Wednesday I had the privilege of meeting with Representative Tim Ryan. He is the Congressional Member representing Youngstown, Ohio.

I’ve hinted a bit…at a new project I’m creating…supported by a team of live-out-loud leaders and I’m happy to report that Representative Ryan now joins Tom Cotton on the project. I’m hoping to secure a couple of congressional members from my good ole’ home state of North Carolina in the next couple of weeks…trying to make some in-roads there!

I then flew off to Batesville, Indiana via Indianapolis. I must say that this trip in particular carried with it, both the inspiration and the relaxation I yearn for at times. The inspiration obviously from the rock star directors of the GOTR council there, Trish Hunter and Lynn Hertel and all the AMAZING GOTR coaches and girls! Lynn put together a very moving “Evening of Gratitude” on Thursday evening.

The next morning I was lucky enough to have breakfast with about fifteen of the GOTR Board Members and some of our Girls on the Run Solemates. (Solemates are runners who sign up for any race they wish and use the opportunity to raise money for Girls on the Run.)

A bit later in the morning I had coffee with Tim Putnam, CEO of the Mary Margaret Healthcare System…the affiliate supporter of our Girls on the Run program in the region. Without the support and energy of folks like Tim, Girls on the Run wouldn’t exist in these more rural areas, like Batesville. That afternoon, Lynn pulled off another event by planning some “real time” for me and 25 girls…one girl representing each GOTR site.

Trish Hunter, on the left, is the Executive Director of Girls on the Run in Batesville, and Lynn Hertel, on the right is the program director.

This morning, she then, with an amazing team, pulled off putting on the Girls on the Run 5k. Lynn is perhaps one of the most organized folks I’ve had the pleasure to know. So organized in fact, that the night before the 5k event, she was able to enjoy a relaxed meal with me and Trish and then attend a local high school production of Mulan.

I’m so glad the name Molly is making a comeback. I met several at the event today and here was one of my fantastic “Molly-Friends.”

Where the relaxation came in though…was the beautiful bed and breakfast I stayed in…while I was there. The owner of Mary Helen’s Bed and Breakfast, Cindy, is perhaps one of the most peaceful spirits on the planet. In between events, I was truly able to enjoy her home and the beautiful land, pond and big shady trees that surrounded it.

Arriving home tonight…was and always is a pleasure though. My daughter and I grabbed a bite at Panera and then sat for a good thirty minutes in our car with the seats back…in our driveway…being silly, talking and enjoying the hard rain of a thunderstorm on the roof over our heads.

I tuck in tonight, feeling the exhaustion of a full day and the joy of my work, my kids and the rain that falls gently outside my window. There are times such as this…when I can’t believe that I get to do what I do for a living.

Well…if I’m really honest with you…the last month has been a really tough one. I’m not going to launch into details, but let’s just say…I’ve relied heavily on my yoga, my running and my friends.

I’ve also needed…as in really needed…my quiet time. I’ve been waking up every morning earlier and earlier…fumbled through making coffee and stumbled out to my front porch, sometimes dragging an old down sleeping bag with me. The bird’s first welcome to the day starts around 5:37 a.m. and builds in volume until I wander back inside around 6:30.

I’m becoming increasingly aware, thanks to a number of revelations over the last month, how powerful it is to choose joy, love and hope. I’ve always talked a good game when it came to living in this space, but to be honest, the last REAL challenge I’ve had to that space was nearly 20 years ago. It’s one thing to be joyful, loving and hopeful when everything is peachy, but when the going gets tough…choosing joy, love and hope becomes a true practice in patience, faith and a kind of blind belief that the universe is truly conspiring in our favor, whether we are able, at the time, to see it or not.

I’m working on a new project that is building in momentum and is sure to create a shift in our cultural and societal perceptions around leadership. Funny…I feel like something rather amazing is brewing. Inflection points usually reveal themselves in hindsight…but in this case…thanks to all this angst, challenge, reflection and needed quiet time, I am physically, emotionally and joyfully prepared for life’s work ahead of me.

So on your mark, getting ready, set…here we go.

There has been a lot of talk about women’s leadership in the media these days.  I’m beginning to see, that for me…the movement in leadership is less about gender and more about the masculine and feminine.

I really do believe we are working toward a more balanced approach…a kind of united perspective that entwines the power of standing up for ourselves, strategy and focus…with  compassion, love and empathy.

I wrote yesterday to a friend of mine that I’m feeling a sense of joy and terror as this video begins to float out in the universe…a real opening of my heart for the whole world to see.  There is something quite liberating about that, I guess, but also a bit frightening at the same time.

I do know that this is all the prelude to future work…a kind of nudge or calling for where my life is taking me.

We will see.  In the meantime, share any feedback with me.

Molly

Yesterday I gave a TEDx talk and it is my first attempt to explore how we might shift the leader-perspective…to also include love, compassion and empathy.  I guess to be totally honest with you, I’ve never understood why love, compassion and tenderness aren’t part of the dialogue.  So here goes.  (The video of my TEDx talk should be up in a few days.  Until then, here’s the letter in writing.)

There will continue to be more on this subject from me.  I’m feeling a nudge to encourage more open dialogue on the topic…and I’m not one to ignore a powerful nudge.  :)

Peace.

Dear Congress:

I’ve been wanting to write you for awhile.

I need to come clean with you.  I haven’t liked the way you seem to communicate with each other.   There appears to be a lot of name-calling, bullying and downright mean-spiritedness. If we can’t respect each other within our own house, how can we possibly work together to find the solutions our country needs so desperately right now.

