Trusting a stranger and welcoming joy

And returning to hope and kindness

Twelve years ago, I was on a flight to Philly. I traveled a lot for work in those days, and I was excited for the short, late afternoon flight. I was looking forward to arriving at the hotel, ordering room service, practicing my training for the next day, and settling in to a good book. All without the demands of corralling little ones for dinner and bedtime. Usually when I got on the plane, I would get out my laptop soon after sitting down in my window seat, making clear to the middle seat occupant that I was not interested in any kind of conversation. I don’t recall what happened during that flight—if I did not get out my laptop, if I perhaps even initiated the conversation—but I started a conversation with the person next to me. She had been a member of the first US Olympic rowing team, some 40 years earlier, and had just been up in Boston visiting one of her former teammates. We talked about all sorts of things—my job and why I was heading to Philadelphia, our shared love of Boston, and our shared roots in the Philadelphia area.

As we entered the last 30 minutes of our flight, the pilot came on the speaker to let us know a severe thunderstorm was ahead, and we would be landing at a small airport in Allentown, PA. He assured us it would be a quick stop while we waited for the lightning to pass. We landed in Allentown, thinking we would wait in the plane for 10 or 15 minutes and then make the quick flight to Philadelphia. But the storm persisted and we deplaned to an empty airport. My new acquaintance and I continued our conversation, bemoaning our hunger and the lack of even a snack in the tiny airport. At some point, we started talking about our shared belief that we were living in an incredibly safe time but seemed more afraid of others than ever. We laughed about how we both generally radiated do not disturb when flying and yet, on this flight, had decided to engage, make a connection.

Eventually, we boarded again, with the boarding process taking more time than the flight down to Philadelphia. Once we landed, we continued talking after disembarking. We both had our luggage with us and when I saw the sign for taxis, I prepared to say goodbye to my unexpected friend. “I know this is probably crazy, but why don’t I just give you a ride? Your hotel is on my way home—it’s silly not to offer.” she said when I told her I would be heading off to the taxi waiting area while she continued on to the parking lot. I thought for a moment, considered my belief that we were too disconnected, too fearful—a belief she and I had discussed just an hour or so ago. “If you are sure you don’t mind, I would love that,” I replied. We both recognized the hope and trust involved in this decision, the movement from an articulated ideal to an executed action. We smiled at each other, and she pointed the way to the parking lot where she had left her car several days before. We both called our partners and from the half of the exchange I could hear, I knew we were having similar conversations: assuring our male partners that we weren’t crazy, that the person who was yes, technically a stranger, was not someone to be afraid of, that no danger was lurking in the guise of a professional white lady. We got to her car, she drove me 15 minutes to my hotel, and we both arrived home safely, with a belief translated to experience.

L had a job catering in downtown Boston this week. It was his first job with this catering company and the venue was somewhat challenging to reach via public transportation. I had dropped him off with the understanding that he would try and text me a half an hour or so before he wanted to be picked up. He texted D around 9:45 pm to let him know he was getting a ride. He chose D to text because he knew the questions would be less, the worry minimal. When D told me that L was getting a ride home from another employee, I had a brief moment of worry about kidnapping and assault and all manner of awful things. And then I took a deep breath and reminded myself that L could pretty much kick anyone’s ass, as he is 175 lbs of muscle and has spent the better part of the year practicing how to pin other high school boys to a mat. And I remembered my experience more than a decade ago on a plane with a lovely human. Of course, when I talked to L later, he shared that the person who gave him a ride home was one of those employees who had been with the company since it started and did whatever was needed—driving the truck to a venue, setting up tables and food stations, picking up the linens that weren’t delivered in time, driving home new employees so they weren’t navigating the public transportation system at 10 pm at night. I never once breathed a word of worry to L, because it truly had been an instantaneous, fleeting thought.

The past eight years held a lot of worry both for me personally and for our country. This summer, Boston saw the hottest July on record. The humidity seemed to hang on with little more than a day or two of dry air until just this week. Our earth feels like it’s on a slow burn that is growing every day because of our unwillingness to agree on measures to protect our shared planet. I stopped listening to the news in 2016 because I could not process the fire hose of destruction coming out of the highest office in this country. A global pandemic hit, raising my anxiety to a level I hadn’t known was possible. I worried about going to the grocery store, crossed the street if someone else was walking down the sidewalk to avoid getting close to each other, plotted out what I would do if either of my parents got COVID, stopped drinking lemon juice in my water because it sometimes caused a slight irritation in my throat. George Floyd was murdered by a police officer over a $20 bill. His dying words, “I can’t breathe,” became the rallying cry of the Black Lives Matter movement as the US tried again to reckon with the racism on which this country was built. When it seemed some hope was on the way with the 2020 election, the tyrant in the White House attempted to stop the peaceful transfer of power. But once he was gone, the news no longer lit up my amygdala. Grown ups were back in power, though tyranny was not yet letting go. Kids went back to school. Life started to feel less tense.

