Only For Now

I love the fall. The beautiful colors. The crisp air. The crunch of the leaves beneath my feet. It is my absolute favorite season. It also seems to be the shortest of the four. As quickly as fall comes, it goes, and I’m left feeling much like the trees it leaves in its wake: bare, vulnerable, and bracing myself for the freeze of a long, New England winter. Ever since the leaves began to change, I’ve had the “Avenue Q” lyrics to “Only for Now” in my head. Rather than lament transience, the song instead celebrates the comfort that comes with the temporary. “Don't stress, relax, let life roll off your backs. Except for death and paying taxes, everything in life is only for now. Each time you smile...only for now. It'll only last a while...only for now. Life may be scary...only for now. But it's only temporary.” In a world where there is far more that is out of our control than within it, where uncertainty prevails, and where we can’t know what tomorrow will bring, the song advises that we take comfort in the fact that it’s only for now. And that we savor the things that bring us joy, knowing that they too are only for now.

The song reminds me of the story of King Solomon who sent his most trusted minister to bring him a ring with magical powers; a ring that if looked upon by someone happy, would make them sad, and if looked upon by someone sad, would make them happy. After a series of unsuccessful attempts, the minister eventually returns with a ring engraved with just three Hebrew words: Gam zeh ya-avor - this too shall pass. Comfort and pain, joy and sorrow, are only temporary.

Few things better capture the embrace of impermanence like the Jewish holiday of Sukkot. Literally translated as the “Festival of Booths,” Sukkot is a fall harvest celebration that also commemorates the Israelites’ forty year sojourn through the wilderness on their way to the promised land. We observe it by building and dwelling in shelters similar to the huts the Israelites lived in during that time. These structures are designed to be temporary. With walls and a roof that are not permitted to be permanent, they are intentionally built to be vulnerable to the elements. And nothing is more vulnerable than a temporary structure in a New England fall. As charming as the season is in this part of the country, what the Hallmark movies and The Gilmore Girls reruns don’t show you is the mercurial temperament of our fall weather. 

Spending time in our Sukkah is always a source of extreme happiness, and of deep frustration, in our small Massachusetts town. We adorn it with twinkle lights and instagram worthy decorations. We create our own little slice of autumnal paradise; one in which we spend almost zero time. Because Sukkot in New England means that regardless of when the holiday falls year to year, it will always be the windiest and rainiest week of the entire month. And we’ll watch helplessly from our kitchen as our sweet, unsheltered little shelter sways precariously in the wind, seemingly ready to take flight or buckle under the intense rainfall. We even had to take it down several days early this year, due to an untimely Noreaster. 

And yet as sad as this annual struggle with the weather makes me, is it not the quintessential embodiment of the “only for now” philosophy? The sukkah, much like fall itself, is an annual reminder to appreciate precious, fleeting moments and to take comfort in the temporary nature of our struggles. It’s only for now. The fiery colors of the trees? They’re only for now. The apple-picking outings? They’re only for now. The fall festivals, pumpkin spice everything, football Sundays? They’re only for now. And while that may make us wistful, it should also make us grateful. Grateful for these moments that fill us with joy, reminding us to savor every minute. 

And just as we recognize the impermanence of the good, we need the same reminder of the transience of the challenging. The uncertainty about what comes next? Only for now. The agony of making a difficult decision? Only for now. The fear that comes from doing something for the first time? Only for now. Perhaps if we could truly internalize this mantra, the good times would feel all the more special, and the hard times would feel that much more bearable.

I don’t believe that the magic of Solomon’s ring was found in making sad people happy, and happy people sad as he had requested. I believe that the power of those words - this too shall pass -  lay in their ability to bring a distressed person comfort, and to offer a satisfied person gratitude. 

Our misguided belief in the permanence of all things results in humans continually taking joy for granted and drowning in sorrow, believing there is no end to either. So perhaps the true secret to a life well-lived is to remember that everything has an end, and that this, all of this, is only for now.

What would this mindset allow you to do? What would it permit you to release? What would you do with a life, and a love, and a moment that’s only for now? 

Stop Shoulding on Yourself

Back in my day, we didn’t have those first day of school signs that displayed our grade, teacher, and what we wanted to be when we grew up. But if we did, for the first ten or so years of my life, the answer would have gone unchanged: “When I grow up, I want to be an Olympic gymnast.” It wasn’t practical. It wasn’t realistic, despite my mad balance beam skills. But it was quintessentially me. My dream. My passion. At the time, my entire life. Similarly, my children’s signs are the stuff of dreams. My daughter, at age twelve and a whopping 4’9, has declared her dream of being a WNBA player. My son, at age nine, has decided he will be a film director and writer. He has also told me I can be his date to the Oscars. Hey, dream big my boy!

I’m not here to debate the probability of these dreams coming to fruition.  I have determined and passionate kids, and you never know what could happen. An unexpected growth spurt? A serendipitous run-in with Steven Spielberg?  But I am struck by the unlimited reach of children’s dreams. Unfettered by societal expectations. Untarnished by self-doubt. And blithely unburdened by the weight of comparison.