But the truth is, I don’t know you.  I’m a busy woman.  I work full time, am the single mother to two teenagers…I, like so many Americans, don’t have the time or resources to really know you and so I, gather a lot of what I do know about you from the media.  Interestingly, as the founder of a non-profit that works with young girls, I see the devastating effects the media has on our young women…the distorted images and manipulative advertising strategies are designed to uglify us into buying their products.

So it’s no wonder that my impressions of you are less than favorable. Ugly behavior sells too…it’s all we see in the media. We all love a good train wreck.  More hits, more ads, more ads, more money. I honestly don’t know what is “truth” anymore.  One network on this side claims that you said this and the other network on the other side claims that you said that…add in the pundits, the political satirists and the “experts”  in our newspapers and on the internet…it has become virtually impossible to know, understand, really see and hear each other.

I’m so tired of all of it.  I’m close to becoming apathetic and this is not good for me, my children, any of us.  The complaining, MY complaining…God it never stops. It isn’t doing any good anyway and the truth is, the complaining isn’t really because I’m mad at you…it’s because I feel so frustrated, so helpless…so unheard amongst all this yelling.  Everything seems so broken and unfixable. We are all so separated, distant and far apart.   Where to start…how do we possibly begin to tackle such a complex and overwhelming issue.

Like I said…we don’t know each other…so if you will allow me, let me start by introducing myself.

My name is Molly Barker. I am the single mother to two teenagers.  I love them with all of my heart.

I used to compete in the sport of triathlon.  I did the Ironman in Hawaii a few times.  I don’t compete anymore, but still enjoy running.  I have three dogs, am petrified of heights and am a terrible cook.  My yard isn’t very well maintained and my house is very small, but it is warm and welcoming.

I grew up in Charlotte, NC.  I was the fourth of four, nine years younger than the one before me.  My mom was an alcoholic and my dad was a politician.  It was not until I was in fourth grade and my mother had her breakdown, that I am able to remember much of my childhood.  That was May of 1970.  I’m happy to say that my mom stopped drinking and from that day forward, our relationship flourished, the laughter returned to our house.

A year later, my parents enrolled me in a new school.  This coupled with the typical adolescent angst and the deeply rooted shame I had come to know, made me a prime candidate for going to extreme measures to fit in.

I felt invisible, alone and ill-equipped to handle the new environment…and so I stepped into the Girl Box…that space many girls go around adolescence…where my appearance became more important than who I was…where dumbing myself down and having a boyfriend took priority over most else…where vulnerability, fear and the sharing of those were seen as weak, where no matter how hard I tried, I would never ever be sexy enough, woman enough, good enough.

So in 1975, when I was in tenth grade, that first sip of liquor at a friend’s house had a profound affect on me.

…the noise, the voice of self-doubt, the shame and loneliness all went away.

About the same time I began to drink, my mom started running.  One morning, when I was 14 and she was 52, she invited me to join her on one of her early morning runs. I ran one block with her–about a mile. We didn’t say a word. Our steps in unison, our breath in and out—mantra like–the crisp edge to approaching autumn filling our lungs. I had never experienced anything quite like it…the quiet, the fellowship, the connection, the acceptance, the power.

The one-mile block grew into two blocks and then three. Eventually we were  running eight, nine and ten miles, usually first thing in the morning….and despite the chaos of my outer life, the  ever-growing despair alcoholism would bring and the depression that went along with that, when I ran I felt connected, loved strong, powerful and real.

For 18 years, the battle was hard-fought…between the strong empowered me I found on those early morning runs and the confused a lost woman, struggling to be something she was not.

The alcohol won.  On July 6^th, 1993, I hit bottom.  I was 32 years old.  I wanted to die.  I called my big sister Emily, “I need help.” Emily talked to me, urged me to go to sleep.  “This too shall pass, Molly.  This too shall pass.”

The following evening, a thunderstorm was rumbling, the air was electric with it.  I decided, despite the potentially dangerous weather to go for a run.  Coming down the last stretch of road, the thunder rumbling, the lightening overhead, the earth’s tender reach to my feet and the gentle urging to run faster and faster, my breath in and out, like sound of ocean, wind of soul… Something real, raw and indescribable was happening. I moved into what I can only describe as the space of nothingness.  NO-thing-ness.  I wasn’t a woman, a runner, an alcoholic, a divorced person, a struggling person, a poor person, a word or label…I was no-thing.., brilliant, beautiful and free of the Girl Box.

Three years later, I started a program called Girls on the Run.  The program helps girls take charge of their lives and define the future on their terms.  It provides a safe space where girls and the people who love them see, sometimes for the first time, that they can choose to create a life where there are No limits. No constraints. No labels. Only opportunities to reveal their greatness.

The program started with 13 girls in Charlotte, NC in 1996 and has now impacted over 600,000 in 210 cities across North America.

The success of the program is the result of so many dedicated, passionate and loving people.  Thanks to their continuing efforts and intense level of commitment, Girls on the Run is a living, breathing, organism, now able to survive with very little day to day input by me.

I’m at an age where a piece of me wants to slow down, relax, kick back and settle in…but I gotta tell ya, that something about all this unsettled frustration, anger and near apathy regarding our current state of this great nation, won’t let me go… there is a new voice growing in volume, nudging, pushing, encouraging me to speak up…to address the anger, polarization and separation in these United States, hence this letter.

Where this new voice was first brought to my attention was at a speaking engagement.  Bruce Fritch who is now my “vision coach” approached me after my presentation.  “You are a leader.”

We talked for only a few minutes.  The space he created though was infinite.

On the drive home, I could think of little else.

