Gazing out on Tampa Bay in St. Petersburg.

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The person you present to the world may be real. It may contain the core of who you are. And the way you present yourself may also leave out major pieces of who you are now.

For much of my working life, I knew how I wanted people to see me.

Professional. Poised. Intelligent. Caring. Knowledgeable. A good listener and a problem solver. Someone they could trust with their story and potential solutions to their problems.

I wanted people to feel comfortable telling me their stories, even when we were strangers waiting for a dinner reservation or sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. And they often did.

Over fifty-five years of consulting and training, I became accustomed to being the person who listened, asked questions, and helped others find a way forward.

Those qualities are mine. I value them. I also spent years practicing how to bring them into a room in a way that made people confident that I could help.

In fact, an early client once asked me why I brought so much power into the room. I asked what they meant. Their response made me evaluate how I show up. To understand it and make sense of it.

They said I took up space, spread my things out, and created a presence the group knew they would need to reckon with. I realized the presence I brought helped me establish myself as a consultant they could trust and rely on.

I used this insight for years to help clients learn how to build a stronger presence in their own rooms.

Recently, I’ve wondered what happens when we become so familiar with one way of presenting ourselves that we portray only that aspect of our personality.

In this phase of my life, bringing power into a room does not achieve what I need now. It’s one part of me, the helper, problem solver, and purveyor of information.

Who do people know? And who might we want them to know now?

The person we learned to present in one phase of our lives may remain part of us but may not be all of who we are today.

Maybe I can let people know the quieter, thoughtful, friendship-seeking parts of me that have no need to be in charge or make progress, just being in this new world without my husband Bill and daily work.

The Persona We Display

Earlier, I wrote about the personas we develop: the ways we present ourselves to meet expectations, succeed at work, or find our place with other people.

I described a persona as a kind of mask. Looking back, I think that was too simple.

The confident consultant may also be uncertain. The funny friend may be grieving. The person who takes care of everyone may sometimes need care herself.

None of those qualities has to be an act. They can all belong to the same person.

We choose what parts of ourselves to share in various situations for good reasons. A workplace conversation may call for different things than a conversation with a close friend. Some experiences are private. Some people haven’t earned our trust.

Being authentic doesn’t require us to tell everyone everything. It does ask us to notice whether the way we present ourselves still fits, and whether it makes room for the relationships we want.

When the familiar role follows us into different phases of our lives, we need to examine whether it fits our current needs and goals. It may not.

Think about the role you’ve played in your family, at work, or among friends.

Perhaps you’re the dependable one. People come to you because you’ll know what to do.

Maybe you’re the cheerful friend who can lighten a difficult gathering. Or the person who listens while everyone else talks.

These roles may reflect strengths you’re proud of. They may also become so familiar that other people don’t think to look beyond them to who you’ve become in a different phase.

Looking Beyond the Known Person

If you’re always the one who organizes the gathering, does anyone know you’d welcome an invitation?

If you’re known for handling matters yourself, would your friends know when you could use help?

If you’re the listener, do you give yourself room to tell someone what’s on your mind?

The answers aren’t always comfortable. People may have grown accustomed to a pattern we helped establish.

They may also be delighted to discover that we’d like something different.

But we can’t expect them to know what we never express. We also won’t want to bare our soul to everyone.

We can find the space between these extremes.

Who Are You Now?

Life changes the circumstances in which our familiar identities developed. Work ends or changes. Children grow up. We move. A relationship ends. Someone we love dies.

The person who could fill a room with conversation at work may discover that meeting people outside of the office requires something different. The person who is accustomed to doing everything with a partner may have to decide what to do alone—and when to ask someone to come along.

I’ve been thinking about this since Bill died.

I do well alone. I value solitude, and much of my writing and thinking happens in my solitary moments by my lake or in my forest. But I also miss the easy familiarity of being expected somewhere, of having people with whom making a plan feels natural.

For years, much of my contact with people came through work. Now, if I want to build different relationships, I have to give creating them some attention.

That doesn’t mean becoming a person who loves crowded rooms and lots going on. That will never be me.

But it does mean accepting an invitation I might once have declined, telling someone I’d enjoy seeing them again, or letting a neighbor know her company matters to me.

Small disclosures can make an opening. So can repeated time together.

Feeling Vulnerable: Sharing More of Who We Are

At a recent conference about connections, restaurateur Will Guidara talked about offering a small piece of vulnerability before asking another person to open up.

This idea is meaningful to me.

We can begin offering something modest and true: “I’m happy to be here, although I was a little nervous about coming.” Or, “I’ve been missing our conversations. Perhaps we can get together next week.” Or, “We seem to have that interest in common. Why don’t you come over for coffee and we can talk more?”

The other person is free to respond as they wish, but we’re opening up and giving them an opening to know us.

We Don’t Need to Leave All of Us Behind

Sometimes we discover that a role we’ve carried still fits. Sometimes we find we’re ready to let parts of it go. And sometimes another person sees something in us we’ve nearly forgotten—or never noticed at all.

The question I asked in 2024 about who I bring into an interaction still interests me: How can I bring more of my true self into this moment? My now self?

Today, I would add another question: Who am I hoping will get to know me?

In the coming weeks, I want to explore how we find belonging and make or maintain friendships as our lives change. I suspect the answers will be different for each of us.

But they may begin with making a little room to be the person we are now.

Continue the Conversation

I’m learning that the person who once needed to bring power into a room can also make room for quieter parts of herself—and let others get to know them.

Is there a role people know you for? Does it still fit—and is there another part of you you’d like to bring forward?

I’d love to hear as much of your story as you feel comfortable sharing in the comments.

Leave a comment

In the coming weeks, I’ll explore how we find belonging and make or maintain friendships as our lives change.

I also continue these conversations in Substack Notes, where I share the smaller observations and questions that often become future ValuesCrafting essays.

What kind of world do you want to live in?

ValuesCrafting begins with the belief that every person matters and that our ordinary choices help create the world we share.

Live what you believe. Create the world you want to live in.

Share

Exploring Florida’s coast, where a restroom stop became a reminder to consider the next person.

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One of the first times my husband Bill and I ordered groceries through Instacart, an extra bag arrived with our delivery. It contained expensive food we hadn’t ordered or paid for.

The bag was still on the porch, and the delivery person had not even left the driveway when I contacted Instacart. I wanted him to come back and collect it.

The representative thanked me but explained that once groceries were in someone’s possession, they couldn’t take them back. We should keep the food.

Then he thanked me again. He said he had never experienced someone asking before.

I’ve remembered that conversation. Calling seemed the obvious thing to do. The food wasn’t ours. I didn’t know we would be allowed to keep it when I offered to return it.

An ordinary grocery delivery had presented an opportunity to act on something I believed.

Integrity offers us opportunities like that every day.

We often discuss integrity through dramatic situations: exposing wrongdoing, refusing a dishonest request, or telling a truth that could cost us a job or relationship. Those choices matter enormously.

But we also demonstrate integrity in everyday, normal circumstances—just life. Pressure tests our convictions. Ordinary follow-through expresses them, too.

Integrity is a choice we make in what we say, what we take responsibility for, and whether our actions reflect what we believe.

Making the Next Person Matter

My sister, her boyfriend, and I were exploring the Florida coast, from Pass-a-Grille toward Clearwater, when we stopped at a park to use the restroom.

The stalls had no toilet paper.

My sister began worrying about the people who would come to the park restroom after us. She searched for supplies and tried to find a park ranger to report the problem. She wanted to make sure the next visitors would find what they needed.

Despite her running around and best efforts, we couldn’t find supplies. When we returned to the restrooms, we found a small sign we hadn’t noticed: “Restrooms are not stocked or cleaned in the off-season.”

We left without solving the problem.

Still, I remember what my sister did. The inconvenience to strangers mattered enough for her to interrupt our outing and try to help.

Her consideration became action. The unsuccessful outcome didn’t erase that effort—or the care.

We cannot always make things right. We can take responsibility for the parts within our control.

Keeping Faith When We Feel Uncomfortable

Writer Christine Destrempes tells a story about attending her first dinner with her boyfriend’s family. She was already intimidated by their circumstances and worried about making a good impression.

Then her three-year-old son, Jesse, admired a bowl on the table.

Told it was china, he confused the word with “vagina,” which his mother had recently explained to him.

Suddenly, Christine faced a choice: brush aside his question to spare herself embarrassment, or honor her commitment to answer him honestly.

She explained the difference plainly, without making him feel ashamed for asking. An awkward silence followed. Then her boyfriend’s father praised her answer.

She hadn’t known he would approve when she chose to speak. In that moment, integrity meant keeping faith with her child despite her discomfort.

Many of us recognize this kind of moment before we answer. We could agree when we don’t agree. Pretend we don’t know. Let an inaccurate impression stand because correcting it would embarrass us. We can honestly say, “I’d rather not discuss it.” But pretending to agree just to keep the peace is a different choice.

A family member once asked Bill what he thought the best outcome of the Russia–Ukraine war would be. He said he thought Ukraine should consider a negotiated settlement because he believed winning would be nearly impossible. The family member didn’t speak to us for months.

An honest answer can cost us a person’s approval, even when they asked for our opinion. We can listen, acknowledge uncertainty, and express disagreement considerately. We cannot guarantee that our answer will be welcome. But we can honor their question with our honesty and integrity.

Honesty asks something of us then. So does consideration. We can tell the truth with care for the person receiving it.

Living a Commitment Over Years

Another example comes from a family I know.

When the couple married, the woman already had a son. She and her husband later had several children together.

Over the years, I have watched this father fully include their son in family life. In photographs, celebrations, and ordinary gatherings, his place is unquestioned. The other children lean on him and hold him, their loved big brother.

Now that the son has married, his wife belongs just as naturally, a big sister to the younger children.

I see integrity in that father’s faithful commitment to being this boy’s dad.

Some choices take a moment. Others are renewed over decades. A commitment becomes trustworthy through the many occasions when a person lives it.

What Our Choices Build

During my fifty-five years of consulting and training, I have seen how closely people watch what others actually do.

A stated commitment to fairness becomes credible when a leader applies it to a favored employee.

A promise becomes dependable when a person follows through after the initial enthusiasm has passed.

Admitting an error makes it easier for another to acknowledge that they made a mistake.

The same is true at home.

The choices we repeatedly make show people what to expect from us. They also shape what we expect of ourselves.

Each time we take responsibility for our actions, tell the truth, or keep a commitment, we practice being the kind of person who does those things.

Sometimes the cost is a phone call, a delay, or an uncomfortable conversation. Sometimes it is money, approval, an opportunity, or a relationship we wanted to preserve.

No one may thank us. Our efforts may fail. Doing what we believe is right doesn’t guarantee a satisfying outcome.

Sometimes our efforts will fall short. Integrity asks us to acknowledge that honestly, repair what we can, and bring our behavior back into line with our convictions.

Our beliefs deserve examination, too, especially when we discover that acting on them has harmed someone.

Opportunities to demonstrate integrity present themselves every day: return what isn’t ours, admit a mistake before someone else takes the blame, offer an honest and considered opinion in response to a sincere question, fulfill a responsibility another person is counting on.

Our choices reach beyond the moment. A child learns that questions are welcome. A family member knows he belongs. A stranger may never know that someone considered their needs—but we know.

I notice integrity most often in people quietly following through on what matters to them. My sister’s unsuccessful search for toilet paper has stayed with me because she made the next person’s needs her concern.

What matters to us becomes part of other people’s lives through what we do.

Live what you believe. Create the world you want to live in.