It is all too easy to compare ourselves to others. Especially in the age of social media where people curate, filter, and carefully select the parts of their lives they wish to show. We know it’s not quite real and yet we can’t help but compare our lives, our work, and our success to theirs. As a newer owner of a coaching practice, where client acquisition is necessary for a profitable business, the comparison struggle is real. I see other coaches writing books, hosting podcasts, creating prolific content on social media, and I can’t help but compare myself to them. I should be doing what they’re doing. I should be writing more. I should be making more. I should be doing more. I should. I should. I should. It’s probably the most anxiety-inducing word in the English dictionary. Should. 

I recently watched a video shared by actor James Van Der Beek where he reflected on how he shifted his career goals after realizing the career he envisioned was not the one for which he was destined. With his childhood Broadway dreams in the rearview, he sought to reimagine his goals. “The Matt Damon career, that’s what I want,” he said. It didn’t take him long to realize, however, that “it’s a career that only one guy in the world gets to have, and that’s Matt Damon.” 

How many of our goals are completely our own, and how many are somebody else’s? How many of our dreams are rooted in our individual wants, strengths, and passions, and how many are modeled after the dreams of others? How much time do we spend pursuing our own unique paths, and how much time do we spend forcing ourselves onto a path that doesn’t belong to us. 

This curse of comparison comes up often with my clients. Feelings of inadequacy consume us because we are not accomplishing the same things as our colleagues. We are not meeting the same bar. We are not achieving the same success and recognition. But comparing ourselves to others is a trap. It sets us up for failure. Because we will never be as good as someone else at being them, living their life, fulfilling their dreams. James Van Der Beek, as talented as he is, will never be better at being Matt Damon or at having his career. But the converse is also true. No one will ever be as good at being James Van Der Beek. Not even the great Matt Damon. And his kids, his family, his friends, and his colleagues wouldn’t want anyone else but who he is. 

No one will ever be as good as you at being you. You will be the best you that will ever be. Why would you try to be a mediocre version of someone else when you can be the very best version of yourself?  So the question becomes: What does being the best you look like? What unique potential do you possess? What dreams do your individual strengths and abilities make possible? 

The philosopher and theologian Martin Buber once said “Every [person’s] foremost task is the actualization of [their] unique, unprecedented and never-recurring potentialities, and not the repetition of something that another, and be it even the greatest, has already achieved.” What are your unique, unprecedented, and never-recurring potentialities? What if you could free yourself of the shoulds, and focus instead on the coulds.

Van Der Beek ended his reflection with these two questions: “How many of us out there are running around trying to accomplish goals that were set by reactive, younger, less wise versions of ourselves? And how much happier would we be if we could just erase those outdated goals, forgive ourselves for not meeting that bar, and just go do something that lights us up?” What lights you up? What’s the adult version of what you want to be when you grow up? What is the vision for yourself, that just like that first day of school sign, is purely and unapologetically you?

So stop shoulding all over yourself. Let go of what you think you should be, and dream of what you, and only you, could be.

A Small, Brave Step

A few weeks ago, I brought my daughter to a club basketball tryout. The club was in a different town and she didn’t know a single person. I saw her nerves grow as we got closer to the gym. She started taking big, deep breaths and doing the fidgety things she tends to do when she gets nervous. As I was pulling up to drop her off, she asked me to come in with her. So we walked in together, to this large gym she had never been to, into a group of kids she had never met. She took one more deep breath, gave me a hug, and then she walked by herself down the stairs into the unknown. I was struck by her bravery in that moment. And then I was instantly transported back to an equally scary time in my own life. 

At the beginning of 8th grade, we moved to a different state and I was starting everything over. New city. New school (moving from a grade of 15 people to a grade of almost 600). I was terrified. I can still feel that visceral fear today. I had always been a part of a team so I was excited about the prospect of trying out for basketball. I still remember that day. Knowing no one, I stepped onto that court feeling scared and completely out of place. The other players had an existing connection, a camaraderie that bonded them. They passed the ball only to each other, never to me, and my initial trepidation turned into full blown terror. I couldn’t do this. I’ll never be one of them. What was I thinking? I left that gym despondent, and I didn’t return. I didn’t come back for the second day of tryouts, and I never played on a basketball team again. 

So as I watched my daughter walk onto that massive court without a single friend, I was overcome by her courage. It’s not that she wasn’t nervous. It’s not that she wasn’t intimidated. But she did it anyway. She took a deep breath. She asked for the help she needed - my  presence by her side as she walked in the door. And then she took those first scary steps. Oftentimes, that’s the hardest thing. Those first few steps into the unknown. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is having fear, and doing it anyway. And courage is not always some big, bold act. Sometimes it’s a small, brave step.