I held on to worry even after things started to fall back into place. Even after we had COVID tests and vaccines, the economy stabilized, democracy survived, and getting together with friends no longer held a tinge of danger. Even while I was working to find a more calm, sustainable way of being in my life. Even with long walks in the woods, running through the streets of my small city, prioritizing genuine connection, finding a balance with work that allowed me to be more present, spending more time with my boys. It took truly letting go of worry, figuring out how to quiet my overactive amygdala and remember that mostly, the worry was never accurate.

And what I found when I let go of that worry, when I stopped trying to engage it and answer it and appease it, was so much more space for joy. When I wasn’t worried about all the things that might happen with L, our interactions were less tense, he felt less judged, I treated him with less suspicion. And our back and forth held more silliness, more lightness, more love. When I didn’t fill my head with anxiety, I was more able to be present. To reconnect with old friends, deepen existing friendships, and develop new ones. When I wasn’t worried about all the 3000 things that would go through my head when attending a concert (what if our tickets aren’t accepted? what if we get there too late? what if we can’t find our seats? what if someone is sitting in our seats and they are aggressive about moving? what if it rains? what if it takes us too long to get home?), I could simply be in the moment—singing along with Noah Kahan and 37,998 of my closest friends, “You got all my love while I’m still out here,” and feeling every note, every lyric deeply and fully.

An absence of worry left space for presence and mindfulness. Being more mindful and present released criticism and judgment. When I was present with what was happening, I wasn’t worrying about what I hoped it might be or what I thought it should be or what someone else might think about it. I hadn’t realized just how tied worry and judgment were. When I am simply present with the moment, I don’t have the separate analysis running in the background letting me know what would have been a better thing to say or how what I just said might have been super awkward or strange or how the thing my friend said might have been an indication that she actually has disliked me for years but never wanted to tell me. When I keep front and center that my time with boys in my house is short, I am less likely to be angry about the dishes and food remnants on the counter or the hair left behind in the sink after they shave (though I am not perfect here, friends.) When I take the quiet sullenness of the teenager as a hormonal fluctuation or current mood and don’t run with a ticker tape of worry headlines (he is depressed, he doesn’t spend enough time with friends, does he still have friends? why didn’t I make him invite people over this summer? maybe I should have texted some of his friends’ moms and engineered activities for him and his friends?), I free us both from unnecessary hand wringing and intensification of the situation.

This week, I unexpectedly was tied up every night until far past my bedtime. I watched as person after person came up on stage and talked about what it meant to them to live in this country. They came from different races, genders, cultural backgrounds, political leanings, careers, and circumstances. They spoke of horrible injustices and tragedies and how they overcame them. They spoke of lives dedicated to serving others. And they spoke of the belief that this country is the place where who you are doesn’t determine how big your dreams or your ability to achieve them. They spoke of this country with pride. With passion. With a firm belief in the possibility this country still offers.

They radiated hope.

They radiated joy.

From left: Helena Hudlin, Meena Harris and Ella Emhoff speak during the DNC on Aug. 22. Photo: Al Drago/Bloomberg via Getty Images

And I took in every atom of that hope, that joy, that exuberance.

Because I am so tired of worry and divisiveness and hatred and not having absolute trust in the goodness of the earth.

To not holding this as my frame:

I send love

And gratitude

That Life

Sent you

(And her)

To spend

This time

With me.

-From The Love of Bodies by Alice Walker

Choosing to stabilize our foundation, choosing to prioritize kindness and unity over hatred and discord, choosing inclusivity over exclusivity, common sense over conspiracy, respect over exploitation and abuse, unity over disruption—it just makes sense, right? But too often, we give in to our most primitive system, the one we share with lizards. We let fear and worry take over our higher-order thinking. And we lose our ability to see clearly. Instead of assuming our partner is late getting home because of traffic, we have them gnarled in the metal of a car crash or slinking into a motel room for an illicit meet up. Rather than imagining college will open up new opportunities and ways for our young adult to engage with the world, we visualize them sitting in their dorm room feeling unable to connect with their peers and academics, or stumbling around drunk or high at a party beginning a lifetime of substance abuse. When we get frustrated at the grocery store with the person who is taking their time finding the spaghetti sauce they want, causing us to have to wait all of 30 seconds before we can get by or we let anger be our response to someone entering the parking lot through the exit, it’s because we have assumed these are personal affronts. Ridiculous, right?

I can’t and won’t go back to letting worry run my life. I want to be the person who smiles and waves to let someone go in front of me, not the one who honks and turns red with anger. I want to trust that the person offering a ride is not a potential kidnapper but someone like my plane acquaintance.

I want to assume good intentions.

Of my boys, my husband, my family, my friends, my neighbors, the people I meet.

We can’t go back to letting hatred and anger and an obsession with power and domination run our country. I want to assume that most people in this country are like Coach Walz—ready with a pep talk, a spare tire, or a playbook for winning the state championship. I want every child to feel like Gus Walz—overcome with pride and love for their parent. I want to trust that our leaders have good, even the best, intentions. I want children all over this country to see that someone like them has held the highest office.

We must welcome hope. Kindness. Unity. Possibility. Common sense. Community.

And most of all,

JOY.

Our kids are depending on us.

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

Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please comment and share it with friends!