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More on Living with Integrity

These earlier ValuesCrafting essays explore how our convictions become actions—and what happens when following through is difficult.

• When Integrity Costs You: How to Do the Right Thing Anyway: Responding when honesty and fairness put comfort, approval, or opportunity at risk.

• Demonstrate Integrity Through Your Actions: Building trust through honesty, responsibility, and keeping our commitments.

• Lapses in Integrity and Why They Matter: Recognizing the everyday choices and rationalizations that can undermine trust.

Continue the Conversation

I continue these conversations in Substack Notes, where I share the smaller observations and questions that often become future ValuesCrafting essays.

Have you noticed an everyday act of integrity that stayed with you?

I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

Leave a comment

Room for a conversation—and for both of us to be heard. My deck in Williamston, Michigan.

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Some disappointments change our lives. Others merely annoy us. Some come from broken promises; others from expectations we never expressed. Understanding the difference helps us decide how to handle the hurt.

My first husband repeatedly asked me for space while he worked out whether he wanted to stay in our marriage. I wanted the marriage to work, so I agreed to several road trips he could take alone to think.

One was to the Indianapolis 500.

When he came home, he told me someone had stolen all his camping gear and equipment from the van. The van was empty. I was suitably sympathetic. I was also understandably interested in what he had concluded about our marriage during his thinking time away.

Later that week, driving the van to work, I noticed a torn piece of notebook paper on the floor.

In his current best female friend’s handwriting was a list of the stolen equipment he had used to file a theft report.

So much for the solo thinking trip.

I remember the burning disappointment. I had made room for the time he said he needed while hoping he would choose the life we had been building together. That piece of paper gave me another glimpse of the life he was actually choosing with his best female friend.

Disappointment washes over us when someone we care about behaves differently than we hoped—or than we believe we would have behaved in their place.

Sometimes it exposes an expectation we never expressed. We thought our person would just know what we needed. Mind-reading, anyone? Sometimes it tells us someone broke a promise we had every right to believe and expect.

I had the right to expect faithfulness from my husband. He was not faithful emotionally, for sure. Understanding my part in the disappointment did not make his choices my responsibility.

But I did have a responsibility to myself: to look honestly at what was happening and decide what I would do.

When we finally saw a marriage counselor, he spoke with each of us privately. Then he asked me to return for one final meeting.

He saw little commitment from my husband to build the successful, lasting marriage I wanted. If I chose to stay, he said, he would recommend long-term counseling for me to bolster my courage through the years of disappointing behavior he anticipated.

For the first time in his work as a counselor, he recommended I divorce my husband to spare me those years of grief.

His assessment helped me separate my hopes from reality. I could want a successful marriage with all my heart. I could give my husband space, sympathy, and opportunities to reconsider. But I could not supply his commitment, only my own.

That is a difficult thing to recognize about someone you love.

Most disappointments don’t carry the consequences of a failing marriage. But they still ask us to sort through what happened, what we expected, and what comes next.

A spouse forgets the dinner they promised to bring home. A coworker takes credit for a problem we solved. A roommate pays the rent late, leaving us with a fee. These involve commitments or responsibilities. We can reasonably ask the person to acknowledge what happened and help put it right.

Other disappointments begin with a hope we have quietly turned into an obligation.

Perhaps a friend knows you’ve had a difficult week. You expect a call. You would certainly call her. When she doesn’t, you feel forgotten.

The hurt is real. But did she know you wanted to talk? Did she understand how difficult the week had been? Is calling how she offers care—or how you do?

“I would have called her” tells me something about myself. It doesn’t tell me what was happening in her life or mind.

Still, an unspoken expectation isn’t automatically unreasonable. We shouldn’t have to negotiate every expression of ordinary consideration. Wanting someone we love to notice us and show interest in our lives is understandable. We can examine our expectations without deciding we were wrong to have needs.

Before deciding what another person’s behavior means, ask. I can say, “I was hoping to hear from you. I could have used some company and sympathy.”

That gives the other person information and an opportunity to respond. It also gives me information. Perhaps my friend understands our relationship differently. Perhaps she offers care differently. Perhaps this is a friend I enjoy but cannot count on for this particular kind of support.

I don’t have to pretend that discovery doesn’t hurt.

But I do need to notice what I’m telling myself about the response. “She didn’t call” can become “I don’t matter.” Someone’s unwillingness to commit can become “I wasn’t worth choosing.”

Their behavior may tell us something painful about a relationship. You can’t let it define your worth.

We also don’t have to decide a relationship’s future in the first rush of anger, hurt, or humiliation. We can give ourselves time to settle enough to understand what happened and choose a response we can sustain. Some disappointments look different after a conversation or a night’s sleep. Others remain serious.

Forgetting dinner and exhibiting a pattern of proven deception deserve different judgments. So do an isolated lapse and a responsibility someone repeatedly refuses to meet.

We need discernment here. What was promised? What did I assume? Have I explained what matters to me? What does the pattern of behavior tell me?

And when I explain the hurt, what happens?

Does the person listen, acknowledge what happened, and try to put it right? Or dismiss me, blame me, and repeat the behavior? An apology matters. So does what follows it. A friend or family member’s response to our disappointment often tells us more about what is possible between us than the original lapse does.

Then comes the question that belongs to me: Given what I now understand, how do I want to respond?

I might have a conversation, ask for a different response, or change the arrangement. I might stop depending on a friend or family member for something they have repeatedly shown they won’t provide. Sometimes I may need to leave.

Respecting a person’s worth doesn’t require rewriting reality so that their behavior no longer matters.

They remain worthy of dignity. I remain worthy of dignity, too.

I can speak truthfully without humiliating them. I can acknowledge hurt without using it as permission to be cruel. I can love someone while deciding that their choices make a particular relationship or arrangement unsustainable.

Adjusting an expectation is sometimes an act of understanding. Sometimes it is an act of self-respect. It deserves care, because expecting less must not become a way of teaching ourselves to accept endless harm.

And understanding does not immediately remove the sadness. We may still mourn the closeness, reliability, or shared future we hoped for. Making a sound decision does not mean we stop wishing things had been different.

The counselor helped me see what my hopes had made difficult to acknowledge. I was imagining a future that required a commitment my husband did not appear to be making.

We cannot make other people choose what we would choose. We can tell them what we need, listen to their responses, and most importantly, pay attention to what they do.

Their worth does not diminish because they disappoint us. Neither does ours. We owe ourselves the same love, dignity, and respect we believe they deserve—and our choices need to reflect that.

Continue the Conversation

My counselor helped me recognize that wanting a different response from someone I loved could not make it happen. I could decide what I would do with that understanding. That lesson has given me a compass to follow through disappointments both large and small.

Have you been disappointed by someone you care about? What helped you respond?

I’d love to hear as much of your story as you feel comfortable sharing in the comments.

Leave a comment

Next week, I’ll explore what integrity requires when doing the right thing costs us something. It’s easy to name our convictions. What happens when living them means giving up something we want?

I also continue these conversations in Substack Notes, where I share the smaller observations and questions that often become future ValuesCrafting essays.

What kind of world do you want to live in?

ValuesCrafting begins with the belief that every person matters and that our ordinary choices help create the world we share.

Live what you believe. Create the world you want to live in.

Share ValuesCrafting

The path we chose is still unfolding.

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My friend Susan once sent a song she’d written to the Carpenters. Karen Carpenter wrote back and said she’d like to see more.

Susan didn’t send more. I don’t know why, and that part of the story is hers. I do know she became passionate about historic preservation. Music stayed in her life, too. She played flute in a philharmonic orchestra, sang the national anthem at local events, and kept playing and composing.

I sometimes wonder about the songs she might have written if she’d pursued Karen’s invitation. I don’t wonder because I think she chose badly. I wonder because a life can hold more than one appealing possibility, and we can’t live them all.

My friend Phyllis faced a different kind of choice. She loved consulting and training, but after becoming unexpectedly pregnant with triplets, life on the road with her then-four children no longer worked. She left that work. Her children have enriched her life beyond anything I can imagine. I still think the people who might have learned from her missed a wonderful opportunity.

And a former TechSmith employee left product development to drive eighteen-wheelers. I’ve followed the routes and adventures he posts on Facebook for years. His career change choice surprised me at first. But seeing his joy in his new life reminded me that the person living a choice has reasons an observer may never share or understand.

We make choices because we are human, and time won’t let us do everything. Sometimes two things we love require the same hours. Sometimes money, health, family, or responsibility closes a road we would gladly have taken. Sometimes an opportunity arrives before we’re ready to recognize it. And sometimes we choose with the best understanding we have, only to understand what we want and need better years later.

I spent sixteen years in public education. I loved the work and the people, but during the last eight years I was losing something I need for my soul: change and challenge. I began looking for a different career. College marketing appealed to me because I loved helping students find educational opportunities. Corporate training appealed to the part of me that loved helping people learn and grow. I knew I was good at both.

After two years of looking, GM offered me a contract position in management development. I took it, but I was frightened.

I valued college marketing just as much, and I knew I was unlikely to make another complete career change after spending two years on this one. Taking the GM position might close that door. I was also leaving the security of a guaranteed job in education, in which I was already halfway to retirement, for a contract. I had to decide without knowing whether the risk would pay off.

The choices we make shape who we are and the lives we live.

We make a decision on an ordinary Tuesday without realizing we’re constructing a life. Take the job. Don’t take it. Marry this person. Have the child. Move. Stay. Answer the letter. Save it in a drawer. Most choices don’t announce themselves as forks in the road when we’re standing at them.

They are just the day-to-day ordinary choices that blended together create the life we lead.

Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken stays with us because he gives that moment a shape: two roads in a wood, and one person who cannot travel both. He imagines saving the first road for another day, even though he knows one road leads to another and he may never return.

That was what frightened me about accepting GM’s offer. I wasn’t certain I’d chosen the better career. I knew I might be choosing the only one I would ever get to try.

Much later, we tell the story as though we stood before two clearly marked roads and calmly selected one. Seriously? It doesn’t work that way. I remember how hard it was to let one possibility go and the turmoil in my mind that accompanied that decision.

I do regret staying in education as long as I did. I can say that without dismissing those years or wishing away everything that followed. The regret tells me something true about how long I ignored my need for change. It doesn’t tell me the life I built afterward was a consolation prize—or that the life I lived before deciding to change careers was inferior.

I truly loved that career as much as what followed. But it wouldn’t have been the most fulfilling life choice for me.

Making the leap taught me: I could take a calculated risk, use my creativity, and recover if things didn’t work out. That knowledge made me more willing to take risks later.

Eventually, my GM work led me to organizational and management development consulting, to decades of listening to people wrestle with difficult decisions, and to writing about people and work.

I couldn’t see all of this path ahead when I accepted the GM contract. Nor will I ever know what college marketing might have brought to my life. I can imagine a version of my life in which I loved that work, too. Imagination can’t tell me what it would have cost, or what else I might have missed.

That’s what makes our unlived lives so easy to idealize. We see the opportunity and the pleasure it might have offered. We don’t have to live through its tedious Tuesdays, its unexpected losses, or the choices it would have demanded next.

Looking back can be useful. I can ask why I stayed in a job after I knew I needed something different. I can carry that knowledge into a decision I face today. But if I keep replaying the years as though I can change them, I give my attention to a life I can no longer enter. Meanwhile, I may miss knowing the people and possibilities in front of me.

I don’t think we have to celebrate every choice we’ve made, both large and small. Some deserve regret. Some were made under pressures we wouldn’t wish on anyone. Others were good choices that still required us to give up something we loved or could have found joy in.

We can tell the truth about all of that. Then we can ask a gentler, more useful question: What did the life I actually lived make possible?

