Is this thing on?

Hello friends (assuming I manage to post this and someone’s reading it)!

I’m bad at getting used to new platforms and technology in general. It’s why I had a Twitter account for years before using it. Same here at Substack. It’s past time to figure it out! I’ll bring in my teenage IT tech, Nate, for reinforcements as needed.

I obviously have a lot of things to say. I’ve been wanting to express them in longer form and intending to start posting here. I have a tendency to make “perfect” the enemy of good, which sometimes keeps me from jumping in and doing the damn thing.

Social media has become so disheartening. It’s motivated me to make a change in how and where I spend my digital life (query whether any of us should have one but that train appears to have left the station).

I’m diving in to Substack (typos and all - resisting the urge to edit, polish, repeat) and will now post here regularly. It feels like no longer waiting to lose 10 pounds before you put on your bathing suit and swim. The pounds may not come off, your ass isn’t tight, but who cares? You’re swimming in the deep, blue sea.

Would you believe I wake up in the night or early morning filled with an intense sensation that I NEED to write and share certain things? I hope this doesn’t sound egotistical because my voice is certainly no more significant than anyone else’s. I feel an overwhelming urgency to use it.

Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you”.

I feel that deeply. I have untold stories that are beating down the door. A comparable experience was when Molly and Nate were 7 and 5, respectively. Jon and I couldn’t decide if we wanted to try for another baby. We had a long list of pros and cons. I felt what started as a whisper and eventually became an internal din. Another soul wanted to come into our family. This was happening. Period. End of story. Or the noise would become louder and louder and louder.

It was our Eli! Believe it or not, shortly after Molly died, four-year-old Eli wandered up to Jon and casually described being on the other side, impatiently waiting to join us. A soul in need of a body. That’s another story for another post. See what I mean about these things wanting to come out . . . .

Anyway, I’m writing a book. It started organically after Molly died. I poured my shattered soul onto the page because I didn’t know what else to do. I soon realized our story - mine and Molly’s - was taking shape.

I’ve known my entire life, since I was a lower-middle (sometimes very low) class kid going nowhere fast in my hometown of Fresno, CA, that I was going to write a book and speak to people all over the world. With total clarity and certainty. Most people thought I was nuts when I told them. Jon asked, “who’s going to read it? Your friends?” He wasn’t trying to be unsupportive but he didn’t see what I already knew.

Molly did though. When I had cancer and we didn’t know if I’d survive, she said, “Mom, if you don’t get to write your book, I’ll do it for you.” She was serious (as she usually was). Molly was an extraordinarily gifted writer, expressing herself in a way only possible by an ancient soul residing in a child’s body.

In the weeks leading up to Molly’s death, I kept hearing, “It’s time to get on your path.” Over and over. It was in the midst of the pandemic and I had no idea what it meant. I prayed about it, asking G-d to show me the path. I don’t always pray but I needed to.

This is not the path I would have chosen. Fuck no. Forget writing and speaking and everything else. I just want my girl. But we don’t always get to choose, and so I must travel it.

As I work on our book - Molly’s and mine - I need to release the pressure valve and share stories and thoughts with you here, in real time. The book process is long. Sheryl Sandberg kindly offered to write the forward (shortly after Molly died and she’d read my desperate series of social media posts from our 2 weeks in the hospital). Some literary agents have reached out. The doors are open. All I need to do is step over the threshold. That’s a gift most writers never receive; one I refuse to squander.

I often become overwhelmed and paralyzed (mentally and physically - I have a bum hand with chronic nerve pain leftover as a parting gift from cancer) when I sit down to write. I have so much I want to say and don’t know where to begin. My life has been filled with ups and downs, tragedies and triumphs. A lot of my memories are difficult to recount. It feels like I’ve lived several lifetimes in my 47 years.

I wrote a social media post today that felt like a good place to start. It explains a bit of my philosophy to life and writing. Ready? Here it goes.

The most important lesson I took away from 20 years at Bryan Cave (the international law firm where I spent my legal career) is to be authentic. Not what you think a lawyer should look, act or sound like. Be precisely who you are. That way, your people can find you.

If you hate golf, don’t take anyone golfing. If you don’t enjoy bar association activities, skip them. When you do what you love and show the world your true self, success naturally follows. It made life and practicing law more fun.

I often think of this advice from Steve Sunshine, the partner who shared with me. It applies to everything. When I share something, it’s coming from a place of authenticity. I won’t get everything right. I have blind spots like everyone else. I welcome you to respectfully point them out (unless you choose to unfollow me, which is also fine).

If I post something, it simply means I’m thinking about it and others might want to consider it. I’m a deep thinker, searcher and constant learner. Some of what I post may challenge your beliefs or be different from the way you see something. That makes us human. I love learning from my friends and want to know how you see the world too. Calmly and without emotional reactivity on both sides (something I am working on and sometimes fail to accomplish).

My voice is clear and true. I have no agenda. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I find myself in the strange position (especially given where I started in this life) of not having to watch what I say because of a job or reputation to uphold. I certainly hope my reputation is good. I know it deserves to be. But it won’t affect me if someone doesn’t think so. That’s freedom most of my friends don’t have. Many message me privately to say what they can’t say publicly for fear of judgment or retribution.

As Sunshine said, your people may be just 2 percent but 2 percent often adds up to a lot. It’s certainly more than none, which is what you get when no one can find you.

I may not be for you. That’s ok! My people find me. If you are one of them, thank you 🙏. I’m glad to be one of your people too.

I’m sharing a fave pic of our girl not giving a fuck about her math teacher who didn’t “get her” and made her short time as a sixth grader at Geffen Academy pretty miserable. Flipping the bird (at a teacher, no less!) was out of character for Molly - she tried so hard to be good and do everything right. She was goofing around with her friend, who sent this gem to me after she died. They were nowhere near that asshole teacher, so he wouldn’t have known. Molly only ever attended school at Geffen on Zoom. We’d never seen Molly flash a middle finger in her life and we loved it.

This is how I feel. Freely, joyfully not giving a fuck about people who don’t get me and simply aren’t for me. Wishing good things for everyone, speaking my truth for those who want to listen.