Me a leader?  Hell no, I’m not a leader. I’m a lover, a social worker, a runner, a mom.  I am not a leader…I am an educator, a curriculum specialist…an inspirer maybe, but not a leader.  Leaders don’t look like me.  Leaders wear suits, have MBA’s or Law degrees and understand and speak the language of leaders.  They are not what I am…I speak the language of love, connection, children.  I am scarred, imperfect and still wounded in some ways, trying very hard to be and become the strength and power I see everyday in my children, the children I serve and the amazing men and women who believe in our work.

Leader?  Me?  No way. Leaders are…well…whatever they are…I am not capable of that…I am not good enough.

And so, without the thunder, the lightening and the immediate shift in perception, I’ve more slowly come to realize that I had done it again.  Gone into a box, but this time it was the “leader box.”   I had, as anyone would and so many of us do, been manipulated into a limited view of what leadership is and I certainly wasn’t cut out for it.  I have a past.  I have a story. I get scared sometimes.  I am imperfect.

I am also 52 years old.  I have one dance in me left.  One last chance to lay witness to the brilliance that rests in you and me, our children, this life…our world.  I know what I know and can no longer pretend that I am not a leader because I am.

I am a leader.

So…here I stand…giving voice to her, this leader, the one writing you…that if she..heck if I…if I could, I would invite you for coffee. I would look you in the eyes, clear the hard embittered table that separates us…and invite you, without ridicule or judgment to talk about the things that really matter…like being wounded, about not feeling good enough or brave enough or loved enough.  Talk about the brokenness of our current leadership models, the intense competition, bullying and name-calling and how this no longer serves us.  We would share how we don’t know each other anymore…and instead label, judge and hide behind the fear of losing, being seen as weak. We would talk about our kids, our health and our marriages or lack of them.  We would talk about…how as leaders, we often feel trapped, afraid to say these things, afraid to be vulnerable, afraid to connect with each other…afraid to claim and live fully into our biggest and boldest selves…because we may lose our office, position, ranking, funding…be raked over the coals in the media…be bullied, shamed or ridiculed for simply being ourselves.

And as I write to you, the self-doubt begins…I am challenged by the old stories, the old guard and the voice from the “leader box.”  “Won’t fix anything, Molly, the old voice says with near disgust.  How ridiculous to suggest that something as simple as heart-full dialogue over coffee could change anything.

I understand…I understand because I’ve been there…how much easier has it been for me to blame others, to wait for something to happen, to suggest that what has torn us apart is our broken political system, the media, the fear of terrorism, political posturing, loss of our traditional and valued institutions, money, power, ideologues, pundits, the other party. The “blame” list is long.

But this voice of the new leadership, the one you and I will share over coffee knows that …it is in the smallest of moments, where the tearing begins…this human condition…our tug o war between love and fear.  The young girl who, decides in a split second, to step away from her computer screen to call and comfort the girl they are cyber bullying.  The young wife, who in an instant, decides it is time…turns, cries and says a prayer of hope and love for her abuser as she leaves him.  The father, who in one small revelation, decides to put aside his need to be right and calls his estranged son to tell him, I’m sorry. I’d like to listen, really listen, this time. “

We know, because we are human, that it is in those precious and private moments… when we can choose to complain, judge and blame or choose to take action… dig deep, do what is right and what is good and what is love…those moments are when the leader in all of us lives.

Interestingly, it as this point in this letter, where numerous people I respect immensely, made a variety of recommendations. “Your ending is weak…Challenge them, Molly.  Confront them.  It’s time to stop letting them off the hook.  We need change and we need it now. Hit ‘em where it counts.”

So…I tried on that ending…for a little while anyway when it hit ME…that’s the predictable ending…the one we all want…where I really give it to ya…knock it outta the ballpark…tell you what I really mean… and ironically the one that would make this speech go viral on the internet and in the media…but that’s not changing anything…that’s just doing more of what got us here.  Besides that’s not me, that’s not how this leader lives.  The spirit which grew Girls on the Run from 13 girls to a movement influencing literally hundreds of thousands of people across North America..this spirit didn’t  force, confront, shame or challenge people to move from a place of weakness to strength.  No, this spirit was and still is an invitation for those who are willing and ready, to reveal and unleash what is already there, the love, compassion, strength and brilliance that is within each of us.

And so. . . my honorable friends in Congress… I invite you to join me in bravely breaking free of our culture’s confining, defining and limiting “leader box” and accept my invitation to, in the small quiet spaces, over coffee, on a run or like the one I am sharing with you right now, in that sliver of a second when we can choose the words, the thoughts and the actions, I invite you to consider choosing love, compassion and the willingness to listen, to really see and honor each other and ourselves…to be what lies within, strong, brilliant and wonderfully human.

The coffee’s on me. I’m ready to listen.

Sincerely,

Molly Wilmer Barker

In honor of her I am re-posting that story.  The world needs to know that women like Leigh live here…touch us…change us…show us what is good, right and real.  Leigh, I will miss you.  My prayers go to your family, your children, those you coach and your community.  We are all better for having known you.  My heart breaks today, but is stronger becaue of you.

I Am Woman

I am a woman, I am a runner. Much of my experience being a woman has overlapped with the power I get from being a runner. When I run I feel beautiful, powerful, and real. The pieces of myself that I share throughout the day are all assimilated back into one beautiful tapestry . . . one amazing piece of reality . . . one experience that is mine and mine alone. The physicality of it provides me with a powerful reminder that my body is capable, strong, powerful, and MINE. Every time I run, I make a statement to the world, “I own my action, my body, my thoughts, and my experiences. I am not an object to be sexualized, diminished, or dominated. I am real. I am human. I am spirit manifest within this strong, healthy, and beautiful physical body. Honor that which rests within me.”

And this is where Leigh’s story hits me.

Leigh is a new Girls on the Run council director. I had the privilege of meeting her at one of our recent Girls on the Run trainings in Charlotte, NC.

