Undoubtedly, you also have people at work, in your neighborhood, in your family, who will scrape against Mother’s Day. Who can you reach out to this week?  It doesn’t have to be fancy or perfect. 

This is not sustainable.  We (and every created thing) function best in rhythms of rest and productivity.  We deprive ourselves of true rest by never truly disconnecting from work.

We should stop asking about people’s reproductive roadmap, especially in work-place settings. 
Don’t ask when someone is going to start a family, when they are going to have more children, or even when they are going to become a grandparent (i.e. when are your kids going to start having kids?).

You simply do not know what journey the individual is on…and you could put them in an awkward situation. 
And if they do invite you into that space of conversation, proceed with great awareness and care.   

Where can you (and I) embrace the slow-and-patient today?

Remember, empathy begins at home.  Consider the golden rule:  love your neighbor as you love yourself.  If you are not growing in empathy and care for the disruptive, orphaned parts of your own story, it will be difficult to (sustainably) show up with care and support for those you care about at work and in life.

Let me invite you to stop comparing and compartmentalizing your churning emotional world.  Comparative grief is a dead-end street. The worst grief is always the YOUR grief.

Who you are today isn't who you have to be tomorrow.  Growth is hard and beautiful and worth it.  Greet the new versions of yourself with a kiss and be willing to part ways with what no longer serves you.  What would you say to a younger version of yourself?

Whether it is reaching quarterly goals, implementing new payment software, or facing the final semester of high school before your child goes off to college, may you feel (and co-create) confidence and competence to face the uncertainty ahead.

Remember, progress over perfection every time.  Don’t be a Self-Loathing Sally or an Avoidant Andy.  Instead, when you realize the gap between who you want to be and your actions, move into the gap with meaningful actions and communication.

Showing up for people doesn’t always feel easy.  While creating cultures of care at work, in friendships, at home, there are moments where you’d rather not.  Not write that text or come back early.  Not lean in and listen or show up.

Anniversaries are not just dates on a calendar, they are written in and on our bodies.  Maybe you also mark anniversaries with a bodily manifestation.  Or perhaps you feel particularly disembodied around times of remembering.

These Cheer-Up Cheryls have a gift of positivity and are usually driven by connection; they care about the other person and desperately want to make things “better”.

But they end up sounding tone-deaf and forcing the other person to either put up a happy facade or to shut down into silence. 

Many of you know me from a stage or a conference room, where I appear professional and talk easily about empathy and human-centric skills.  But in today’s newsletter, I want to give you a snapshot of a younger, desperate and grieving Liesel.

Shame is a crappy motivator. Shame can get you short-term results, but in the long term, it demeans your people and undercuts your authority as a leader. Communicating boundaries and expectations with trust shows confident, caring leadership.

How can you support someone in your life or on your team as they go through the death of a pet? Here are just a few of the meaningful gestures that our community sent our way after we lost Tozer.  Maybe they can inspire you as you consider care for those that have lost a pet.

If you want to build sustainable cultures of care, you need to learn kindness towards those pieces/versions of yourself that you are *currently* meeting with disdain or dread.

Showing up for others means showing up in a way that matters to them…and this sometimes involves setting aside your ego.

“No, I think it is just as likely that this year, my marriage will fall apart, one of my children will get scabies and another will get sick and die of leukemia.”
 
I remember spitting those words out in late December, answering a well-meaning friend who asked me what I was hoping for in the coming year and if I really believed that God had good things in store for me.

It happens on the sidelines of lacrosse games or standing in line at the grocery:  a seemingly innocent conversation starter from a new friend, perfect stranger, or casual acquaintance.
 
“And how many children do you have?”
 
How to answer?  As a parent of a dead child, I teeter on the edge of my response. 

I was back in the bedroom when I heard the breaking:  ceramic crashed against the tile.  I knew in a moment:  it was one of the birds. 

In the grey and grinding months after our daughter, Mercy Joan, died, my mother gave me a set of seven ceramic birds.  “A reminder that you will always be a family of seven.”  I displayed them on our mantle…poignant, a little cheesy, and unfortunately vulnerable to the daily antics of Magnus.
 
I heaved myself into the hallway, emotion rising, and found a stunned Magnus, frozen in horror over the wreckage of the birds.