Calm in the midst of chaos

And other ways to describe being at peace

L has been asking us to get a Costco membership for a few years. I have resisted because I have a tendency to overbuy anyway. Shopping in Costco makes me feel like a Hobbit in an Elvin or human world. Everything is oversized—even the carts are too wide and unwieldy. Why would I intentionally shop in a place where overbuying is the expectation? But on Sunday, I agreed to go and get a membership if L came with me. So off we went, heading to the Costco closest to us, which was also closer to the city. We arrived and had trouble finding parking. We got in and were amazed at the crowds. The membership line had about five people ahead of us. One of the women in line had decided to bring her large golden retriever along for the shopping experience. The dog seemed very patient and well behaved, but I started to run negative commentary in my head. Why do people think they can bring their dogs anywhere? And a *big* dog at that? I only let about 30 seconds of this go before I stopped myself. Was this dog bothering me? Nope. Was this dog somehow changing my experience? Also no. So why was I getting irritated about it? I let go of my irritation and focused back on the conversation L and I were having.

Photo by gibblesmash asdf on Unsplash

We got our membership and headed into the store with our very large cart. L was delighted to be there, pointing out all the different things we could purchase and why this or that product was far superior to what we could get at our normal grocery store. I was happy to see him engaged and eager to share his enthusiasm with me. We bought more fruit than is likely to be eaten before it goes bad, exclaimed over the very large portions of meat, picked out some fun frozen foods, and noted many times the large size of different items. As we worked our way to the back of the store, we realized that the line for the cashiers went almost to the back wall. I decided to get in line and L would finish up the shopping, bringing things back to me as his arms got full. Who should be in front of me in line but the woman with her golden retriever. Between her Costco-sized cart and her dog, she took up a great deal of room in the line. People were frequently asking me to move up, as they couldn’t see the dog in front of me. My initial reaction was to return to annoyance at this woman for bringing her dog. Several different things ran through my head. And then L called, asking me if I thought he should grab any cereal. We discussed the available cereal and the double-sized boxes. He then started recounting to me what else was on the shelves, what he thought we should get, what he thought better of getting. And I realized I didn’t need to be annoyed—not at the woman, not at her dog, not at the people asking me to move forward or out of the way so they could get through to the aisle, not even at the fact that I was ending up spending nearly twice the amount of time I had anticipated waiting in line at Costco. Because here I was, on a Sunday afternoon, chatting with my 17-year-old son about whether to get a double box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch or three small heads of butter lettuce. Here I was, spending the afternoon in a perfectly ordinary way, standing in line while L ran around the store picking out things he thought our family might need or want during the rest of the week. Whether there was a dog or a cart or a family or a single person in front of me didn’t really matter. Whether I was the person who had more awareness around leaving space for people to get through the line to the aisle near us or not didn’t really matter. I could choose to feel annoyed, to have irritation shape my responses to strangers asking me to let them through, to complain to L when he called about vitamins about how long this was all taking. Or I could simply be in this moment, enjoying the conversation with L, matching the eagerness in his voice as he shared with me what vitamins he thought we needed or protein-enhanced snack food he had found. I could think of this time as wasted and feel frustrated that I was spending so much time in line. Or I could chose to accept that this was what it was and be in this moment. I could smile at the people squeezing in between the golden retriever and my gargantuan cart. I could choose to ripple out positive emotions or irritation. And I decided to choose the former, to relish these ordinary moments with my son, loving how much more enjoyable it was to share this mundane task of grocery shopping with my boy, seeing his excitement about picking out the foods he wanted.

Last Monday, I excitedly started a new job. Except it wasn’t really a new job. I came back to a job I left ten years ago. I came back to the place where I started my career as a psychologist, the place where I did my clinical internship and fellowship, the place where I saw a significant gap in services and strived hard to fill it. A place I had to leave to grow. A place to which I never planned to return.

And yet, here I am. Back in the place I started and yet, so very far from that place.

In my office, more than a decade ago, I had a magnet with this quote:

Peace. It does not mean to be a in place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.

I didn’t know how to do that. I was in the midst of noise and trouble and working so hard. Sometimes, I was trying to quiet the noise, deescalate the trouble. And sometimes, I was creating the noise, stirring up the trouble. I wanted to prove myself to everyone around me. But mostly, I wanted to prove my worth to myself. Z was just 18 months old when I started there. A year later, L was born. Two years after that, M completed our family. I was learning how to be a mother, how to balance that tremendous responsibility and love with learning how to be a psychologist. I felt like I was never enough and yet somehow, too much. All the time. Everywhere. I couldn’t keep L from crying endlessly in the middle of the night. I couldn’t work hard enough at my job. I couldn’t spend enough time and be fully present with my growing family. I couldn’t lead enough trainings, provide enough workshops, write enough grants and papers to be the psychologist I wanted to be.

I never felt calm.

I was always striving.

Until I just couldn’t anymore.

And so I left, chasing another opportunity to lead, to achieve, to excel. Believing it was the job, the people, the place that was making life hard.

And as we do, I went through this dance a few more times.