Over the course of two days, women from across the nation descend on Charlotte for a two-day, very intense Girls on the Run training. Participants take back tangible tools and systems to efficiently deliver the Girls on the Run program. What remains with me are their stories. Frequently wrapped into and around a woman’s story are her struggles in battling our culture’s obsession with bodies, sexuality, and power.

I’ve got to be honest with you, when I met Leigh I was intimidated by her. Her physical strength is obvious. She is one of the strongest-looking females I’ve ever met. Her energy, though, was a bit reserved. She was probably intimidated by my extroversion and wide-open persona. We had a kind of mutual intimidation society, if you will: me of her physical presence and she, of my emotional one.

After a day together, Leigh e-mailed me her story.

As a little girl, Leigh was tough. In her words, “I was the athletic girl in my grade and this made me popular with the boys. I knew that they respected my athletic ability and my power and I really liked that. I didn’t feel pretty, but I guess I probably thought I was cute in a way. I didn’t see myself as a tomboy but I did relate well to boys and worked very hard to prove to them that even though I was a girl, I could still do most of what they could do.”

But something happened around middle school. Like many girls, Leigh stepped into the Girl Box, a place girls often go around sixth grade with heartbreaking results. At this vulnerable age, the formerly vibrant and strong Leigh began to morph into a girl overly occupied by her appearance. First it showed up as restricting her food intake, then it appeared as overindulgence. There seemed to be no end to the madness, yet running was the one safe space in the day where Leigh felt some degree of control. She won championship races in ninth and tenth grade and got third her senior year in the Kansas State Championships.

Appalachian State came knocking at her door. The move to Boone brought with it an opportunity to buckle down, focus on her love for running, and get on track with her eating. With a renewed sense of self and a desire for comfort in her skin, Leigh appeared on the ASU campus.

But changing locations didn’t prove to be the remedy she had hoped. With her continued obsession with weight, Leigh was sidelined by stress fractures and distracted by her roller-coaster relationship with the scales. Her first year at ASU certainly didn’t shake out to be what she had hoped.

And then IT happened.

September 29, 1989, Leigh set out on an early evening run. Planning to be back by 6:30, she and her boyfriend (now husband) would then go out for a nice dinner together.

A light rain began to fall when the car slowly approached. A very scary man sat at the wheel. “Get in,” he demanded, pointing to the passenger seat with his gun. Not knowing what to do, Leigh agreed.

What occurred over the next several hours is unthinkable. He drove Leigh to a remote area outside of Boone. With a frightening and disturbing sense of calm and coolness, he raped her while psychologically tormenting her with threats of death. At first, before the numbness set in, all she could think about was how loved she was. “My mother will miss me when I die,” she thought. A strange sense of gratitude seemed to float down upon her shoulders, as the violence raged around her . . . an overwhelming and gentle gratitude for her body, her friends, her family, and her life.

Hour after hour, the torment continued. Somewhere over the course of that time frame, Daniel Lee shared with her that he had murdered another girl, Jeni Gray. He calmly described her slow, cruel, and painful death and threatened to do the same to Leigh.

Leigh managed to escape from Daniel Lee hours later at a gas station. At the trial, as Leigh testified, she intentionally stared her tormenter in the eyes, her proof to him and herself that she wasn’t weaker because of this experience but was much stronger. Daniel Lee received the death penalty for murdering Jeni Gray. He died in prison, several years later, from a brain aneurysm.

After the kidnapping, Leigh was stronger, indeed. She went on to become a 2-time Southern Conference All-Conference performer in cross-country. In track she was named the Southern Conference Most Outstanding Performer. Upon graduation, she continued to train on her own and compete. She won several state and regional races and ran her 5K PR of 16:56. She teaches and coaches at the high school level, leading many athletes to victory in the state championships. Now, Leigh is prepared to engage third, fourth, and fifth graders in the Girls on the Run program.

She is married with two children, wanting first and foremost to be remembered as a remarkable mother, not an elite runner. She is loved, respected, and embraced by her family, her community and at last, herself.

I share this with you because it’s important that our culture honors women like Leigh-that we eliminate our antiquated ideals of beauty and recreate them to include the stories of women who are strong, brave, and authentic. As I read the story that she so openly shared with me, I wept, my head in my hands and my heart in my throat, wondering how I could possibly honor someone as brave, courageous, and bold as she. And as I write to you, I recognize that no words could ever do justice to the pain of her experience, nor the power she has gained from it. But what I can offer comes from Leigh herself.

“I don’t know . . . I guess I just love to inspire people. I love to see that light go on when someone realizes that being strong is one of the greatest feelings in the world . . . and to know that running makes you just as strong mentally as it does physically! To know that no matter what life’s circumstances are and no matter how hard the world may seem to be trying to hold you back, that our own personal strength and belief in ourselves is something that no one can take away without our permission. I believe this more than I believe anything and am committed to helping others believe it too.”

Leigh is, without a doubt, strength, beauty, and woman personified.

# # #

Molly Barker, M.S.W., is the Founder and Vision Keeper of Girls on the Run International and the author of “Girls Lit from Within: A Guide to Life Outside of the Girl Box.” Learn more about Girls on the Run at http://www.girlsontherun.org.

I also ALWAYS receive permission from folks to share their story when appropriate and necessary.)

I got the letter from Mary and called her right away…I wanted to hear it directly from her… to honor her…Her story, her life, her heart that lay open there on the page, wounded and beautifully scarred.  I am humbled by the courage the healing, the strength, the power of her resurrection.

Ten years ago, Mary began coaching Girls on the Run. Mary was 34 years old in 2002.  The mother to a 9 year old girl, Mary was seeking, or at least she thought was seeking, an experience to share with her little girl Chloe.

