Sitting Pretty

Practice, practice, practice … that’s all I heard as a kid. If you want to be good at something, just apply yourself, repeat, and you’ll excel. But practicing didn’t help me when I turned thirty. Maybe I was practicing the wrong things. That’s when I hit rock bottom. Perhaps that’s a bit dramatic—I wasn’t an addict or desperate exactly, but I felt anxious, unsure and overextended 24/7. I was looking for something to happen to me so that I could finally experience contentment. But fulfillment wasn’t happening. There I was, married seven years to a man I thought was my soul mate, but our relationship was falling apart. I was also miserable in my job as a marketing manager working in the (male-dominated) pharmaceutical industry, reporting to various people who seemed bent on taking credit for my work and making unreasonable demands. Besides all that, I was in major debt. For years, I’d fed my anxiety and my insatiable hunger for something with mindless shopping. I needed to make a change, and a big one. So, after much deliberation, I ended my marriage (luckily, we didn’t have kids together) and moved to Los Angeles from New Jersey. I was ashamed of my failure as a wife, but I was guardedly optimistic that a new coast could bring a new beginning. Basically, I ran three thousand miles away. Yet my restlessness followed me to California, despite the perfect weather and the seemingly cool marketing job I scored at an indie record label, complete with a bungalow-style office in Malibu overlooking the ocean. What could be bad? Except once the novelty had worn off, I realized that my new job was as stressful and meaningless as my old one. Same unsettled, discontented life, different place. Ultimately, a series of girlfriends saved me. The first true friend I met, Lola, was an incredible coworker, a woman who exuded the bliss I was so desperately seeking. She was barely five foot tall, with exotic features, deep brown hair, and tawny skin. Whatever was going on, she always seemed to cope with a smile and an abundance of patience. We would do our jobs together, side by side, in our little bungalow where she’d hum like a little birdy from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I was newly single in LA, adjusting to my new life; she was long married. On the surface, we didn’t have much in common, but it struck me that she had learned to accept her life and had mastered the art of staying centered and being fully present. Whenever a supervisor would freak out, Lola would listen intently and calmly with a curious, open look. I was in awe of her disposition and her ability to let stress roll off her back. I had no idea how she did it. She practiced composure. As we got to know each other, I discovered that her marriage had its ups and downs (like every marriage), but she was able to embrace it because she had forged a tremendous friendship with her husband. They respected one another. They had three beautiful kids, and she appreciated them too—despite occasional parenting challenges. And though she had a brutal two-hour commute—each way—she rarely complained. Instead, she seemed to take pride in her work, and she genuinely liked her colleagues. But what struck me most was her integrity. She was reliable as a friend and a coworker. She never canceled at the last minute like so many other people in my new town. She made sacrifices to put her family and relationships first by always being available to them, no matter what came up, because they mattered to her. She was discerning with her time, knew how to say no, and never complained when she had to go the extra mile for someone she loved. I admired that. It affirmed my own belief that relationships were what really mattered to me. Still, I was surprised when she happened to mention a profound experience she’d had a few years back. “You know,” she said, “I went to this women’s weekend, and I think it saved my life. There’s one coming up, and I think it could help you, too.” Saved your life? “Hmmm, really?” I asked, trying not to let my skepticism show. “Before that weekend, I wasn’t a very happy person, and there always seemed to be a lot of drama in my life,” she admitted. Well, that made me curious. The forty-eight-hour retreat she described sounded suspiciously like one of those EST-like things, a throwback to the early 1970s. I imagined everyone crying, screaming, and moaning their way to enlightenment, which was not my usual go-to method for addressing my personal struggles. I preferred to hash out my issues with a good long cry, yes, but alone in my bathroom or on the phone with one of my East coast besties. Still, I was willing to give the retreat a shot if there was a chance it would lead me to a more satisfying, more meaningful, happier life. Off I went, shuffling through registration lines alongside several hundred other women. All of us had the same look: uncertainty. I managed to hold off judgment, but I wondered if I was crazy to try something so woo-woo. I wasn’t crazy. Instead, I discovered that most of those uncertain-looking women were just like me: confused in their relationships, slightly dissatisfied in their jobs, craving connection and understanding. These were my kind of people—honest, vulnerable change-seekers. In one weekend, I heard stories of abuse, addiction, and neglect. The stories sometimes frightened me, but they also left me humbled. No matter what anyone said, the words were met by understanding and empathy from the group. My own story, while not as traumatic as some, was the truth. I revealed my struggles as a wife, a friend, and a coworker. I somehow felt understood by these women; they seemed to hold long and strong beliefs about themselves. I also learned about trust. All of us were in pain; all of us were choosing to reveal ourselves in that large auditorium off of Hollywood Boulevard so that we could move through our struggles. Together, it seemed, we might be able to face our challenges and shortcomings and lend each other support. I went home feeling encouraged, renewed, and motivated to take more responsibility for the choices I’d made, for the fact that I’d been expecting to lead a different life without looking too hard in the mirror. I’m not saying that you can change your life in forty-eight hours, but after that weekend, I began going about my day-to-day life more deliberately. First, I broke up with a guy I hoped would be my future next husband. I realized that we were having fun, but if I wanted to eventually have a family, this guy wasn’t going to cut it. I needed someone more serious, and I consciously set about finding him by asking friends to fix me up with anyone who might fit my desired criteria. That may sound unromantic and calculated, but I felt sure that true love didn’t have to exclude certain factors that felt necessary to me, like security. Soon, I met the man who would become my husband on a blind date arranged by a coworker. Just as important, I began searching for a way to make a more meaningful contribution to the world. I wanted a fulfilling career that would also give me the flexibility to raise a child someday. Eventually, with the emotional (and financial) support of my husband and parents, I enrolled in a graduate program at University of California, Northridge, and I earned a master’s in psychology and education. The process took longer than I anticipated (school, getting pregnant, and accumulating the three thousand clinical hours required for me to get a license took ten years!), but when I finally landed my first job at a mental health center and a primary school, I realized how fortunate I was: I was working toward everything I ever wanted. Almost.