eyes to the fact I’ve viewed this as a struggle…an argument, if you will, between honoring the BIG ME–the empowered me, the confident and strong me…within the context of being human, navigating my daily life, holding a job, being in relationships, raising children.

It’s not easy.  We get so many conflicting messages.  So much of the conflicting messages, for me growing up a woman in the South in the 60′s and 70′s was rooted in this battle between appearance and who I really was on the inside.  In talking with others I’ve learned that that battle exists in all of us.  While that battle may not be around appearance it exists…the WHO of who we are is just trying to figure it all out…the rules of the human game.

Where I hope to land and where on occasion I see small glimpses…is a kind of gentle acceptance of it all…the struggle, the journey, the times I am confident and the times I am not.  Instead of viewing it as a struggle I’m beginning to see it for what it is…life…plain and simple.  When I quit fighting in here…inside myself, the joy comes and its much easier to honor ME in all of that cultural noise.  I am slowly marching through this human experience to literally, as the old cliche goes…find myself.

Last year I was attending a Girls on the Run event in Lancaster, PA. As I was rounding out my presentation…I picked one fabulously spunky girl from the audience and asked her to come sit on the edge of the stage with me.

She joyfully marched up to the front of the large crowd and plopped down next to me.

“So…you’ve got a huge audience of people here in front of you,” I said.  “Some of them know all about Girls on the Run and some do not.  If you could in a sentence or two, tell this group what Girls on the Run is all about, what would you say?”

She paused, looked out at the audience and then looked back to me.

Without any hestiation and in the strongest voice ever she said, “I would tell them that Girls on the Run helps you find the center of who you are…the who of who you are…the person on the inside.”

I sat speechless for a few seconds…which when you are in front of a large crowd can feel like an eternity.

“Thanks for that,” I said.  “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Molly,” she says…with the biggest grin a girl could have on her face.

We looked at each other, she and I, Molly and me.  I think the girl pretty much nailed it.

(It was ten years ago today that my mother died.  She was and

 remains the most authentic person I have ever known.)

The photo is black and white.

I’m probably 7 years old, crying with a plate of over-cooked squash in front of me.

You are holding a cigarette and a mixed drink.

Thin threads of smoke exit your mouth like long strands of cotton candy.

Your hand holds the cigarette the way movie stars did back then, between index finger and middle finger, wrist slightly cocked.

This was my life.

This was your life.

This is how it was.

I thought the stage was set.

It was 1970 when the drinks and the cigarettes exited stage left,

and you appeared.

Not long after, your hair, once as red as the box it came in was cut, the lipstick on your mouth a softer shade of red and the bloat of too much drink, exited stage right

and you appeared.

5:00 a.m.  I am just 10 years old, when the screen door slams.

And you are gone.

You return one hour later, the sweat pouring off your skin, the flush of your cheeks, the radiant face of the mother I had prayed for came home.

I will never know why you ran.

Ran  for so many years from the woman  you are.

To finally run home to yourself, to me, to us.

I just know that I am grateful.

Ten years ago your body died.

Today you live here

In my daughter’s laugh, my son’s tender ways and in the quiet of this early morning.

A gentle reminder of why I run.

Why I am.

Why it all matters.

Even as young as age 8, girls begin to label emotions as good or bad.  Unfortunately this perception can lead to their future attempts at avoiding those they consider bad.  “Bad” emotions are generally those that make us feel less comfortable…such as fear, anxiety, anger, frustration and boredom.  “Good” emotions tend to fall on the “more comfortable” side of feeling…joy, happiness, excitement, peace.

Lesson five in our Girls on the Run curriculum provides an experience for the girls to reframe the words they use to describe this emotional spectrum.  The words bad and good are virtually eliminated as descriptors for emotions and the words “comfortable” and “uncomfortable” become their replacements.

I won’t ever forget Emily.  Emily was in fourth grade when I met her.  Emily had strawberry blonde hair that cascaded in ringlets to below her shoulders.  She had the fairest of skin, pink cheeks, noticeably blonde eyelashes and a spunky little spirit that was as bouncy as her hair!

We had just completed the warm-up.  The group had decided, thanks to some fabulous insight and processing on their part, that emotions were not good or bad, but simply comfortable or uncomfortable.  Learning to deal with our uncomfortable emotions was what growing up was all about!  “I may not have it figured out yet, but as I get older, I’ll bet I get more comfortable with the emotions that, right now, feel uncomfortable to me.”

Each girl is given a bingo card with 12 different emotions typed into each of the 12 boxes.  When one of the girls completes a lap, the coach gives her an “emotion” that she then marks off the card.  The object of the workout is for each girl to run laps, learn what constitutes an emotion and in the process get as many bingos as she possibly can!

About five minutes into the workout, Emily walked up to me.

“Coach Molly.  I’m not feeling very comfortable.”

“Okay, Emily.  I hear ya, girl.  What’s up?  Are you feeling an uncomfortable emotion?”  I had naturally assumed that her use of the word uncomfortable was connected to how we had used it only moments ago, within the context of the lesson.

“Well,” she replied completely exasperated.  “I forgot my jog bra…and well… you know.”  She pointed down to what would be breasts, if she had them and nodded her head.  “Running without it, is just..kinda…actually a lotta…uncomfortable.”

It was hard for me to not chuckle.  Emily was in fourth grade.  The girl wasn’t showing any signs of puberty.  There were no buds, no curvature of hips, no signs of anything other than being the fabulous fourth grade, free-spirited, spunky, straight-waisted girl who stood before me.