Chloe was experiencing what her psychologist called “separation anxiety.”  Chloe was beginning to have stomach aches…too many for a seemingly robust third grader.  “The stomach aches, kept her home with me, too many days absent from school and so I thought that maybe through Girls on the Run, she might begin to feel stronger, braver, more comfortable with her peers.”

It was about 2/3 of the way through the program when the memories began to make their way into Mary’s conscious state.  They were in the middle of the lesson on standing up for themselves, when they came, floating first through her brain and then into her throat.  The girls were finishing up the lesson called “standing up for yourself.” Every girl had received a series of sentence fragments, that when put together would create a healthy and assertive way for a girl to stand up for herself.   The girls were seated in a circle, when the talking stick came ‘round to Chloe, Mary’s 9 year old daughter.

Mary writes, “It was like I was watching my 9 year old self…but in slow motion, Chloe took the talking stick, laid it on the ground before her and then with a voice I had not yet heard from my little girl she spoke, “I feel hurt when you call me names, because I don’t deserve that.  I need for you to please stop.”

Mary thought she was going to faint.  It was like her brain was suddenly flooded with too much oxygen, too much wind, dust and grit.  She couldn’t manage it…the memories of the abuse began…right there…on the playground of her elementary school…where her own daughter Chloe now played everyday…the memories of her father’s sexual and verbal abuse, his hands, his touch, his words reaching into parts of her, ripping her apart at the seams…words and advances that were painfully inappropriate, damaging and invasive.  The name-calling,  twisting and turning of it all…blaming her…she eventually shut it all away.

Mary rounded out the season with Chloe.  But not to return…at least not for a while,

She realized she had too much healing work to do.  “I couldn’t possibly  give my full self to these girls, until I found all of me”, she writes.

Slowly, with the help of the same psychologist who was working with Chloe, Mary began to find the pieces of her brokenness, along the path of her past.

Like…The part of her she gave away at age 15… that young, beautiful and innocent part that longed to know real love…that open, vulnerable and naive part that made love to the boy she thought might save her from her own self-loathing.

The part of her that lay upon the blade of the kitchen knife…wishing with each chipping and cutting away, silver to skin, to feel something… anything…uncover the life…SOME life…beneath this flesh and bones.

The parts of her lost, during college, with too much running, exercise, starving away huge pieces of her body, wanting to somehow disappear, fade into the background.

The parts of her lost in her marriage…the cycle just repeating itself, over and over…the never-ending verbal and physical abuse, her taking it, there at the dining room table…the meal awaits, his coming in and Chloe running to her bedroom, hands over her ears, crying.

In the spring of 2012, Mary was ready to coach again.  Chloe was now a freshman in college.  The two of them had moved out years before and gotten their own place.  Mary reached out again to Girls on the Run. But this time, she shares,  “I was whole.”  All the shattered little pieces of her were now stitched and glued together by the thread and mortar of all she had learned over the last 10 years…stitched and glued together by her courage, her power, her willingness to expose her fear, her vulnerability…to take it all back…all the broken pieces of her self to become one.

I certainly would have thought the story was done and wonderful and beautiful right here…but I must admit, what follows pulls all those tiny pieces, together…so beautifully.

Mary shares, “we were delivering the lesson on gratitude. The girls were running and for every lap completed, they had to fill in a word that began with each letter in the word gratitude…One of my girls stood up to share her words and when she got down to the d in gratitude, she had written “Dad.”

I took in a deep breath and realized that just like her, I was grateful, too, for my Dad.  It no longer served me to harbor anger toward him.  I am who I am today because of all of it…every little broken and beautiful part.”

There are times, in my own life, when I wonder, if any of this matters…the work seems to be never-ending…all the broken lives…little girls, both here in our United States and those across the big waters…little girls losing themselves to traditions, beliefs, systems, religions that literally take away parts of their beautiful girl-bodies…all this longing to be put back together…even in my own life sometimes…when will it all come together?

But I need not wonder for too long…

Chloe is in college and on most mornings…her mother, Mary, lifts high her hands to the sunrise after her morning run and rejoices…both for her once little girl, Chloe and  the one she has now rediscovered inside her own body,  her own heart, her own spirit..through the love that is manifest…the love that is Girls on the Run.

This blogpost goes out to all the amazing women and men who give their time, their hearts and their souls to create Girls on the Run.  At this holiday season, I am overwhelmingly grateful for the gift of you.  I can’t thank you enough…I believe we are creating a true shift…we are bringing compassion, tenderness and the power of the feminine to a world which desperately needs it.

Gratitude abounds.

Sure… I plan to, once again, provide all the typical stocking items, fun girl stuff, clothing, books and the annual new journal (she is a writer), but I’m going to do something a little different this year.  I’m going to Finish Strong by going a bit off the beaten path and give her a homemade “Power-Girl” coupon book.   Remember when you were a kid and you made coupon books for your parents… the likes of which included coupons to “clean my room,” “walk the dog,” and “do the dishes?”  This is similar to that, but with a slightly different “Power-Girl” twist.

My guess is, she won’t appreciate the coupon book, until she is older, but the conversation that is sure to emerge as a result of it will plant seeds that I believe will last a lifetime.

The coupon book will be composed of 12 “intentions,” actions I promise to make on a monthly basis throughout 2013.  At the beginning of each month she can pull a coupon, hand it to me, and I will pledge to follow through on that promise for the entire month.  She can pull the coupons in whatever order she wishes.  I will invite her to participate with me, but won’t expect it.  This is MY gift to her.

I invite you to join me.  If a 12 month commitment is too large, consider 12 weeks or even 12 days! If you don’t have a daughter, give the coupon book to a friend. I can’t think of anything more beautiful to give than a series of intentions which honor the feminine divine!