For Susan, music remained, even though it didn’t become the career that letter might have opened. Phyllis built a life with her children while leaving work she was gifted at. My former colleague found something on the road that mattered more to him than the career others expected him to keep.

I found work that let me listen, teach, write, and help people see their choices more clearly on a broader scale than would have been possible in education. I wish I had found it sooner. I’m glad I found it.

The roads we didn’t take can still stir curiosity, sadness, even longing. We needn’t pretend otherwise. But the life we did live deserves our attention, too. It is where our relationships, contributions, ordinary pleasures, and next choices are. This life is still being made.

Continue the Conversation

I still wonder what a career in college marketing might have brought. I’m also grateful for what became possible because I chose differently.

Is there a road you didn’t take that you still think about? What did the life you chose make possible?

I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

Leave a comment

Next week, I’ll turn toward another familiar part of ordinary life: when people disappoint us. How do we acknowledge the hurt and continue to treat someone we love with dignity? What do our expectations—and our responses—ask us to examine?

I also continue these conversations in Substack Notes, where I share the smaller observations and questions that often become future ValuesCrafting essays.

What kind of world do you want to live in?

ValuesCrafting begins with the belief that every person matters and that our ordinary choices help create the world we share.

Live what you believe. Create the world you want to live in.

Share ValuesCrafting

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash

The circumstances change. You keep leaving fingerprints.

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Maybe becoming more fully yourself isn’t always about adding something new. Sometimes it’s about finally recognizing what has been there all along.

We change enormously over a lifetime.

We become daughters and sons, students, spouses, parents, professionals, leaders, caregivers, retirees, widows and widowers. We live in different houses and communities. People enter our lives and leave them. Careers begin and end. Our beliefs deepen and sometimes change.

The person we were at thirty might barely recognize the life we’re living at seventy.

And yet, lately I’ve been wondering: Across all the people we’ve been, who keeps showing up?

Not our habits or preferences. Not whether we still like the same music or vote the same way or order the same thing for dinner.

Something more fundamental.

A way of moving through the world that may have been there before the career, before the marriage, before the accomplishments and losses.

I started looking backward at my own life.

On paper, I’ve been a surprising number of different Susans: teacher and counselor, consultant, business owner, part of building TechSmith, workplace writer for millions of readers, Bill’s wife, widow, and now the writer of ValuesCrafting.

Those lives can look remarkably different.

But when I stopped looking at the titles and asked what I was actually doing, I began to see something.

As a consultant, people brought me complicated human situations. I listened, noticed patterns, and tried to make what was happening clearer and more useful.

At TechSmith, I kept asking whether the way we treated people actually matched what we said we believed about them.

For more than twenty years as an online workplace writer, strangers brought me their problems: My boss is doing this. My employee is doing that. How do I handle this conversation? How do I lead? How do I build trust? What do I do now?

Again: Listen. Notice. Understand. Clarify. Teach.

Then Bill died.

One of the largest roles of my life changed overnight. I was still Bill’s wife, but the daily life that came with being his wife was gone.

I had to learn how to make decisions that had always been we decisions. I made a life in Florida. I returned to our home in Glen Arbor. I brought a small, occasionally naughty Papillon puppy into my life. I made new connections.

And I kept writing.

It took me a while to see that I was still doing essentially the same thing I had always done.

People still told me their stories. I still noticed things. I still turned experiences over in my mind until I could understand what they might mean.

And then I wanted to give this understanding away.

That’s ValuesCrafting.

Not a reinvention, really. A continuation of who I am.

Priscilla Chan recognized something similar in her husband, Mark Zuckerberg, Facebook’s founder, by watching one of their daughters.

She showed writer Jeremy Stern the astonishing assortment of things their daughter had created—stories, a blog, a podcast, websites, games, apps, even plans to market them.

Mark hadn’t told their daughter to do any of it. The creating came from the girl herself.

Chan had known her husband for more than twenty years. At one point, she had wondered why they couldn’t simply finish all the relentless building and do nothing more.

Then she watched that same impulse emerge spontaneously in their daughter.

And suddenly she understood something about her husband in a different way.

Maybe this wasn’t simply what he did. Maybe it was part of who he was.

Now look at your life.

Your through-line may look nothing like mine.

Maybe you were the child who organized the neighborhood game. Years later, you were the parent who kept a household moving. At work, you became the person everyone trusted when something went wrong.

Maybe at eight you noticed the child sitting alone. At thirty-five, you were the person who drew the new employee into the conversation. At seventy, you still notice who’s standing outside the circle.

Maybe you have always built things. Questioned things. Protected people. Taught. Repaired. Created. Challenged. Connected. Made people laugh. Brought order to chaos. Seen possibilities other people missed.

The circumstances change. You keep leaving fingerprints.

Try picturing yourself at different ages.

Go back before the résumé. What absorbed you when you were young? What did people come to you for before anyone paid you?

Now move through the chapters. Your twenties. Thirties. Forties. Sixties. Today.

What keeps recurring even though the setting changes?

Listen to the things people have been saying about you for years:

You always…

You’re the one who…

I knew you’d…

And look at the choices that didn’t quite make sense on paper. When did you depart from what was expected because something in you wouldn’t cooperate?

What have you been doing your whole life without realizing you were doing it?

We tend to think of growth as becoming someone new. We acquire skills. Learn from mistakes. Change our minds. Develop wisdom. Shed things that no longer fit.

All of that is real.

But perhaps some growth comes from recognition.

You look backward at the child, the young adult, the person building a career or family, the person weathering loss or change, the person you are today—and suddenly you recognize someone.

The person who appears in every photograph, even when there isn’t a photograph.

Not the twenty-five-year-old or the forty-five-year-old or the seventy-five-year-old. Not the employee, spouse, parent, executive, caregiver, retiree, or widow.

Those selves were real. But the roles kept changing.

Perhaps something closer to an essential self exists: the recognizable human being who kept moving through all of them.

The person who kept leaving the fingerprints.

Across all the people you’ve been, who keeps showing up?

Continue the Conversation

After writing this article, I keep thinking about how much easier it can be to see the changes in our lives than the continuities.

The jobs changed. The relationships changed. The places changed. We changed.

And yet, something recognizable may have kept showing up.

So I’m curious:

What have you been doing your whole life without realizing you were doing it?

Maybe you’re the one who has always gathered people, questioned assumptions, fixed things, made people laugh, noticed who was left out, or brought order when things became chaotic.

I’d love to hear what you recognize when you look back across your own life.

I also continue these conversations in Substack Notes, where I share the smaller observations and questions that often become future ValuesCrafting essays.

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What kind of world do you want to live in?

ValuesCrafting believes every one of us has the capacity to help create a world where people are treated with dignity, trust, respect, kindness, and integrity. Live what you believe. And if this is the world you want, invite someone else to join us.

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What our responses teach people to expect from us

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We are teaching people how to behave around us all the time.

We teach them whether it is safe to disagree with us. Whether they should make a decision or wait for permission. Whether they can tell us something we don’t want to hear. Whether a mistake can be survived.

Most of this teaching happens without our realizing we’re doing it.

I had a client years ago who demonstrated this better than almost anyone I’ve known.

“Susan,” he used to say to me, “why won’t my employees do what I say when it should be clear to them that what I say is what I want?”

And I used to tell him, “Because it’s not what you want, and your employees know it. They see what you do, and that is teaching them what you actually want from them.”

He said he wanted empowered employees.

“You say you want empowered employees, and you don’t. Not really.”

He actually enjoyed telling people what to do. He thought he was right most of the time, and quite often, he was.

But every time he stepped in, supplied the answer, overruled a decision, or took control when the stakes rose, he taught his employees a lesson.

Don’t really decide. Wait for me.

His employees weren’t failing to listen. They were listening extremely well.

He would tell them he wanted them to make decisions. Then they’d make one he didn’t like, and he’d correct it. So, the next time, they were a little more likely to wait for him.

He was creating the very dependence that frustrated him.

And there was another problem that took us a while longer to untangle.

Even when his employees tried to anticipate what he wanted, they often got it wrong. How could they not? The picture of what “done right” looked like existed only in his head.

He knew what “finished,” “right,” or “good” looked like. They didn’t.

So they would make a decision, and he’d look at the result and think, Why on earth did they do it that way?

And back he’d go to telling them what to do.

What he really wanted was for his employees to get better and better at achieving the results he and his customers needed.

But to do that, they needed to understand what they were trying to accomplish, think about how to accomplish it, and know what a successful result looked like.

He thought he had told them what he wanted. He had told them what to do. Those aren’t the same thing.

More importantly, he hadn’t realized what he was teaching them.

Every time he took over, he taught them to wait.

Every time he corrected a decision they had made without helping them understand why, he taught them not to trust their own judgment.

Every time he gave them an answer instead of helping them think through a problem, he made it more likely they would come back to him for another answer.

The more he tried to make sure they got it right, the less capable they became of getting it right without him.

This happens everywhere, not just at work.

A parent says, “You can always tell me the truth.” But what does the parent teach the first time the child tells a truth that is difficult to hear?

If the response is anger, judgment, or punishment, the child has learned something. Next time, telling the truth may not feel quite so safe.

We say mistakes are how people learn. But if we humiliate a person for making one, what have we taught them?

Probably not to stop making mistakes. We may simply have taught them to hide the next one.

Someone disagrees with us, and we become defensive or angry. Maybe we’ve just taught that person that disagreeing with us isn’t worth the pushback and bad feelings.

A friend disappoints us, and we respond by withholding affection. What have we taught them about our love?

Our behavior is instructional whether we intend it or not.

People learn from us what matters, what we’ll tolerate, how disagreement works, whether mistakes are survivable, whether honesty is really welcome, and how we expect to be treated.

They learn what respect looks like. What trust looks like. What love looks like.

And because we know what we intended, it can be difficult to recognize what we actually taught.

My client knew he wanted independent, capable employees. He couldn’t understand why they kept waiting for him.

They were doing exactly what he had taught them to do.

That makes me wonder about the lessons the rest of us are teaching without knowing it.

What am I teaching people to do by the way I respond to them?

Am I teaching them to tell me the truth—or to protect me from it? To make decisions—or wait for permission? To admit mistakes—or hide them? To disagree with me—or tell me what I want to hear?

Everything you do teaches somebody something.

The question is: What are people learning from you?

Continue the Conversation

After writing this article, I am thinking about how difficult it can be to see what our own behavior is teaching.

We know what we intend. We know what we believe. We know what we meant.

Everyone else only knows what we actually do.

That makes me curious about something harder to see in ourselves.

Has someone’s response to you ever taught you what you could—or couldn’t—safely say or do around them?

I’d love to hear what happened and what you learned in the comments.

I also continue these conversations in Substack Notes, where I share the smaller observations and questions that often become future ValuesCrafting essays.

Leave a comment

What kind of world do you want to live in?

ValuesCrafting believes every one of us has the capacity to help create a world where people are treated with dignity, trust, respect, kindness, and integrity. Live what you believe. And if this is the world you want, invite someone else to join us.

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We don’t always choose what comes toward us. We do choose how we meet it.

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It’s easy to practice kindness when it’s welcomed and met with reciprocal kindness. What happens when it isn’t?

Kindness is easy to admire when it looks like generosity, patience, listening, helping. It’s harder when someone belittles you, provokes you, takes pot shots, or refuses to treat you respectfully.

In those moments, reacting to the other person with kindness can feel like surrender—and self-respect can feel as though it requires fighting back.

Neither is true.