Inspired by her courage, I decided to take a step of my own. I had spent years not doing something I enjoyed because of fear. So when my town’s adult basketball league opened up registration, I took my first step. And last night, this time with my daughter accompanying me through the gym doors, I stepped onto the court thirty years after I first walked off. And I’m not going to lie, I was scared. I was intimidated. These women had been playing together for years. To say nothing of the fact that they had actually been playing for years, where I really only played with my daughter on the playground. But I looked at my brave daughter sitting in the stands. I took a deep breath. And I took the next small, brave step. 

I played my first competitive basketball game in three decades. And let me tell you, it was not for the faint of heart.  I took a fast ball to the face, wheezed my way through the majority of the game and vacillated between the urge to throw up and the urge to pass out, missed a lot more shots than I made, and ended the evening alternating an ice pack between my nose and my knee. But I did it. I experienced the exhilarating feeling of doing the thing that scares you, of managing your fear instead of allowing it to manage you, of taking back a part of me that I left on the court all those years ago. I put myself back in the driver’s seat and told my fear to politely f-off.

I learned that I can do scary things. I learned that we make the things that scare us so much bigger than they really are. I learned the only way to get around fear is straight through it. I learned that it’s not only okay, but necessary to ask for help to do the scary thing. I learned that all it takes is that first small, brave step. 

So what is the thing you’ve been too scared to try? What have you denied yourself because of fear? We often ask ourselves what’s at stake or what we risk by trying something scary. But I wonder what’s at stake or at risk by not trying it. And what’s possible if you do? What if you took that first small, brave step today? 

Fearless?

Fearless. It's a word we hear a lot. Used to describe innovators, athletes, titans of industry. Fearless. A word waved around like a badge of pride. Fearless. A word that at some point we all secretly hope to embody.

Fearless. It's a word very familiar in my world, often used in reference to our daughter. Our 11-year-old is a competitive ninja (as in "American Ninja Warrior"), and as people watch her feats of strength and daring as she literally flies through the air, that's the word they use to describe her. It's the word that I too have used to describe her. 

But what most people don't see in the videos is the very real and sometimes paralyzing fear that Gabby experiences. They don't see the almost cartoon-like widening of her eyes when a new, scary obstacle is introduced. They don't see the tears form in the corners of those same eyes as her brain becomes flooded with scary worst-case scenarios. They don't see her glance back at me and shake her head "no" in terror as she vetoes a new obstacle before she even tries it. They don't see her dejection at having given up on an obstacle out of fear, running into my arms devastated, crying "I didn't even try!" They don't hear her covet what she perceives as the fearlessness of her friends. 

But here's the thing: Fearless doesn't exist. There is no such thing as being completely without fear. We all have fear. Our fear actually protects us. It helps keep us out of danger.  At the same time, it can also stop us from taking chances, moving forward, achieving our goals. The aim is not to be without fear; our aim is to manage our fear. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is having fear, and doing it anyway.

This video shows a particularly scary moment for Gabby. From the minute the opposing team's coach introduced this obstacle, Gabby's tears started flowing. She looked at me with that familiar terror, shaking her head. "I'm not doing it" she mouthed. Her coach had to take her aside and talk her through it. Each team is given eight minutes to practice the obstacles before the competition and I whispered to another mom, "there's no way she's trying that obstacle."  Not my proudest moment; but I had seen this happen again and again. I've watched Gabby become overwhelmed and overcome by fear. And then something amazing happened. 

Gabby, through all of her fear, her anxiety, her terror, climbed the poles up to the top of the rafters. She reached her foot across the rafter, over ten feet of air beneath her feet, legs quivering and tears in her eyes. What the video doesn't show is the full minute she stood there, crying and shaking, in full amygdala hijack. "Flight or freeze!" her brain demanded. But this time, she didn't allow her fear to dictate her next move. This time, she took a big, deep breath, leaned back, and let go. She let go of the apprehension. She let go of the voice inside her head telling her she couldn't do it. She let go of the fear; and she flew. 

The entire gym burst into applause and cheers. We were all on that journey with her. And maybe in that moment, we all considered our own fears that have held us back. The fears that have frozen us in place, that have stopped us from achieving new heights, that have caused us to quit before even trying. We all took that big breath with her, and when she jumped off the rafters and took that leap, we considered what our own leap would look like, would feel like. What heights and distances could we reach if we only took a deep breath and let go? Gabby showed us what courage can look like, and where it can take us. 

So now when people watch Gabby and awe at her fearlessness, I correct them. She's not fearless; she's courageous. She has fear; but she pushes through it, no matter how painful. She has fear, but she has worked hard to manage it. She has fear, and sometimes she succumbs to it. And that's okay too. Because as she's always saying to me, it's about progress, not perfection. 

"What if I fall?" she's always asking me. And so often I respond with the quote by poet Erin Hanson, "Oh but my darling, what if you fly?" Falling, like failing, is inevitable. We all fail. We all fall. And every so often, we can fly. But flying takes courage; and courage takes fear.