So here goes…

POWER-GIRL COUPON BOOK

Month 1:  I pledge to not link to or pull anything up on the internet which includes negative talk about a female.  This includes “fat talk,” gossip, glamorized girl drama, cat fights or other portrayals of girls and women that demean or objectify them (us).

Month 2:  I pledge to go one full month without using make-up.  We are all beautiful just the way we are…really.

Month 3:  I pledge to speak positively, as best I can, of all girls and women.  I will go OUT OF MY WAY to seek and speak the good that rests within the spirit of others.  I will, when drawn to a negative remark by others, speak a positive in response.

Month 4:  I pledge to be a vigilante about the products I purchase.  I will explore, before purchasing, what advertising strategies are used and make decisions about what I purchase based on whether the advertising tactics used by the company placed women in a positive light or instead portrayed them as less than, broken or not good enough.

Month 5:  I pledge to send one gratitude email or text per day to a girl or woman who has positively influenced me.

Month 6:  I pledge to stop all negative self-talk.  I will NOT bring to voice any commentary that would diminish who I am, how I look or what I bring to the world.

Month 7:  I pledge to greet all I meet with something other than a commentary on their appearance.  Rather than a “Wow, you look great” or “That dress makes you looks so pretty” I’m going to open with something more enriching:  “Wow, you seem so happy.  What’s going on in your life?” or “Tell me something about you I don’t know.”

Month 8:  I pledge to not read, purchase or even glance at the celebrity magazines, websites, and gossip columns.  I will instead spend 30 minutes per day reading a book, either fiction or non-fiction, that feeds my intellectualism and ignites my soul.

Month 9:  I pledge to consciously walk tall.  This means I will be very aware of how I show up!   I will joyfully push my shoulders back, open my heart and walk with strength and dignity.  There is nothing about me that should be contained, withheld from the world, or closed away.  I am beautiful, powerful and strong enough and I am going to, with intention, move into this truth.

Month 10:  I pledge to keep a gratitude list.  I will post a long piece of paper on the fridge or in some prominent place in my home and at the conclusion of every day, write down one thing, person, or trait for which I am grateful.

Month 11:  I pledge to take quiet time for myself every day of the month.  This means I will give myself permission to make space for 30 minutes of downtime.  This could show up as running, meditation, a walk, a long bath, yoga, trip to the gym…whatever will allow me to breath, be present and provide for me the peace of mind and the courage to be the best mom/woman I can be.

Month 12:  I pledge to dance at least once per day. Dancing is, as far as I’m concerned, the union of three of life’s greatest gifts:  acceptance, joy and enthusiasm.  I promise to dance unabashedly and as if no one is watching.

Come on now!  Let’s get this party started.  Who knows?  Maybe this will joyfully incite not a revolution, but a “SHEvolution.”

I remember several years ago…I was going out on a date.  My kids were at their dad’s house for the weekend and so I did my best to dress date-esque.  Typical attire for me usually means jeans and a t-shirt, but for some reason, on this particular date, I made the decision to sassify myself more than usual…a lower-cut  than I would normally wear shirt, pair of jeans, heels, “fixed” hair and accessories my fashionista daughter would be incredibly proud of.

My date arrived.  We chat and decide upon a fabulously upscale and trendy restaurant.  We arrive, we go in and lo and behold if there aren’t four Girls on the Run families off in a corner of the restaurant.

“Hi Molly!”  One mom shouts.  “Come over here, I’d like you to meet my daughter.”

I walk over and we chat for a minute…but I am not there at all…not really.  I’m freakin’ out about what I’m wearing, how that will come across and what message I may be sending to this girl and her family.  I nearly forget my date’s name and eventually fumble over to a very disjointed introduction.

As we walk away, I immediately turn to my date and state in a voice that says I really mean this, “We have to go”.  I just couldn’t be wearing my uber-sassified date-self in such close proximity to the parents and children of our Girls on the Run program.

I read this and I admit…I sound totally paranoid.  “Come on Molly.  Give yourself a break, will ya?  I mean it is important to model a healthy work/life balance…all that stuff we read about in magazines that says women can have it all and  be it all;”  but the truth is there still rests, at times more strongly than at others, within me this conflict between my mother-self and my sassy-woman-self;  my hard-line-old-school feminist self with this newer more be-yourself-whatever-feels-right-to-you-feminist self.  Many of you walked through the “Naked Face Journey” with me several months ago and these issues were discussed, among literally thousands of women, in a very open and sometimes painfully revealing manner.

I say all this because lately there has been a great deal of discussion around Katy Perry’s new movie.  It is a huge hit in movie theaters with “tweenage” girls attending….in droves.  Dressed in candy-fied outfits and pink hair streaks, they arrive prepared to be inspired by the baring it all  lollipop girl herself.  The movie isn’t all sparkles and frosty cakes.  It inspires.  It tells her truth.  And those are values I have to honor and do honor everyday both within myself and all of the amazing women and men associated with the work that I do.

And so if I tell my truth to you now, I admit that, it can still, at times,  be pretty confusing trying to determine where my sexual identity plays out in my life.  I know I’m not alone in that confusion.  I hear it a lot…from my colleagues, my running buddies and the moms involved in our program.  From the early days of girlhood right on up into our 50’s and 60’s and 70’s, the mixed messages exist   There are days I think I’ve landed into a totally healthy space and then there are other days, I simply have no idea of what healthy is or looks like…especially when it comes to parenting, not only my children, but my younger self who was never allowed to participate in any kind of open, nonjudgmental and honest dialogue on the topic.