A friend of mine has rarely had a positive interaction with her mother-in-law. She suspects that no woman would have been the right person for her MIL’s son to marry, but the resentment and distrust have spanned the years of the marriage.

I give my friend credit. She took a sincere look and considered that she might have done something to initiate the negative interactions. But they started on the day her husband announced their engagement—not before, and they have continued.

I have watched her try nearly every approach imaginable for dealing with her MIL’s cutting remarks, criticisms, and disdain. And she has continued the relationship because she is committed to family, but she is reaching a breaking point.

Her now older children are witnessing the way her MIL treats her, and she does not want them to grow up thinking this behavior is okay.

Not for her. Not for them. Not ever.

So, lately, she has begun asking herself a different question: Why have I permitted this treatment to go on for so long?

Being kind does not require you to keep accepting behavior that diminishes you.

Being a kind person does not require you to remain available for someone else’s unkindness.

My friend’s situation is extreme because it has lasted for years. But most of us encounter smaller versions of the same choice all the time.

Sometimes, we stay in conversations long after they have stopped being constructive.

We tolerate the colleague who belittles us and calls it humor.

The relative who takes little pot shots.

The friend who keeps crossing a line you’ve already drawn.

The meeting that is no longer constructive.

We all know the moment when this occurs in our daily interactions. A person says something designed—or simply careless enough—to diminish us.

And suddenly we’re making two decisions at once: what to do about their behavior and what kind of person we’re going to be in response.

People often stay because leaving feels rude, unkind, weak, dramatic, or somehow inconsistent with being a good person.

Treating people with respect doesn’t mean avoiding hard truths; it means addressing them while preserving the other person’s dignity and leaving room for growth.

That includes giving the other person the opportunity to change how you interact.

You don’t have to react to the first cutting remark. You can ask a question. Redirect the conversation. Remind the person what you’re trying to accomplish together.

If it happens again, you can name what you’re experiencing.

Michael, when you make little digs after I offer an idea, I become less willing to contribute. I don’t want to sit here wondering whether you think I’m stupid.

And if it continues, you can become clearer and firmer.

I’m willing to have this conversation. I’m not willing to have it the way we are having it.

The crucial point is that leaving isn’t the first step. Nor is retaliation on the agenda.

You can find a middle ground in which you give another person a reasonable opportunity to behave differently without handing them unlimited opportunities to mistreat you.

Can I remain the person I want to be while refusing to accept how you’re treating me?

You don’t have to become nasty to stop tolerating nastiness.

This is where kindness and niceness part company.

Niceness can keep you smiling, accommodating, explaining, excusing, smoothing things over—and staying too long because we don’t want to appear rude.

Kindness can be much stronger. It can say: I’ve tried to understand. I’ve told you what I’m experiencing. I’ve given you the opportunity to change how we’re interacting. I’m not going to attack you, but I’m also not going to continue this conversation.

Because unkindness carries a temptation.

It invites you to answer the cutting remark with one of your own. To embarrass the person who tried to embarrass you. To raise your voice because they raised theirs.

To become someone you don’t particularly like, or want to be, to defend yourself.

You don’t have to bow to this temptation.

You can be clear without being cruel—firm without being demeaning. You can set a boundary without anger.

Setting a boundary doesn’t require you to be angry.

Acting with kindness doesn’t require you to be submissive.

Demonstrating composure doesn’t require you to stay.

My friend hasn’t decided to end her relationship with her mother-in-law. Family still matters deeply to her. What has changed is her understanding of what that commitment requires.

She no longer believes keeping the family together means quietly putting up with whatever her mother-in-law chooses to say or do. And now that her children are old enough to see what is happening, remaining silent carries a probable cost for them, too.

She can still be respectful. She can still leave room for the relationship to improve. But she can also say, I’m not willing to be treated this way. And if the treatment continues, she can end the conversation or leave.

That isn’t abandoning her commitment to family. She has found a more honest way to live the commitment that honors her children and her needs.

Not every uncomfortable or even unkind remark requires a boundary. Sometimes you answer. Sometimes you use humor. Sometimes you correct the premise. Sometimes you let it go. Sometimes you become firmer.

And sometimes you leave.

That choice arises in marriages, families, friendships, workplaces, relationships with adult children, exchanges with neighbors, and conversations online.

Ordinary life gives us plenty of opportunities to ask: What does kindness look like when someone isn’t being kind to me? What does dignity ask of me? What does self-respect look like without retaliation?

Sometimes restoration requires two people. When you’re the only one trying, your values may eventually allow you to choose a different course.

You may leave the room.

Because you can’t always choose how another person treats you, but you get to decide who you are in the relationship.

You can refuse the invitation to become unkind.

Warmly,

Susan

Continue the Conversation

The conversation doesn’t end with these weekly essays.

Many of the ideas I explore here continue in Substack Notes—in observations, questions, and ordinary moments that sometimes become the beginning of a future essay.

I share those thoughts in Substack Notes, where readers add their own experiences and perspectives. Some of my favorite conversations happen there.

If you’d like to join me, I’d love to meet you in Notes.

A behind-the-scenes note about this week’s essay:

This essay actually began with a video about Dolly Parton supposedly responding with remarkable grace while being repeatedly belittled in an interview. It was a terrific story—and it wasn’t true.

When I went looking for the original interview, I discovered that versions of the story circulating online had either exaggerated what happened or invented it entirely. The real interviews I found were far more nuanced.

So Dolly disappeared from the essay. But the question the story raised stayed with me: How do you respond to unkindness without becoming unkind yourself?

Sometimes a bad source can still lead you to a good question. You just can’t let it become your evidence.

And this week, I’d love to know:

When someone treats you unkindly, what helps you respond in a way that still feels like you?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Leave a comment

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Choosing the next piece before you can see the whole.

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Having a grand life purpose is lovely. It really is. Many do. Many don’t.

But we put enormous pressure on ourselves when we set out to identify the one great calling that directs and explains our lives.

Do you think you’re supposed to identify this one great calling that explains your life?

This is the tyranny of the grand purpose: if you can’t identify your overarching purpose, you may feel unfulfilled and purposeless.

Purpose is important. I don’t aim to diminish its value.

A sense of purpose can make us feel useful, connected, and needed. It gives shape to our days and helps us know where to put our attention. It gives us reasons to act and connects today to tomorrow.

But discovering your grand purpose doesn’t determine whether you’ll make a great life.

Paying attention to your day-to-day purpose—the small-p purposes—may actually serve you better.

Most lives run on small-p purpose.

And that’s why life changes like divorce, death, an empty nest, or job loss can feel so disorienting.

Life change doesn’t merely take away a person, job, or role. It can take away the organizing why of our days.

This raises a question: do we find our purpose—or do we create it?

A friend who is involved in a divorce has lost, or is leaving, several structures that presumably organized her life and gave her a sense of purpose for more than 20 years.

She came to our small town to stay with family during the transition.

• She’s working at a local restaurant.

• She joined a Bible study group.

• She’s reading to help enlarge and organize her thoughts and her vision of her potential future.

• She’s connecting with people.

She’s building a life inside the uncertainty before she knows exactly what her next life will look like.

That’s not filler while she waits for purpose. That may be how purpose is being created.

And perhaps that’s the important part.

She isn’t waiting to know what her new life will be before she begins living it. The restaurant, Bible study, books, and new connections aren’t placeholders until she discovers her purpose.

They are giving shape to her days now.

And they may be how she discovers what she wants her life to become.

Or they may be part of what she wants her life to become.

Because most of us actually experience purpose on a much smaller scale than the grand overarching vision for our lives.

Purpose doesn’t have to be enormous to be powerful.

Purpose can be raising a child. Building a company. Caring for someone. Writing a book. Serving a community.

But it can also be:

I have people coming to my house Wednesday and I want them to feel welcome.

I’m going to help this puppy grow into a good dog.

I’m going to write something each week that might help somebody see her life differently.

I’m going to make a home here.

These smaller purposes organize behavior. They get us out of bed. They tell us what deserves attention. They connect today to tomorrow.

And when life has been disrupted, a modest purpose may provide the first bit of structure around which a larger life begins rebuilding.

You don’t need to know exactly what the next ten years look like. You need something that matters enough today to move toward.

Purpose is not the same as a goal.

A goal gets completed.

Purpose keeps generating goals.

You can finish writing an essay.

You don’t finish being a writer.

You can host a Wednesday Bible study.

You don’t finish creating community.

You can train Percy, my puppy, to come when called.

You don’t ever finish caring for him.

Purpose provides the why that keeps producing the next what.

And when an old purpose disappears—a career ends, children leave home, a marriage ends, someone we love dies—we can experience far more than the loss of the person or role. We can lose the organizing why of our days.

But where does the new why come from?

Perhaps purpose works in both directions.

Purpose → action.

When you know what matters, purpose gives you direction and helps organize your choices.

Action → purpose.

What if purpose isn’t something you find before you begin? What if purpose is something you discover partly by moving?

Last week, I wrote about courage, anxiety, and the willingness to cut the damn cake—to act before we have certainty that we’re doing the right thing.

I hadn’t realized until a reader pointed it out that the same idea applies to purpose.

We can wait for purpose to reveal itself completely before taking action. But sometimes purpose becomes clearer because we acted.

The first step creates information that waiting never could.

You begin. You pay attention. You notice what energizes you, whom you care about, where you’re useful, what you want more of, and what matters enough to continue.

You don’t necessarily need to discover your life’s great purpose. You may need to choose something that matters now and begin living toward it.

Maybe that’s how a life gets built or even rebuilt—not by figuring everything out and then proceeding, but by participating in life while it is still unresolved.

Sometimes purpose gives us direction before we know the destination. And sometimes moving is how we discover the direction.

Warmly,

Susan

Continue the Conversation

The conversation doesn’t end with these weekly essays.

Many of the ideas I explore here continue in Substack Notes—in observations, questions, and ordinary moments that sometimes become the beginning of a future essay.

I share those thoughts in Substack Notes, where readers add their own experiences and perspectives. Some of my favorite conversations happen there.

If you’d like to join me, I’d love to meet you in Notes.

And this week, I’d love to know:

What is giving your days a sense of purpose right now?

I’d love to hear what you discover in the comments.

Leave a comment

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Who would have thought that cutting an apple cake could require courage?

Picture a meeting where sixteen people gather weekly for reflection and discussion. They take turns bringing scrumptious treats to share as a snack.

The delicious apple cake arrived straight from a participant’s oven, browned and bubbly, filling the room with the aroma of warm apples and sugar.

The cake sat untouched while people ate mini muffins, fruit and yogurt, and lined up for coffee and lemon water.

Why?

People had many unspoken reasons, I’m sure.

I asked a long-term participant why she didn’t get things started and cut the cake, and she said, “Oh no, not me. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Others may have thought:

I might cut it wrong.

I don’t want to ruin the cake.

I don’t know how that serving tool works.

I don’t want to take too much.

I’m relatively new here; it would be presumptuous.

Surely the person who brought it should cut it.

Someone else will do it.

The scene posed an interesting question:

Why would no one make the first cut?

Each person may have had a perfectly reasonable explanation for why somebody else should go first.

And still, the cake remained untouched.

Perhaps courage isn’t always doing something enormous. Sometimes you show courage by your willingness to tolerate the small discomfort of going first.

How often do we wait for someone else to make the first cut—not because we’re incapable, but because going first carries a social or emotional risk?

• Sending the invitation.

• Signing up to attend alone.

• Offering the idea nobody else has offered.

• Starting the difficult conversation.

• Walking into the room where you don’t know anyone.

• Saying, I’ll do it.

Sometimes it’s scary to make the first cut, even when the actual action is easy.

