Enlightened

The joy of carrying less

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Find the light. Be the light.

Hi, friends!

It’s been a while, I know. I also know I say that a lot. When I started this Substack, I did so promising myself that I’d write it from a place of joy and a desire to connect. Never out of obligation or pressure, if other responsibilities felt overwhelming. I’ve missed being here and I thank you for reading.

I’ve mostly been working, enormously grateful for a steady stream of client work that I enjoy doing. I get to write stories about people who are healing diseases and running programs that help other people in their communities. The quiet heroes who see a problem and run toward it with ideas and compassion, who invest their time and energy in order to make the world brighter. Each time I’m given the opportunity to shine a light on these beautiful humans, I feel deeply honored. Speaking of light…

Pick a word, any word

One of my favorite humor pieces I’ve written pokes fun at people who fervently embrace a “New Year, New You” mentality. All good satire stems from reality and I confess to the habit of choosing a word at the beginning of each year to use as my North Star for the next 12 months. This year, I thought: Light.

As in: If you can’t see the light, be the light.

As in: Put down some of your worries and lighten your mental load.

As in: Lighten up, Francis. Which is admittedly hard when I read the news and want to light everything on fire. When my retirement account is alarmingly lighter than it was last fall. When … no, stop. Look toward the light. FIND THE LIGHT. There’s always a reason to be grateful. I’ll name three.

Here’s one. My mom is no longer suffering. She had Parkinson’s disease and dementia and had been declining physically and cognitively for years. Go to the light, my siblings and I silently pleaded. Go to Dad. Last month, she died.

My relief is tangled with grief I haven’t really processed yet, mainly because I’m still operating in administrative mode. Her funeral was just one responsibility in a long and complicated to-do list I’m tackling as executor of her will.

My to-do list as her daughter includes allowing myself to fully mourn — while she was alive and in Memory Care, I suppressed how much I truly missed her — and releasing the guilt I felt/feel for not flying to Florida to visit more often.

My mom loved me and I loved her. But her impact on me emotionally, particularly in my formative years, was a lot more complex than what I felt with my dad, whose love was pure, wholehearted, and constant from day one until his death (too soon) in 2011.

A few weeks after my mom’s funeral, I binged The Pitt, which totally earns its hype. The entire show takes place in a Pittsburgh hospital emergency room over the course of one 15-hour shift. There was a scene (not a spoiler) that hit me hard, a man and a woman waiting for their dad to pass. The daughter wasn’t ready. The doctor told them about a Hawaiian ritual called Ho'oponopono — four key things to say to your loved one before they die. I recited them out loud, in case my mom was listening: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me.

I recited the words out loud, in case my mom was listening: ‘I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me.’

Here’s another source of light: longer days. I’m taking advantage of the extended daylight by walking outdoors after dinner. I’ll listen to an audiobook and unwind from my day, my volume low enough to hear the birds. This time of year always feels hopeful, and now more than ever I’m stockpiling hope when I can.

And finally, I’m physically lighter, which has lifted me mentally and restored a sense of self that had been steadily slipping away. After at least five years of watching the numbers on my scale creep higher, of feeling my clothes get tighter, of hating how I looked in the mirror or in any photo beyond a head shot. After telling myself this was part of aging, part of menopause, something I had to accept — I’m a fan of body positivity, after all. After feeling like I’d never again feel confident in my own skin, clearly that part of my life was over, a friend mentioned in a casual conversation that she was going back on Weight Watchers.

Old-school Weight Watchers, with its updated name (WW) and mobile app for tracking meal points. I had a million questions, which she gamely answered, the most important being: Has it worked for you post-menopause? Yes, it had. And she’d maintained that loss for a long time but had gotten off track and wanted to reset.

I decided to try it for three months, skeptical it would work or that I’d even stick with it. Seven months later, I’ve shed 24 lbs and am back to a weight I haven’t seen since my 30s. Talk about trippy time travel. I share this not to seek attention or promote diet culture (ick) or present myself as any kind of expert, which I’m not. But simply to pay forward a tip that helped me reconnect with a part of myself I thought was gone forever.

Before and after: Meeting Suleika last summer. Selfie at the 20-lb milestone.

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Three Things That Lightened My Mood

1. I wrote a reported essay for The Washington Post about decluttering. To help me prepare for downsizing in the next few years, I’m lightening my possessions by two items a day, an approach I call “microparing.” Here’s a gift link to the article, which is also going to run in the print issue this week. I got to interview some great sources, including Matt Paxton, who was featured on 15 seasons of Hoarders.
   

2. Amy Poehler’s new podcast, Good Hang, is light and funny and gives genuine friendship vibes. She gets that we need an escape from *everything* right now and she more than delivers.
   

3. Imelda May is an Irish singer/songwriter I stumbled onto while scrolling IG. Her growling vocals and stage presence remind me of Chrissie Hynde. Watch this kickass performance. Yes, I know it’s from 11 years ago, but it’s new to me. Lighten up, Francis.