But I do know this…that by opening up and being boldly honest about our culture’s confusion and mixed messages on the topic, as well as our own, we are freeing up space for our girls to discuss the topic without fear, shame or ridicule.  Instead of harshly judging the Katy Perrys, Britney Spears and Taylor Momsens, we instead choose to ask the hard questions as to why they, along with many girls and women, are trying so hard to figure out how much or how little sexuality plays into our woman-life experience.

I don’t know.  I do know that figuring it all out is part of the journey…

(Your comments on the topic are totally welcome…as a matter of fact encouraged.)

Thank you so much.  Dr. Fleming…what an inspired and authentic leader you are.  To the Board of Trustees and faculty…thank you for the work you do to empower women and for this distinguished honor.  And to you…the Women of Converse…what an honor it is for me to share your final moments as a Converse College student, with you.

I look out across this space and see your bright smiles, eyes…futures.  I look out across this space and see the joy, the wonder…the love of those here with you.

I am reminded of my own daughter.  Helen.  She is 13 years old, highly spirited, sometimes a bit dramatic but always beautifully and unabashedly herself.  I remember several years ago, one morning I was getting ready for work.

Now, let me be clear.  I’m not a high maintenance woman.  But one day while getting ready for work, I heard this loud stomping noise coming down the hall.  I peer around the corner and here comes the “goddess” Helen…all four years of her majesty…was marching down that hall, decked out, might I add!  A pair of sunglasses was perched delicately atop her head.  A bright colored boa was draped comfortably around her neck.  A purse was perfectly positioned to match a “to die for” pantsuit.  And those shoes!  Walmart brand high heels…plastic with the beautiful jewels glued on!

I watched as she positioned herself in front of the mirror.

Several adjustements to the hair and glasses, she paused and then said with a breathy kind of Marilyn Monroe voice, “I just love myself.”

Well now as fate would have it I was in one of those times in my life when loving myself had been hard to come by.  We’ve all been there…hours, days, sometimes weeks of self-doubt…feeling a bit less than…certainly not the goddess like figure who stood before me in all her four year old glory.  Wanting to learn from the master of loving herself, I asked, “So, wondrous one…what do you love about yourself?”

Helen stood before that mirror, turned slightly to her right so to get a full glimpse of her profile.

A few more adjustments to her hair.  “I love my eyes,” the breathy voice continued.

A few more looks…as if seeing herself for the first time.  “I love my mouth.”

A shift of the purse and now a shift to her left to get a view of THAT side….and then words not said from any woman of this century…at least not that I have heard.  “I love my belly,”  as she gently gave it a pat.

I grinned…delighted with her love of self…but as if that wasn’t enough, she looked to me and with a smile as big as California, stated exuberantly, “And on yeah Mom.  I love my heart too!”

It’s no wonder the girl gets “IT”.  In 1996, two years before she was born, I started Girls on the Run… to provide an experience for girls to untangle from the “Girl Box,” the imaginary place many girls go around adolescence, where cultural and societal stereotypes limit choices as well as opportunities. The program began in Charlotte, NC in 1996 with 13 girls.  In 2012, we anticipate reaching 130,000 girls across North America

The impact is now far and wide and with it comes the privilege to serve as founder and vision keeper, to work hand in hand with over 37,000 volunteers.  I’ve spoken to thousands and thousands of girls and women over the years.

And tucked in between the words of every single one of those conversations rests the story of every woman…this ebb and flow, the coming and going, the struggle, that Helen at age 4, had not yet experienced but certainly does now as a middle schooler, between the IN-HERE girl with the OUT-THERE girl.

The battle begins in adolescence.  In 6^th grade my good friend Frances got breasts and I didn’t.  Suddenly the attention I had received the summer before, for my vibrant personality and great sense of humor disappeared.  I didn’t understand. Frances was getting lots of attention and like every other girl just trying to figure it out, with nothing but 11 years of life to go on, I figured that something about me wasn’t right anymore…something about me was downright wrong…something about me just wasn’t good enough.  The spirit of who I was wanted to be heard, valued and loved, just as we all do. But like every little girl (and boy) the messages coming at me were so confusing. The rules to “playing human” were often times in conflict with what my spirit knew to be right, just and true. The rules told me 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 followed them anyway. Hours spent trying to mold my body, my spirit and my life into what the rules required were extremely painful.

Determining where our worth comes from, living in the world of “human,” can be challenging. I know that for me ever since adolescence, there was, this huge game of tug-o-war between the strong, empowered, self-assured, spiritual in-here-girl who knows she is worthy just because she is … with the physical out-there-girl who still at times wants so much to be liked, popular and accepted by others. The back and forth is constant, and so too is the growth and learning that comes with it.

I am reminded of Paul.

He is 39 years old. A handsome professional man, Paul drives a BMW and wears custom suits with starched crisp
white button-down shirts. He is respected and reserved. Yet little known to his friends is the hell in which he has lived. You see, eight years ago his wife, his life partner and best friend died. She died giving birth to their daughter Shelby.

Shelby’s entrance into this world wasn’t easy. For hours, over 20 innocent and vulnerable hours, Shelby and her mom worked tirelessly to take her from the warm safe waters of her mother’s womb to this world. So when Shelby was finally lifted into this world, her mother went on to the next.

Paul’s world isn’t what he had expected: the crisp starch of his collar, the million-dollar home and a daughter, who looked like every other 8-year old, but had the intellectual and conceptual understanding of a 4-year old.

His life felt like hell. It’s hard work being a single Daddy with a developmentally delayed little girl. Every morning as he would gently brush her hair, Shelby would tell him stories—stories that break a father’s heart. Stories of how she is afraid to speak sometimes, because the other students at her school make fun of her. Stories of how they call her dummy or generally disregard her as anything, but a nuisance. Paul didn’t know what else to do and so when the Girls on the Run brochure floated home in her book bag, he enrolled her. Shelby’s spirit soared at Girls on the Run. Her teammates understood her uniqueness and accepted her not in spite of it, but because of it.