The risk isn’t Can I physically cut this cake?

It’s social.

Will I do it wrong? Will someone object? Am I entitled to do this? Will I look foolish? What if nobody follows me?

Of course, going first isn’t the same as barging ahead. Sometimes waiting shows respect for someone else’s role or prerogative.

But sometimes what looks like consideration provides convenient cover for our own reluctance.

That’s a distinction worth making: Am I waiting because someone else genuinely should go first—or because I don’t want to, or I’m scared to?

And sometimes the first cut feels irreversible. Once that beautiful cake is cut, it isn’t untouched anymore.

You can never make the first cut again.

But going first changes more than the immediate moment.

It changes what you believe you can do.

Each time you act despite that little voice telling you to wait, you learn something about yourself.

You discover that uncertainty doesn’t stop you.

You survive a potential awkward response.

You recover when your first attempt doesn’t work exactly as you hoped.

The person who once waited for an invitation becomes someone who extends one.

The person who dreaded walking into a room alone discovers she can introduce herself to strangers.

The employee who kept an idea to herself learns that she can speak without knowing whether anyone will agree.

The first attempt doesn’t eliminate the discomfort. But the next time you encounter that uncomfortable moment, you have evidence: I’ve done this before.

Going first also changes what becomes possible for other people.

One person raises the concern everyone else has avoided, and suddenly an honest conversation can begin.

Another puts her finger on the problem, the elephant in the room the team had dodged for weeks.

Someone welcomes the newcomer, and others join in.

One person volunteers, and the task that seemed impossible to organize gets underway.

Initiative can be contagious.

Going first can be an act of generosity. You accept the uncertainty that everyone else has avoided, making it easier for them to participate..

Over time, that willingness can even change the norms in a family, team, community, or group of friends.

People learn that we can speak up here. We can suggest things. We can invite one another. We don’t always need permission.

You don’t have to know that your first cut will be the right one. You only have to decide that waiting isn’t always better than beginning.

Someone cuts the cake, and suddenly nobody needs courage anymore.

They’re just having cake.

The first cut doesn’t have to be perfect. It only has to break the inertia.

We often think we’re waiting because we’re uncertain about what to do.

Sometimes we know exactly what to do.

We’re waiting because we don’t want to be the first person to do it.

Eventually, at our meeting, someone cut the cake.

And then, of course, everyone ate it. It was delicious.

Nothing terrible happened. Nobody criticized the size or angle of the pieces. Nobody questioned whether the person holding the knife had the authority to use it.

The difficult part had never been cutting the cake.

It was being the one willing to cut it first.

Where in your life are you waiting for someone else to make the first cut?

—Warmly, Susan

Continue the Conversation

The conversation doesn’t end with these weekly essays.

Many of the ideas I explore here continue in Substack Notes—in observations, questions, and ordinary moments that sometimes become the beginning of a future essay.

I share those thoughts in Substack Notes, where readers add their own experiences and perspectives. Some of my favorite conversations happen there.

If you’d like to join me, I’d love to meet you in Notes.

And this week, I’d love to know:

Where in your life are you waiting for someone else to make the first cut?

I’d love to hear what you discover in the comments.

Leave a comment

Share

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Most of us spend enormous energy looking for answers to the significant questions in our lives.

But perhaps before searching for an answer, we need to identify the question we’re actually living.

The question we struggle to answer may not be the right question at all.

A person may think she’s deciding whether to retire when the deeper question is, Who am I without my work?

Someone may be struggling with their relationship with their adult child when the real question is, If they no longer need me in the same way, what is my place in their life now?

Reeling from an unexpected job loss, a person naturally asks, How quickly can I find another job? But underneath may be something more unsettling: Do I still want the career I’ve spent years building?

Or even, If my employer no longer valued my contribution, what does that say about me?

After losing a partner to death, divorce, or disease, we may ask, How do I fill these suddenly empty days? When the deeper question is, What do I want, need, and hope for in this next chapter of my life?

These are the kinds of questions life presents. And how we respond to the questions beneath the obvious ones can shape the choices we make—and how those choices ultimately feel.

The wrong question can send us searching very competently for an answer that doesn’t solve what is actually troubling us.

I wrote recently in The Way We Name a Problem about how the way we define a problem shapes where we look for solutions.

This goes a step deeper: sometimes we haven’t yet discovered the question we’re really trying to answer.

Why can the deeper question be so difficult to recognize?

We may be too busy solving the immediate problem to wonder what lies beneath it. Sometimes habit keeps us asking the question we’ve always asked. And sometimes, I suspect, the practical question simply feels safer.

Should I retire? can be answered with spreadsheets, pension projections, and calendars.

Who will I be without the work, the relationships, and the place I’ve gone every day that have defined so much of my adult life?

That’s harder.

The deeper question may ask us to examine something we’d rather leave undisturbed—our identity, our relationships, our fears, and the assumptions we’ve carried for years.

Sometimes the practical question protects us from the more consequential one.

And then there are questions for which nothing is actually wrong.

I discovered that when I turned the question on myself. I didn’t have just one.

Am I making the right choices for this next chapter of my life?

What legacy am I leaving?

Should I turn what I’ve learned over more than fifty-five years into a book—or several—and try to reach more people?

Am I putting enough energy into staying connected to a vibrant community and continuing to have new experiences?

And beneath all four, I found another:

How do I honor the quiet life that suits me without allowing my world to become smaller?

Not for me, a smaller world.

Because the quiet rhythm of my days suits my spirit. I am happy when I choose to be alone.

I don’t want to fill my life simply for the sake of filling it.

But neither do I want comfort to become an excuse for not following something that might matter.

Solitude and community.
Contentment and possibility.
A quiet life and meaningful contribution.
Accepting who I am and continuing to grow.

Beneath all of those tensions may be the question I will be living for some time:

How do I make the most of the life I’ve been given while honoring the way I genuinely want to live it?

I don’t think that’s a question I will answer once.

I’m living the answer—and periodically checking whether I’ve got the balance right.

Finding the real question doesn’t guarantee an answer.

Sometimes the value of the question is that it helps us steer.

—Susan

Continue the Conversation

The conversation doesn’t end with these weekly essays.

Many of the ideas I explore here continue in Substack Notes—in observations, questions, and ordinary moments that sometimes become the beginning of a future essay.

I share those thoughts in Substack Notes, where readers add their own experiences and perspectives. Some of my favorite conversations happen there.

If you’d like to join me, I’d love to have you there.

And this week, I’d love to know:

What question lies beneath the question you’ve been trying to answer?

You don’t need to have the answer. Sometimes recognizing the real question is enough to begin.

I’d love to hear what you discover in the comments.

Leave a comment

Nothing extraordinary happened last evening. At least that’s what I would have said if I hadn’t been paying attention.

I watched a hidden sunset, a deer beneath the trees, a monarch butterfly resting on purple flowers, and a little Papillon who decided bedtime had arrived before I did.

I felt a cold summer wind coming in from the north to bring a thunder-and-lightning rainstorm, my favorite northern Michigan weather.

The sunset wasn’t the kind that draws hundreds of people with phones held high. The gray, overcast sky offered no sunset at all until, out of the swirling, threatening masses of gray, orange-red fingers of light fought their way free of the clouds. A fiery orb pierced the clouds.

Next door, I caught a glimmer of brown among the green bushes of the landscape. A female deer, possibly the one that gave birth along the shore a few weeks ago, stared at me across the yard.

For one suspended moment, it was just the two of us in silent communion.

We held that quiet moment together. Then she turned and walked away with dainty steps instead of running, as though neither of us had anything to fear.

Purple butterfly bushes in my yard attract monarch butterflies, among the most beautiful butterflies, with a migration story that seems impossible for such delicate creatures.

I have always planted flowers to attract the butterflies and hummingbirds, such tiny expressions of nature, little reminders that creation is far richer than we often notice. They return to Michigan every summer.

Then there is Percy, my one-year-old Papillon. He speaks to me throughout the day but never more eloquently than when he is ready for bed, and he believes I have outstayed the day.

He settles on the carpet a few feet from me, not in his usual place under my feet and chair. He harumphs and noisily turns in circles until settling into the Papillon circle for sleep.

He stares at me through one wide-open eye as if, by staring at me loudly enough, he can will me to end my day. Most days, he wins.

As darkness settled over the lake, I realized the richness of the evening had little to do with what had happened. It came from noticing what I might otherwise have missed.

None of these moments was dramatic or extraordinary. They were simply gifts waiting to be seen.

Nothing remarkable happened.

And yet it was one of the richest evenings of my week.

What if the quality of our lives depends less on what happens to us than on what we learn to notice?

You may not live where I live, but extraordinary moments surround all of us when we learn to look at ordinary life with new eyes.

A meaningful life is rarely hidden.

It’s usually overlooked in the everyday noise and to-dos that surround us.

Tomorrow, something ordinary will happen.

It may become the richest part of your day.

Only don’t overlook it.

Warmly,

Susan

Continue the Conversation

The conversation doesn’t end with these weekly essays.

Many of them begin as ordinary moments I almost overlook—a hidden sunset, an unexpected visitor, something Percy does, or a question that quietly follows me through the day.

I share many of those moments in Substack Notes, where readers often notice things I missed and add stories of their own. Some of my favorite conversations begin there.

If you’d like to join me in noticing them, I’d love to have you there.

And this week, I’d love to know:

What ordinary moment have you noticed lately that turned out to be anything but ordinary?

I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

Leave a comment

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A manager once asked me,

“How do I motivate my employees?”

It’s not a foolish question.

It’s simply an incomplete one.

Because hidden inside it is an assumption that the problem already lives inside the employees.

Before deciding that the answer is true, because it often isn’t, I’d want to know a few things.

What are the employees actually doing that leads you to conclude they’re unmotivated?

Has it always been this way?

When someone makes a mistake, what happens?

Who thrives here? Who doesn’t? Why?

When someone takes initiative, what happens?

What has the environment taught people about the value of speaking up, trying something new, or taking responsibility?

Sometimes the answer really is that you’ve hired the wrong person.

Sometimes the person truly has checked out.

Notice what has happened.

We haven’t decided that the employees aren’t the problem.

We’ve simply delayed the diagnosis until we understand the system.

But remarkably often, people are responding intelligently to the environment they’re experiencing.

If initiative is ignored, they stop taking initiative.

If mistakes are punished, they become cautious.

If decisions are arbitrary, they stop investing emotionally.

The manager began by asking how to motivate employees.

The more useful question became:

What have the employees learned about working here?

That question leads somewhere entirely different.

I realized this wasn't just a consulting question. It has shaped the way I think about almost every human problem.

The habit isn’t limited to management.

It follows us into every relationship.

How do I get my spouse to listen?

How do I get my adult child to call?

How do I get my friend to stop canceling?

How do I get Percy, my Papillon, to eat nutritious food?

The first question is almost always about changing someone else.

The more useful place to begin is asking whether we’ve correctly understood the situation we’re trying to change.

The way we name a problem determines where we look for the solution.

If we begin with the wrong diagnosis, even our best efforts may solve the wrong problem.

Sometimes, after looking more carefully, we discover that another person really is the problem.

Sometimes we discover that we are.

Most often, we discover that the problem isn’t located in one person at all.

It’s in the pattern between us.

And once we see the pattern clearly, we finally know where to begin.

I don't only think about questions like these in longer essays. They often begin as ordinary observations—a moment, an experience, or something I notice in my own life.

Throughout the week, I share many of those in Substack Notes. One from this week sparked a wonderful conversation:

I learned quite a lot today from an art class I didn’t attend.