I got better at managing it all, at accepting the impossibility of a true work-life balance. I learned to add things that gave me joy. I rearranged my schedule so I could spend two afternoons a week singing with 7 to 10 year olds. I got to a position in my professional life where I had more say over how my time was spent. I developed and maintained close friendships. Saw my family as frequently as 400 or so miles allowed. I learned to live with the feeling of always being less than I wanted to be, the feeling of always running at full speed but never catching up.

Until suddenly, I realized that my children were growing up. Fast. And I was spending too much of their lives working in a setting that no longer felt like healing and care were at the center.

And just as I decided to step back and slow down, the world stopped. COVID hit about six weeks before I planned to step down from my leadership role and start a small private practice.

The next four years would bring lots of opportunity for me to grow and change and slow way down. I spent hours hiking in the woods. Running every street in my hometown. Figuring out how to be the parent my kids each needed. Learning to prioritize the people and experiences that challenge me, give me joy, and make my heart sing.

If I had to characterize my personal experience of 2024, I would say it was a year of reunion and reconnection, re-evaluating and restoring, and returning and renewing. I spent time reconnecting with old and dear friends. I felt a surge of delight, a deep sense of reunion, of bonds that have spanned years and miles, of connections that recognize what has held constant and embrace all that is new. Of people who hold parts of you you may have forgotten. I laughed—the type of laughter that is all encompassing, makes you cry and pee, and hurt from the joy. The very opposite of grief, this laughter, it is a full-bodied experience that releases so much tension and pulls on these ties between you, bringing you closer and closer. We shared highs and lows, struggles and triumphs in ways that only people who knew you when you had braces on your teeth and pimples on your face can. The friends who loved you through those years when you were at your most insecure, who spent enough time at your house to see the dynamics in your family, whose mom sent you a photo of their snack pantry when you went away to college. As the demands of parenting lessen in frequency (and increase in intensity), more space opens up for these relationships to grow again.

I also spent time thinking about how and with whom I wanted to spend my time. I started a daily gratitude practice. I let anxiety know I was evicting it from its rent-free room in my brain. I let go of relationships and experiences that were causing more strife than harmony. I took a chance and reached out to an old colleague and asked if we could repair a ruptured relationship. I re-evaluated how I was living, I restored things that were missing, let go of things that were not life giving.

And I returned. To my friendships. To the woods. To my old work place. And to myself.

I find myself back in a place I was many years ago. My children were young, my career early, much like my ability to be centered and calm. What an unusual gift it is to return, to come back and revisit not only a place I once was, but see glimpses, catch sight of the younger woman I was. The mom just starting out, wanting to be kind and giving and loving, never tired, never cross, never disappointed. The psychologist wanting to make a difference, to be a healer, and to be seen and understood. The person wanting to find connection and friendship, to share and laugh and grow together in life. The younger woman feeling scared, unsure, unworthy, and so exhausted by all the trying and striving, the inability to be still, calm, and quiet. To take in all that was around her. The person who would have riddled the Sunday Costco trip with irritation and shortness, who would have proclaimed how frustrated she was that this woman with her dog couldn’t follow the rules, who would have sighed at the length of the line. Who would have taken a chance to be with her son, so soon to move away, and ruined it. Who wouldn’t have known how to just be at peace. To see the moment in front of her, to understand the simple value of completing this chore together. To relish her son calling her to ask about what was needed, to hear the enthusiasm in his voice and match it, rather than squelch it.

To choose peace in the midst of a crowded grocery store on a Sunday afternoon. To choose kindness to strangers over discord. To choose connection with her son over distance.

Photo by Jeff Spence

And so, I return to the place where I learned how to be a psychologist. The challenges are still there. New ones have grown up in the intervening years. Some of my dearest colleagues have remained, while others have moved on, some even have left this world. I have reveled in the reconnection, in the chance to see faces I so loved, hear voices that shared so much with me. And I have enjoyed meeting new colleagues, some of whom I can tell share a passion and deep commitment to public service. I can see that much of the noise and trouble remain, that hard work is still very much required. But this time, I come to this work, to this place with the knowledge of how to remain calm in the face of noise and trouble. I come to this work knowing that I don’t have to strive or prove myself to anyone, that we are all there for a shared purpose. People will see and understand my work and the heart behind it. Or they won’t. And that is okay. It will work out. Not always in the way I want or hope it will. But it will work out.

I can stand in line and talk with my son. I can smile to myself, knowing how much I love our connection in this moment. A connection that may feel far away tomorrow. Because teenagers have a rough job of figuring out who they are and what they feel. And that can change from one day to the next. One moment to the next.

I can be back in a place that ten years ago, I decided held more struggle and strife than growth and opportunity. Today, I can see that it holds connection and a space to provide healing and the ability to move through hard things. I don’t need to strive. I just want to do my small part in making some lives better, less painful. And I want to do that in the company of others doing the same work.

As the late and great President Jimmy Carter said

My faith demands—this is not optional—my faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I am, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try and make a difference.

Sometimes that difference—often that difference—is about how we choose to show up.

And we almost always have the chance to try again.

Here is to second, third, and fourth chances to show up in the way that is most consistent with not just who we are, but who we want to be.

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

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