Over the program-weeks, Shelby had come to trust her teammates. They didn’t make fun of her. They wrapped their little souls around her and walked her through the Girls on the Run games and activities. The Girls on the Run girls were different. They listened to her when she had something to say and they saw the humanness of her. They valued her for who she was.

On this particular day, Shelby was running in her first Girls on the Run 5k and her father was there to see her. I stood at the finish line cheering, clapping and high-fiving girls as they crossed that finish line. One hour later, every girl had finished. “No wait,” the police escort informed us, “there is one more little girl.” And so, while most folks had moved on to the after-party in the nearby park, a handful of us waited.

When off in the distance I saw a little figure walking, as if on a mission. Her arms pumping beside her like pistons. Her blonde pigtails flopped on either side. Her coaches were beside her, smiling and crying. Slowly word spread that Shelby was finishing and one by one folks returned to the finish line. As Shelby made her way up that last stretch of road, hundreds of people ran to take their place roadside.

The momentum was building and then as if directed to do so I looked to my right and there dead center in the finish line stood Paul. His starched shirt, khaki pants and polished loafers. His hair was perfectly placed. Shelby’s jacket was neatly draped across his left arm.

The man was stoic, reserved, empty eyed… and alone.

And then without warning, this man, this brave, brave man dropped to his knees…Shelby’s coat falling to the asphalt below…and with wild abandon, he lifted his arms to the heavens above and wept from the depths of his soul. Tears were flowing down his cheeks to the earth below, like small blessings on the path of his daughter’s approaching feet.

I won’t ever be able to shake the image of this man as he fell to his knees, surrendering his pain, revealing his willingness to shed the external armor of the man he had become, trapped in the box of cultural success and first impressions, to reveal the little boy he once was…unafraid and willing to share his soul, his core, his vulnerabilities… To welcome his little girl, Shelby, as she ran to him, there at the finish line. Welcome her with his arms around her small body to lift her high to the sky above. Welcome her to this new life, this new heaven, the one in which they could inhabit peacefully together.

And this is where I want to hold you, embrace you…show you…delicately place the perspective of my 51 year old life into yours…give you permission to lean into this ebb and flow and know that the spirit-you will at times scream from the inside just as it did for Paul, “let me out, let me out, let me be myself”…and that it’s good and okay and normal to have these feelings and to want to shout, and stomp your feet at the world…and not to fear these times, for they are sure to come, but welcome them…know that they will pass and that soon to follow will be those flowing times of peace… as they did for Paul at the finish line, for me when I run, for my daughter through the lens of her camera, for my son when he sings, for you to discover..peaceful moments where the spirit you is in unison with the human you… have faith they are there and are coming…for it is in those times you will get a glimpse of your spirit’s greatness.

I want to tell you that you will be okay and that all the pain, fear and self-doubt you will feel and that will challenge who you are and at times in your life may actually challenge everything you believe in… are leading you to your life’s work, your calling, your purpose. But I can’t.  No matter how much I want to protect you, warn you and tell you that you are beautiful, whole and powerful, this is something you will have to realize in your own time and in your own language, through the ebb and flow, the ups and downs, the comings and goings…the evolution of your own life.

I want to look you in the eye and lovingly show you that it is in those most vulnerable moments, those moments when it’s hard to breathe and the ability to see outside the moment is blinded by self-doubt, the spirit-you is waiting on the other side…the strong you.  The Empowered and overwhelmingly beautiful woman you are becoming.

I remember vividly in the late fall of my first Girls on the Run season in 1996, I was wrapping up with my Girls on the Run girls at Charlotte Country Day School.

Madeline came to me, her tiny hands cupped around the corners of her mouth. She whispered, “Molly, come here. I have something I have to show you. I must show you. Please.”

I was busy handing out game pieces and cheering for each girl as she ran by me. “Sorry Madeline, but I really need to stand here and cheer on each girl.”

“But Molly you have to see this.” She continued to cup her mouth with hands on either side and whispered, “I think I see heaven.”

Well, that’s certainly interesting, I thought. If Madeline sees heaven, surely I must see it too. So we each grabbed the hand of the other and ran as fast as we could to the far end of the track, so that our view was not limited by trees or buildings.

“Look!” she said. “Look. I see heaven.” I turned to my right and was struck speechless by what appeared before me. Dark black clouds surrounded a brilliant white light. Like the blade of a silver knife the light pierced the sky and sent beams of itself down on the earth miles and miles away. “See,” she said, completely convinced. “Heaven!”

“Madeline,” I said. “Yes. Heaven, surely.” But I didn’t need to look to the sky. I didn’t need to look to some distant space in time. I only had to look at the two small, but brilliant rays of light, there in Madeline’s eyes to know that indeed, heaven is right there, resting inside her little girl soul, that little girl body.

Heaven rests in me and you and the brilliance of our own lives. I am convinced, as convinced as Madeline was that she saw heaven on that stormy day, that the spirit of who I am, who you are, matters: That we can, unabashedly and with intense joy, embrace this human experience, the ebb and flow of it, the ups and downs, the comings and goings…We can lovingly hold the self-doubt near, lean into it, own it, share it so that others may feel safe sharing theirs and delight in the joy we are certain will come because of it…to as children do so freely, dance unabashedly in the all of it…to create a heaven right here on earth, where everyone – every last one of us – can feel safe and at peace simply being ourselves, wherever we are in our own lives and in the process of becoming our greatest, biggest, most beautiful selves.

I figure today is as good a day as any to start.  Thank you.

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