I learned I don’t want to be anywhere at 9 a.m. No more. No way.

I don’t want to spend hours outdoors in the summer heat with rising humidity.

I don’t want to paint in a parking lot rather than in a natural spot just because my car and supplies are conveniently nearby.

I don’t want to spend the whole second day painting in the pouring rain or sitting in a classroom.

I don’t want to leave my dog Percy alone for hours at a time on multiple days.

And my aching feet have opinions of their own about standing and walking all over the county.

The interesting thing is that none of this means I don’t want to learn to paint.

Sometimes we give up something we genuinely want because we’ve mistaken one way of doing it for the thing itself.

I’m still going to paint. I just need to find a way of learning that fits the life I actually live.

I framed my first painting.

The conversation that followed reminded me why I enjoy writing Notes. Readers didn't talk about painting. They began sharing how they’re reshaping their lives to fit the people they've become.

I share more shorter reflections throughout the week in Substack Notes about values, ordinary life, Percy, books, beauty, and the questions that keep following me.

Has asking a different question ever changed the way you understood a difficult situation? I’d love to hear your story.

Leave a comment

One sunset at a time.

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For the past few years, I’ve written often about transitions.

Our lives are full of them: loss, divorce, retirement, health changes, job or career endings, moving between places, adopting a puppy, doing things alone for the first time without a life partner, and the deaths of significant people.

These are the moments that divide life into “before” and “after.” They deserve our attention because they change us.

But recently I’ve been wondering if we spend too much time focusing on the milestones and not enough time talking about what comes next.

Because most of life isn’t a milestone.

Most of life is just a lot of little stuff—tasks necessary for existence.

It’s the finance meeting that needs to be scheduled.

The hearing aid appointment.

The pantry that finally gets organized after weeks—or years—of putting it off.

The outdoor furniture cushions that need to be tied down before the summer storms.

Cleaning the garage to unload a lifetime accumulation of junk.

The grocery order.

The dog food.

The walk.

The goose family.

The sunset.

Nobody puts those things in their obituary.

Yet these things are where life is actually lived.

After my husband Bill died, I expected grief to be the story. And for a long time, it was. For a while, I wasn’t interested in much beyond remembering. I lived with the memories of our together times.

But grief isn’t what fills most days now.

What fills most days is:

Deciding what to eat for dinner.

Paying bills.

Taking care of Percy.

Calling family.

Watching the weather.

Maintaining two homes.

Remembering to charge my watch.

Life continues to arrive disguised as ordinary tasks.

And I’ve begun to think there is something important about that.

We often assume meaning lives in the big moments.

The promotion.

The wedding.

The retirement.

The move.

The diagnosis.

The loss.

But what if meaning is built somewhere else?

What if a meaningful life is largely made up of things that don’t seem meaningful at the time?

A few days ago, I watched a family of geese making their way across the water and up the shore.

Another evening, I stayed outside long enough to see a gray day end in a brilliant pink sunset.

This week, I finished organizing a pantry that had been bothering me for several years.

Today, I framed and hung my first watercolor painting from my first painting class.

I held Percy last night while we watched, and he barked at the orange sliver of the moon sinking into the lake.

None of these moments changed my life.

Yet each one made my life feel more complete.

The same is true of people I share time with.

A dinner with family outdoors in a restaurant built in a former sanitarium, and my first taste of a smoked Manhattan.

A conversation with a friend on my porch.

A phone call with my sister in Chicago, Colorado, or Munising.

A chat with a woman who stopped to pet Percy and share with me her dog’s death, as I walked on a St. Petersburg street

A brief exchange with a woman who delivered flowers and warned me to watch Percy outside because an eagle stole her twenty-year-old dog.

These moments rarely announce themselves as important. We usually recognize their value only later.

Perhaps that’s why we almost overlook them.

We’re looking for significance when what we need is attention.

The older I get, the more I suspect that a meaningful life isn’t built from dramatic moments alone.

It’s built from small acts of care repeated over time.

Taking care of our homes.

Taking care of our health.

Taking care of our relationships.

Taking care of the responsibilities that arrive each day, whether we feel inspired or not.

Not because these things are exciting.

Because they sustain us.

They create the conditions that allow us to keep showing up for what matters.

Maybe that’s the part nobody talks about.

Not the transition.

Not the rebuilding.

But the ordinary days that follow.

After life changes, ordinary days are how we find our way back to living.

One pantry.

One walk.

One family dinner.

One sunset at a time.

The days filled with lots of little stuff.

The days that quietly become our lives.

Thank you for reading and for sharing this season of life with me.

One of the lessons I’m still learning is that life doesn’t usually return through dramatic moments. More often, it returns quietly—in familiar routines, ordinary responsibilities, unexpected conversations, and small moments of beauty that ask only to be noticed.

As you move through your week, I hope you’ll notice one ordinary moment that reminds you life is quietly unfolding around you. It might be a walk, a conversation, a family meal, a favorite view, or simply someone—or something—that makes you smile.

If this reflection resonated with you, please consider sharing it with someone who is navigating a major life transition. We rarely know what another person is carrying, and sometimes the gentle reminder that ordinary days still matter is exactly what someone needs to hear.

I also share shorter reflections throughout the week in Substack Notes about values, ordinary life, Percy, books, beauty, and the everyday moments that continue to teach me what matters most. This week, I wondered whether I was enough for Percy after his best friend went home. His answer surprised me.

Until next week,

Susan

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What ordinary moment has quietly sustained you lately?

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My life ended when Bill died.

And in an important sense, that’s true.

But the life that I knew, the expectations I had for the future, some hopes and dreams and plans, died with him.

It’s similar when you lose a job, move to a new state or country, marry, divorce, have children, get blocked from pursuing a deeply desired career like not getting accepted to a renowned art school, become an empty nester, experience personal illness or caretake another, retire, become disabled, or simply discover life did not become what you imagined.

Almost everyone eventually experiences: “The life I expected ended.” Sometimes an entire version of your future dies while you are still alive.

Sometimes, life doesn’t improve with a single breakthrough.

For a while after a major life change, people often postpone decisions:

“I’ll deal with that later.”

“That rug is good enough.”

“Those drawers can wait.”

Then one day, they start making choices again.

Not because they’re trying to create a perfect home or life, but because they expect to be living there.

I talked about walking through doors as you notice them, or they open their arms widely to greet you.

This shift leads to a new question: what happens when we are finally ready to notice again the things in our lives that sustain us?

Sometimes our vision improves because enough small burdens are lifted that you can finally notice the sunlight, the view, the house, the people helping, and the dog sleeping on your lap.

Sometimes strength doesn’t arrive as something new. Sometimes it arrives when familiar things begin to matter again.

Earlier, many of these things may have been present physically, but not emotionally accessible.

When people are moving through grief, upheaval, or major transition, sometimes the world narrows to getting through.

Then later, almost unexpectedly, something familiar happens.

You begin to feel the pull of life again.

You are not saying:

“Everything is fine now.”

You’re saying something more nuanced:

Over time, as this shift continues, familiar things begin to matter again in ways they couldn’t earlier.

At first, I thought I needed a new life.

What I discovered was that I first needed to regain access to the one I already had.

The lake hadn’t changed. My home hadn’t changed. The things I loved hadn’t disappeared. What changed was my ability to feel them again.

And with that access came something else: the expectation that I would continue living this life.

My home feels like home again, and I find myself repairing and gathering the things that were postponed during long months of grief, when I felt like a tiny person rattling around in a house that was too large.

Percy, my now one-year-old dog, sleeps under my feet—his safe place and my comfort.

I find myself watching the moon and the ships passing beneath its light.

I’m planning a painting space that never needs to be put away, in the room overlooking Lake Michigan, where I most love to spend my time.

I care about making a guest room beautiful and replacing the towels I promised Bill no guest would ever use again.

I’m placing large Meijer orders to replace condiments that expired when Bill died and to prepare for guests I know will arrive.

I’m writing by the lake again, watching the weather change, the hummingbirds arrive, and hundreds of seagulls fishing just steps from my door.

None of those are dramatic breakthroughs. They are evidence of re-engagement.

After a major life change, we often think strength will arrive dramatically—through determination, insight, or a breakthrough moment.

But sometimes strength returns quietly.

It appears in familiar things we couldn’t even notice earlier: the sound of water, a favorite view, a dog asleep at your feet, a routine returning, a room beginning to feel like home.

At first, surviving takes all of our attention.

Then one day, we realize something has changed.

We’re noticing life again.

Those are the moments people often miss while they’re waiting for something bigger.

Sometimes healing doesn’t arrive when something new enters your life.

Sometimes healing arrives when the things that sustained you all along become accessible again.

Thank you for reading and for sharing this season of life with me.

One of the lessons I continue to learn is that healing is not always about finding something new. Sometimes it’s about becoming able to see and feel the things that have quietly sustained us all along.

As you move through your week, I hope you’ll notice one familiar thing that brings you comfort, steadiness, or joy—a place, a person, a routine, a view, or even a small moment you may have overlooked for a while.

If this reflection resonated with you, please consider sharing it with someone who is navigating a major life change. We rarely know what another person is carrying, and sometimes a gentle reminder is enough to help them recognize that life may still be waiting for them.

I also share shorter reflections throughout the week in Substack Notes about values, ordinary life, Percy, books, beauty, and the small moments that continue to teach me what matters most.

Until next week,

Susan

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Some doors open quietly. Sometimes they appear as a sunset, a conversation, a city, a puppy, or simply the willingness to begin again.

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When you face a major transition, especially one you never wanted, you may discover that while some doors close, others quietly begin to open.

Some close through loss. Some through proximity. Some through shared interests disappearing. Some because the life you once built no longer fully fits the person you are becoming.

At first, after my husband Bill died, I mostly noticed the closed doors.

I noticed silence. I noticed absence. I noticed how many daily routines had quietly belonged to “us” instead of “me.”

I thought I loved cooking—and I still do—but I realized that Bill had always handled the parts I secretly disliked. He chopped ingredients, searched for spices, measured, organized, and kept everything moving.

I stirred, tasted, adjusted, added herbs, and turned ingredients into a finished dish.

Without him, cooking became strangely flat. Like a song with no high notes.

So I stopped.

At the same time, I realized there were things I had quietly stopped doing because they were not things we both enjoyed.

I have always loved traveling. Bill did not, as much as I did.

Now I travel more than I have in years.

We had talked about getting a puppy for a long time. After living alone for nine months, I finally chose Percy, my Papillon puppy, to become my companion.

I’m not even sure we would have chosen a Papillon together.

But Percy fills the house with movement, comedy, affection, and life. He has opened doors I didn’t even know I needed.

He gets me outside. He starts conversations. He makes people smile. He keeps me from disappearing too deeply into solitude.

I also bought a condo in St. Petersburg, Florida, about ten minutes from my chosen daughter and her husband.

The city spoke to me immediately.

Its waterfront, walkability, patios, parks, and energy felt full of possibility. I could picture chance meetings, conversations, people gathering outside with their dogs, music drifting from restaurants, and places where Percy and I could participate in community rather than simply observing life from a distance.

Would Bill and I have chosen St. Petersburg together? Probably not.

We might have ended up on a mountaintop in Georgia or near the ocean on Sullivan’s Island, beautiful places that now feel too isolated or too centered around couples for the life I am living.

St. Petersburg felt different.

The Gulf Coast has a warmth and friendliness that reminds me of the Midwest values I have always loved in Michigan.

And slowly, I realized something important.

Doors open if we are watching closely enough to notice them.