I had, however, noticed earlier during the lesson, that Emily was sporting a brand new “cuppy bra.”  A cuppy bra is what many stores are now selling to girls, at an age long before they need it, to create the look of real breasts.  They come in a variety of sizes, but suffice it to say…they are soft molded shells that basically house nothing but empty space when worn!

“Oh Emily, sister.  I totally get it!  I know how that is.  I know how uncomfortable it is to run without my running bra.  So girl, I can only imagine.  You just feel free to walk today.  Okay?  No problemo!  You just walk on with your fabulicious self!”

She smiled at me.  We were bonding.  We were having a woman-to-woman, heart-to-heart conversation about womanhood, our changing bodies and all the trials and tribulations of growing up and out!

I’ll never forget watching her walk away from me on her way to her next lap.  Her step was bouncy.  Her hair was bouncy.  Her spirit was bouncy.  And unfortunately so too was her cuppy bra.  With nothing underneath to hold it in place, the darn thing kept sliding upward.  Walking was bad enough, but my guess is that running would have brought that stinkin’ bra all the way up and out of her shirt collar. Eventually the uncomfortable device would be wrapped around the top of her head with the straps tangled up in the sleeves of her tank shirt.  No wonder the girl couldn’t run!  Those molded cups would have ended up on her eyes!

The lesson continued.  Girls were laughing, giggling and running by me securing new “emotions” and filling in the squares on their bingo card.  Spring was here.  The sun was bright.  Our spirits were bubbly, our energy was high and the mood was celebratory; but poor Emily was confined to walk…strapped in by her new cuppy bra and her first try at “being grown up.”  Her step wasn’t bouncy anymore.  It seemed that even her hair was less so.

Fifteen minutes later, Emily had only done two laps.  “Come on Emily.”  The girls were asking her.  What’s up?  You normally are running like everyone else.  What’s going on?  Why won’t you run?”

I could see the novelty of the once fabulous and mysterious cuppy bra wearing off.  She had tried running again, but was SO distracted by needing to hold the stupid thing in place, that running now became an impossible feat.

“Whoohooo!  Good job girls.”  My assistant coach and I were cheering on the girls as they progressed around the track, when I noticed that Emily had disappeared.  I did a rapid-count again and yep…I was one short and it was Emily.

Directly across from me and on the far side was a utility shed…a small metal building used to store landscaping equipment.  For whatever reason, my eyes were drawn to the exterior of that building…when the door to it mysteriously flew open.  The metal door clanged loudly against the exterior wall as the door was forcefully pushed open.

And then…she…emerged.  Emily was standing there looking quite wonder-woman-esque.    Her arms by her side, her eyes and face upward toward some distant (and very dramatic) horizon.  She was still, silent, strong and weirdly  (humorously) stoic.

(Insert long dramatic pause here and some really powerful instrumental music.  Follow it by a small drum roll and continue reading.)  And then the girl, with rapid-fire motion threw her right arm up into the air, statue of liberty-like-ish and began to run.  Waving in the wind of her forward movement and bubbling up like the fire within our very own Lady Liberty’s torch, was the cuppy bra, grasped tightly in the hand of that uplifted arm.

Emily was leaping, running, twisting, turning, running backwards, forewords, sideways and everyways in between.  When Emily made it around to me, with that cuppy bra lifted high above her head, she said with a fierce determination and a no-nonsense tone of voice, “Free at last.  I am free at last.”

And I’ll be darned if she wasn’t right on! She WAS Free at last.  Free of the cuppy bra.  Free of the need to be something she really wasn’t. Free of any thought that had trickled into that innocent 8 year old brain of hers that somehow her body wasn’t okay the way it was, that it needed enhancing, embellishing, more than it was in its fabulous current state of perfection.

Yes the girl was free at last!  Free to be the goofy, wacky, spring-haired, bouncy Emily she was meant to be.  No wires, no straps, no objects were going to restrain or limit this girl.  NO WAY, NO HOW!!!!  Just try her!

She tucked that bra into her book bag, kicked into high gear and proceeded to run around that track like there was no tomorrow.

As I fondly remember this day in Emily’s life, I am reminded of many in mine.  The coming and going, the in and out, the wish for and rejection of the Girl Box’s power.  As I write to you now, I take this moment to celebrate Emily and her willingness to assume the lead role in her own life’s story.  I marvel at her ability to intentionally take risks, step out and test the waters of womanhood.  To define it as she sees it.  I honor her zeal to learn from her mistakes, missteps and miscalculations. I am grateful for Emily who reminds me of the precious, innocent and vulnerable 9 year old Molly…you know, the one who always did her very best.  The one who hit a few bumps, scraped a few knees and fell down a few times as she stumbled along the challenging path of learning the rules to playing human; the evolving Molly I am now, who tries so hard to be strong;  to stand up for herself;  to remain alive, real and herself while exploring the unchartered waters of aging, motherhood, leadership and her future.

I yearn to, as Emily (and many other well-known leaders) so succinctly put it,”be free at last.”  Free at last to be, to love and to live!  To remove the fears and facades of the restraining cultrual and societal expectations and tuck them peacefully into the book bag of my past and run, uninhibited, free and like there is no tomorrow!!!!

What messages/elements/thought processes growing up still linger (or distract you) in your life as you evolve, learn and “grow up”?