One evening at my winter beach resort, a bartender who had fallen in love with Percy introduced me to a retired financial consultant. That woman later invited me to join her painting group in Gulfport.

A few months ago, I would never have imagined myself taking watercolor classes.

Last week I attended my first one.

Do I love watercolor? I honestly don’t know yet.

But I loved making something with my hands. I loved learning. I loved sitting in a room with people trying something creative.

And I realized that many interests stay dormant simply because life becomes organized around familiar routines.

When you are married to your best friend, you naturally build a life around the things you both enjoy.

For Bill and me, that included long drives, cooking together, target shooting, British mystery series, and listening to the rambling predictions of two wandering Greek newscasters.

We spent time talking and sharing what we learned from reading and from our experiences.

Now I find myself rediscovering the individual parts of me that existed alongside our shared life.

Some doors open because we choose them intentionally.

For several years, I stopped driving because of joint pain, vision problems, and stress.

This spring I bought a car.

I still smile when I think about the freedom it represents.

Driving to Leland for lunch. Going to the post office. Taking myself somewhere simply because I feel like going.

Small freedoms begin to feel enormous after periods of limitation.

Other doors open because we finally stop waiting for someone to accompany us.

Recently, I made dinner reservations at my favorite restaurant, planning to go alone.

Two friends eventually joined me, but I realized something important while making the reservation.

I would have gone anyway.

That realization mattered.

I think many people become trapped after major transitions because they spend too much time staring at the doors that have closed.

And of course, we grieve them. Some losses deserve lifelong grief.

But eventually, life begins quietly offering invitations again.

A class. A conversation. A dog. A city. A theater ticket for one. A walk. A new friendship. A different future than the one you expected.

Not every new door leads somewhere important.

Some lead nowhere at all.

But some lead us back toward participation, curiosity, connection, creativity, and life itself.

And often, those doors do not swing open dramatically.

They open quietly.

Almost invisibly.

We notice them only if we are willing to look up from our grief or other loss long enough to see them.

I’m glad you’re here.

Thank you for staying with me through this season of change, discovery, and opening new doors.

If this reflection resonated, carry one small opening with you this week—no effort, no plan, just a little more attention to what may already be quietly waiting around you.

And if someone in your life is navigating change or loneliness, feel free to share this piece. Sometimes a gentle companion is exactly what’s needed.

I also share shorter reflections on values, life, Percy, and the small moments shaping this season several times a week in Substack Notes, along with posts from writers whose work I admire.

It’s a more spontaneous space, and I’d love to see you there.

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Even fleeting interactions shape the emotional texture of our lives.

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Lately, I’ve been thinking a great deal about what helps people feel steady, seen, and emotionally safe in the world.

I have been my own example as I navigate life without my husband by my side.

We often underestimate how deeply human beings respond to the way they are treated in ordinary moments.

Years ago, in nearly every seminar I led, I would say:
“People don’t care about what you know until they know how much you care—about them.”

Over the years, I watched people nod in recognition. Deep down, we all know it’s true.

They know when a person is listening only long enough to prepare their response. They know when praise is performative. They know when concern is strategic rather than sincere. They know when attention is divided and when someone is fully present.

People know when they are valued and when they are simply being managed like a resource.

Over time, people decide how much of themselves they are willing to give based on how they are treated.

This applies everywhere:

• at work,

• at home,

• in friendships,

• in marriages,

• in leadership,

• and in communities.

New Interactions Confirm This Belief

Over the past year, I’ve had more interactions with strangers than I expected.

I bought a home in St. Petersburg. I recently purchased a new car. I’ve spent time navigating unfamiliar places, new systems, contractors, appointments, and decisions I once shared with someone else.

What stays with me afterward is rarely the transaction itself.

It’s the people who slowed down enough to make things easier.

The salesperson who treated me like a person, not a commission. Preston, the technician who patiently sat in my garage, answered questions until I felt comfortable with the technology in my new car. Noel, the salesperson, sat in the back seat learning and sharing, too.

The realtor who stayed involved long after the sale, helping with designers and wanting to see how the home came together.

The woman who brought me Percy brought her two Papillons along for the journey. Why? Not only because she rarely leaves them, but because she wanted me to see what he’d look like all grown up.

Family members who checked in not because they needed something, but because they genuinely cared how I was doing. A great nephew who took me to dinner, just because.

The longer I live, the more I believe that what we focus on becomes the life we create.

Even fleeting interactions shape the emotional texture of our lives more than we realize.

And part of that life is created moment by moment through how we treat the people around us.

In Work Cultures and Families

The strongest cultures are not built solely through slogans, perks, mission statements, or carefully crafted public messages.

They are built quietly through everyday interactions where people feel respected, encouraged, trusted, included, and genuinely important.

People flourish where they feel emotionally safe.

And people slowly withdraw where they feel unseen, dismissed, managed, or emotionally expendable.

I think this is one reason presence matters so much.

Most people are carrying burdens we cannot see:

• grief,

• fear,

• loneliness,

• uncertainty,

• exhaustion,

• self-doubt,

• or private struggles that they rarely discuss openly.

The way we speak to people, listen to them, encourage them, and respond to them can either strengthen them or diminish them more than we realize.

Valuing people and making them feel valued requires a shift in perspective.

You have to stop seeing people as a means to an end and start seeing them as the reason the end is even possible.

Warren Buffett once said that success, as he looked back over his life, is measured by how many of the people you want to love you actually do love you.

I think he understood something important.

In the end, people rarely remember our titles, accomplishments, strategies, or productivity metrics as much as they remember how it felt to be around us.

Whether they felt heard.

Whether our presence made life feel a little steadier, safer, kinder, or more human.

People remember whether they mattered to us.

I am feeling deeply grateful as I write ValuesCrafting. After nearly two years of trying to understand exactly what I wanted this publication to become, the path is finally becoming clearer to me—both what I want to write and who I hope to reach in these later chapters of my life.

The way people live emotionally and relationally shapes almost everything else in their lives.

The way we handle fear, grief, attention, trust, loneliness, encouragement, and integrity ultimately shapes the quality of our relationships, our environments, and our lives.

June is “See Me, Hear Me Month” for ValuesCrafting.

If this issue spoke to you, I hope you’ll share it with someone else who might benefit from its message.

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What You Focus On Is the Life You Create

Some weeks don’t slow down when you need them to.

You have appointments to keep, decisions to make, things to figure out—and underneath it all, you may still be carrying something heavy.

This week, I found myself doing exactly that.

My puppy was sick from ingesting vegetation from the forest—his favorite food after paper. I made decisions about my St. Petersburg condo. Planned my summer up north. Managed multiple medical appointments, along with two vet visits for Percy. Stayed in touch with family and newly found friends in Florida.

Life kept moving.

And underneath it all, grief was there.

Percy spent several days jumping up to put his paws on the couch—exactly where Bill sat for years—arching his back, wagging his tail, and “talking” in the way Papillons do, as if he were carrying on a conversation.

It stopped me every time.

Life doesn’t wait until we feel ready. It simply continues—and asks us to move with it.

Before we act, even when daily tasks press in, we choose our focus.

And what we focus on becomes what we live.

I have spent more time in grief than I would ever want you to experience. And yet, I am learning that I can also choose where my attention rests.

I can notice:

• Percy running like the wind beneath my 50-year-old oak trees

• the gentle green of early spring

• the grandeur of rain and lightning through my skylights

In those moments, something shifts.

Grief doesn’t disappear. But it no longer defines the whole of my experience.

In this sacred place—my heart’s home—I am reminded that what I pay attention to shapes what I become.

You don’t control everything that reaches for your attention.

But you can choose what you stay with.

When life feels heavy, notice what holds your gaze.

Does it pull you toward despair—or toward something that steadies you?

Even one small shift matters.

Listen to a colleague and help them find their way forward.
Watch a child discover something new and share in their wonder.
Turn your attention, even briefly, to what gives you a sense of life.

These are not small choices.

They are how a life is formed.

You don’t have to feel fully ready.
You don’t have to have everything figured out.

Sometimes, the most meaningful thing you can do is simply continue—one decision, one action, one step at a time.

And trust that clarity about who you are and what you need will follow.

You become what you think about most of the time. Let those thoughts nurture your forward movement.

I’m glad you’re here.
Thank you for staying with me through this season of change and discovery.

If this reflection resonated, carry one small opening with you this week—no effort, no plan, just a little more attention to what’s already around you.

If someone in your life is navigating change or quiet loneliness, feel free to share this piece. Sometimes a gentle companion is exactly what’s needed.

I also share short reflections on values, life, and Percy several times a week in Substack Notes—along with posts from other writers whose work I admire. It’s a more spontaneous space, and I’d love to see you there.

Life keeps moving—even under heavy skies.

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How to Keep Living When Something Fundamental Has Changed

Life goes on—ready or not.
When you experience a loss, that becomes impossible to ignore.

That’s the part no one prepares you for.

In a Facebook group for widows and widowers, the number of people who struggle to get out of bed, leave the house, or do anything beyond going to work is astonishing—and sobering.

People have been stuck in these patterns for years.

One post I read this morning described a spouse’s clothes still hanging in closets eleven years after their death.

People carry grief in different ways. But staying stuck for years is more common than we acknowledge—and more limiting than most people realize.

This is not just about widowhood—

It is about something almost everyone experiences:
• Making decisions alone
• Life moving forward before we feel ready
• Grief resurfacing during forward motion
• The gap between emotional readiness and practical necessity

So how do you keep living when everything changes?

That applies to:
• Divorce
• Adult children leaving
• Retirement
• Health shifts
• Leadership transitions
• Career endings
• Geographic moves
• Friendships ending
In each circumstance, a new life needs to be built.

The central reality remains: life keeps moving—whether you are ready or not.

This does not diminish sadness or grief.

But a point comes when you have to begin to loosen their hold—not because they disappear, but because life continues to require something from you.

Building Without Betraying

Moving forward does not diminish love.

It does not erase grief.

It is not disloyal to keep living.

That tension matters.

You keep the parts of the old life that still support and strengthen you. But you also begin making decisions about what you need in the next part of your life.

When you identify what truly sustains you, you can make thoughtful choices—even discover options that stretch and, at times, even excite you.

What It Means to Go On

Not reinvention.

Not forced cheerfulness.

But:
• keeping what strengthens you
• releasing what anchors you to paralysis
• choosing environments that support who you must now become

Making Decisions Alone

One of the hardest losses is the shift from “we” to “I.”

Not just the loss of practical help, but the loss of shared certainty. The quiet confidence that comes from weighing decisions together.

That is gone.

If my husband were alive, we would be planning winters on Sullivan’s Island or on a mountaintop in Georgia.

Many of the choices we might have made together would now feel too couple-oriented, too isolated, or simply not right for me alone.

Instead, I bought a condo in St. Petersburg—ten minutes from my chosen daughter and her husband, in a neighborhood with a walkability score of 97.

A place where I can meet people, be part of daily life, and make sure Percy, my Papillon puppy, gets his walks and can explore his world.

And in the midst of making what I believe are good decisions, what has surprised me most is this:

I have cried more in the last few weeks than I ever expected, sixteen months in.

Because every decision reinforces the reality that I am making this life alone.

Grief Does Not Pause the World

Bills still arrive.

Papers still need to be signed.

Tax returns must be prepared.

Homes still need to be chosen and furnished, or sold.

Deadlines still come.

Opportunities still ask for an answer.

Life keeps moving, demanding a response regardless of our readiness.

And somehow, we must learn to move with it—without betraying what we have lost.

What To Do When Life Moves Before You’re Ready

Life is moving whether you are ready or not. You can stall it indefinitely—at great cost to your mental health and well-being.

Or, you can begin moving, no matter how tentatively, to create the life you want—and need—after loss.

If you’re in this place right now, start here:

• Make one decision today.

Not the perfect one. Just one that moves something in your life forward. I lived in the St. Petersburg area for four months, a continuation of my husband’s and my quest to spend winters in the south. I found living there brought me a significant amount of what truly sustains me, an unexpected blessing.

• Do the next necessary thing—not the whole plan

Pay the bill. Make the call. Sign the paper. I started looking for a home. In my experience, finding the right home often takes years.

• Keep one stabilizing routine to ground you.

A walk. Coffee at the same time, maybe in your favorite coffee place. One conversation, perhaps with the neighbor you see daily on your walk. Stop in your work breakroom to greet coworkers. Do your morning prayers and meditation.

• Don’t wait to feel ready. You may never.

Readiness often follows action, not the other way around. I’ve often experienced that if I behave as if I have already accomplished my goal, the pieces fall into place more easily.

• Choose environments that support you now—not the life you used to have.

This has been a significant step for me, choosing a new environment to leave the trappings of grief for a while.

Staying on St. Pete Beach, a vacation area where people tend to make repeat visits, I met the neighbors over the porch railing weekly.

Alone, I found myself speaking to each new neighbor as they came and went.

One attended a friend’s daughter’s wedding.

Another showed their golden retrievers in obedience trials. This woman friended me on Facebook, and we discovered we had so much in common; the world seemed small again.

Almost ten years apart, we attended the same high school, graduated from the same college, and worked at GM in the 80s. She was just starting her career at Cadillac, and I had transitioned from education to Buick-Oldsmobile-Cadillac, Lansing.

My beach and pool bartender introduced me to a woman who met weekly with a painting group. I attended several times, and they will meet near me in St. Pete next winter: new friends.

• Allow grief to come with you.

You don’t need to resolve it before moving forward. I don’t feel less grief. In fact, in this second year, and as I make decisions alone, I feel more grief.

Not because something is wrong—
But because moving forward continues to reveal what has changed.

Closing Thoughts

Life will always contain periods when events move faster than understanding can keep pace.

These seasons are not interruptions of life—they are part of how life unfolds.

With patience, steady choices, and continued presence, clarity returns.

We do not outgrow grief. We grow around it.*

Sometimes, the bravest thing we do is not heal quickly, or feel ready, or become certain.

Sometimes, the bravest thing we do is let life go on—
even while our hearts are still catching up.

*The concept of growing around grief, originated by Lois Tonkin, has always resonated with me more than more familiar models, such as the stages of grief described by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Her work focused on people who were dying and was later extended by others to grief more broadly. My experience aligns more closely with Tonkin’s model.

Some weeks feel exactly like this.

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Some weeks, you don’t write about your values.
You live them.

This past week has been one of those times for me.

This week has brimmed over with family conversations, legal and financial decisions, tax work, travel changes, a move to a new space, and a small dog trying to understand it all while staying as close to me as possible.

In the middle of it, I was reminded of something I wrote last year—something that matters even more now:

Being kind to yourself is not weakness. It’s courage.

What Is Self-Compassion, Really?

At its heart, self-compassion means:

• Recognizing your pain exists,

• Acknowledging that you deeply feel pain and sorrow,

• Understanding that your pain is part of the shared human experience,

• Responding with warmth and care rather than harsh judgment or self-criticism, and

• Reaching out to others from a sense of shared humanity, knowing they, too, may need a compassionate, caring interaction to brighten their day.

Internally, you make a choice when you practice self-compassion. You decide to:

• Comfort yourself rather than criticize

• Soothe yourself rather than shame

• Stand beside yourself, rather than against yourself

• Honor your humanity and your need for care when you are vulnerable

It’s how we acknowledge we are human—flawed, vulnerable, resilient—and still worthy of the kindness we offer others.

Why You Deserve Self-Compassion, Just Like You Deserve Empathy

Empathy says: “I see your pain, and I’m here with you.”

Self-compassion says: “I see my pain, and I’m here with me.”

We believe others deserve empathy, but we make ourselves earn it. We tell ourselves things like:

• “I should be stronger by now.”

• “Other people have it worse.”

• “I just need to push through.”

• “Why haven’t I gotten over this?”

But that’s not how self-compassion works.

You’re not the exception to the rule of care. You’re part of the human story, too.

Self-compassion isn’t a reward for perfect behavior or composure. It’s a necessity for living with integrity and hope.

This past week, I didn’t get everything done.

I didn’t write.
I was tired.
I was stretched.
I made decisions about issues I couldn’t fully control.

And still, I chose to support myself.

That’s what self-compassion looks like in real life.
Not perfectly calm. Not under ideal conditions.
Just choosing, again and again, to stay on my own side.

How Self-Compassion Strengthens Your Life

When you practice self-compassion, you begin to:

Build real resilience
You recover from hardship faster because you’re not carrying shame and self-blame alongside it.

Act with integrity
You align your principles both inward and outward. You don’t just say kindness matters—you live it, even when no one is watching—and when someone is.

Feel more grounded
You stop relying on perfection to feel worthy. You begin to trust that who you are is enough, even as you continue to grow.

Self-compassion allows you to navigate life with greater clarity, steadiness, and energy, so you can focus on what truly matters.

The Cost of Self-Neglect

Without self-compassion, even your best intentions can work against you.

• You practice empathy for others, but criticize yourself when you need rest.

• You model kindness, but speak harshly to yourself in difficult moments.

• You advocate for balance, but push through exhaustion because your own needs feel secondary.

Over time, this disconnect erodes trust in yourself.

It shows up as burnout, anxiety, tension, or the quiet feeling that you’re always falling short.

7 Ways to Practice Self-Compassion

You don’t need hours of meditation or a retreat to begin. You need awareness, intention, and a willingness to treat yourself with care.

1. Acknowledge Your Feelings
Don’t minimize or dismiss them. Say what’s true: “This is hard.” “I feel overwhelmed.”

2. Respond with Kindness
Replace “What’s wrong with me?” with “Of course, this is difficult.” Speak to yourself as you would to someone you love.

3. Remember You’re Not Alone
Imperfection is part of being human. You are not broken. You are not the only one.

4. Prioritize Self-Care
Rest. Eat well. Take walks. Say no. Talk compassionately and companionably with strangers. Choose what restores you.

5. Use Grounding Practices
Pause. Breathe. Take a moment to offer yourself kindness when you need it most.

6. Challenge Your Inner Critic
Ask: “Would I say this to someone I care about?” If not, change the message.

7. Reflect and Reinforce
Notice when self-compassion helped you feel steadier. Acknowledge it. Build on it.

Why It’s Worth It

When you practice self-compassion, you become someone your future self can rely on.

• You feel more at ease in your body and your decisions.

• You meet others with more dignity because you’re not running on empty.

• You face hard days by supporting yourself.

And that changes everything.

Bringing It Home

You may be navigating grief, change, responsibility, or simply the quiet weight of too many things to think about at once.

Wherever you are, this remains true:

Self-compassion is not indulgence.
It is how you stay steady when life is not.

This week reminded me of that in the most practical way.

Some days, the most courageous thing you can do is not push harder or get everything right.

It’s to say:

“This is a lot. And I’m still here.”

And to treat yourself accordingly.

Reflection Prompt

Think of a moment this week when you were tired, stretched, or hard on yourself.

What would it look like to meet that exact moment—not with pressure—but with self-care and understanding?

I’m glad you’re here.
Thank you for staying with me through this season of change and discovery.

If this reflection resonated, I hope you’ll carry one small opening with you this week—no effort, no plan, just a little more availability to what’s already around you.

And if someone in your life is navigating change or quiet loneliness, feel free to share this piece with them. Sometimes a gentle companion is exactly what’s needed.

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Some mornings look like this.

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How to Stay Steady in a Season of Sadness

Small ways your values hold you in place when your energy is low.

Lately, the emotion I notice most often is sadness.

Not crisis-level sadness, and not the kind that stops life entirely—but a quieter sadness that settles in during seasons of change, when the life you knew has shifted and the new shape of things is still forming.

This kind of sadness doesn’t demand fixing or explanation. It asks to be acknowledged. It is the sadness that comes when life has changed, and you are still living it well, just more quietly than before.

Sadness changes the texture of the day. Mornings can feel heavier. Decisions take longer. Even good moments arrive more softly.

You can be productive, responsible, and outwardly “fine”—and still feel the undercurrent of something tender moving beneath it all. None of this means you are failing. It means you are adjusting.

Many people assume that values are easiest to live when we feel strong, clear, and certain. In reality, our values matter most during the seasons when energy is lower, motivation is uneven, and simply showing up requires more intention than it once did.

In these quieter seasons, values stop being aspirational ideas and become stabilizers. They don’t pull us forward dramatically; they hold us in place long enough for meaning to re-form.

Sadness lowers the volume of life. For those who have spent years being capable, dependable, and strong for others, it often arrives not as collapse, but as a softening. A slowing. A reduction in outward intensity.

And yet, life continues.

Living our values in these seasons rarely looks dramatic. It looks like continuing to care for the responsibilities in front of us—keeping a small promise, offering patience when we would rather withdraw, taking one steady step forward even when standing still would feel easier.

I have noticed that keeping one small promise each day—finishing a paragraph, making a call, taking a walk—restores a quiet sense of agency.

Maintaining one stabilizing routine gives the day shape. Offering one small act of kindness, even when no one notices, reminds me that sadness does not erase character.

When many parts of life feel unsettled, I try to keep one or two emotional anchors steady—routines, relationships, places, or small daily rituals that remain untouched while everything else shifts.

For me, that looks like praying in the morning before the day begins, drinking coffee while overlooking water, taking Percy for his daily sniff walk, and reaching out to a family member each day.

These anchors are simple but steady. They give shape to the day when the larger story still feels undefined.

Those anchors allow the rest of the adjustment to happen without overwhelming us.

What I am learning is that becoming steady again does not happen all at once. It happens in small returns—returning to the work that still matters, returning to the people who remain, returning to routines that anchor the day.

Over time, these small returns quietly rebuild direction. Not because the sadness disappears, but because meaning begins to grow alongside it.

As I have spent time identifying the sources of meaning that energize my life rather than drain it, I notice that the life I am building reflects what I actually need.

I am writing.
I am near big water and forest.
I am experiencing family closeness.
I am happy spending time with Percy, my Papillon puppy.
I am testing seasonal rhythms.
I am refining my purpose rather than chasing it.

In the midst of sadness, I am learning to live beautifully, to influence quietly, to stay close to nature, to stay close to truth, and to stay close to the people who matter.

I am not in a hurry to make any of this happen. But over the past year, I have quietly been assembling a life that holds meaning for the next chapter.

Sadness is still my overarching feeling. There is too much to mourn, including hundreds of planned chapters that will never come to pass. I do not expect the sadness to disappear entirely. Perhaps not ever.

But I am beginning to see that it is not only an ending. It is also the soil in which something new is taking root.

You don’t need to hurry yourself out of these seasons. Sadness does not mean you are stuck. It often means you are between chapters.

Strength in these seasons is rarely visible. It looks like continuing. And continuing, quietly and with care, is often how lives take their next true shape.

I’m grateful you’re here.

If you’re walking through a quieter season, I hope this piece reminds you that continuing—even gently—still counts.

This week, consider one small return: one routine, one promise, or one act of quiet steadiness that helps you feel anchored.

And if someone you care about is navigating sadness, feel free to share this with them. Sometimes knowing you’re not alone in the middle of it makes all the difference.

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