You can’t go back on your word.

You can’t.

No matter how much you want to- you can’t.

Maybe it will be closed.

Maybe she will change her mind.

Doubtful. (After all, she is MY niece.)

This is the conversation I had with myself on Black Friday, as I lay in bed bloated from the carb overload of the day before.

The idea of ice skating did not appeal to me on my best day- much less on a day when I felt even clumsier and bigger than usual.

One lesson I don’t think you fully understand until you have kids (i.e. a lesson I still have not learned) is that you cannot tell a child “You can have whatever you want” or “We will do whatever you want.” You are opening yourself up to paying obscene amounts of money to procure the most coveted Harry Potter Legos from some Ebay extortionist when all the stores are sold out in the days leading up to Christmas. You will find yourself trying not to curse as you cut fondant for a Williams-Sonoma “Build-a-Bear” project that would have Martha Stewart sweating. You will incur the wrath of your friends when you buy their children the loudest, most obnoxious toys you can find (Just for future reference- my personal favorite is Melissa & Doug’s “Band-in-a-Box”).

And, after promising your 12-year-old nephew and 14-year-old niece that you would do whatever they wanted while home for Thanksgiving, you may even find yourself driving through a bad part of town in your mother’s car to go ice skating while praying that 1. you don’t wreck the car; 2. you don’t get car jacked; and 3. you don’t break any bones (and not necessarily in that order).

And of course, there is the whole “adult thing” that goes along with it. It is so difficult being an adult- and it is so much harder when you are with kids. It is like everyone is pretending you know what you are doing and you have to pretend too because otherwise the kids will realize that there really is no captain of the ship.

I vividly recall my close friend Jami’s baby shower when she was pregnant with her first child. She opened up one of her gifts and it was this “emergency kit” of sorts that contained like 9,000 pumps and suckers (for snot apparently) and gauges. Being the supportive friend that I am, I leaned over and whispered “You are so screwed.” (Fortunately, both of her children have survived quite well, but I would still bet $100 that she does not know how to use at least half of the items in that ridiculous, fear-inducing kit.)

When you are the grown up, you have to carry everything- the coats, drinks, bags, etc. (And for some reason, children always hand you their trash?) You are supposed to know where you are going. You are supposed to be able to say “no” and mean it. You are the cruise director, the doctor, the peacemaker, the judge.

It is hard work.

And it involves a lot of things I am not very good at it.

Several years ago, I was traveling with my friend Cathy and her two children. She needed to run an errand so she told her kids that I was in charge while she was gone. Her son looked at her so seriously and pointed to me and said “Mom- is she a grown up??”

Totally valid question. I was not at all offended. In fact, I took it as a compliment. I am a “cupcakes with blue icing, late bedtimes, make-up and nail polish, sparkly shoes, ‘5 more minutes of television won’t hurt'” kind of girl. And I know if they were my own children it would be different. But they aren’t. And making them happy makes me happy.

And in this particular instance, what made them happy was ice skating.

To say I was anxious about the prospect of trying to maneuver myself around a circle of slippery ice on two blades would be quite an understatement.

I knew the easy way out- the responsible “adult” thing to do- would be to sit in the bleachers (holding everything of course) while my niece and nephew skated. I would be warm. And safe. And a lot of the parents were doing just that.

But I didn’t want to be the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

Once we were all laced up in our skates (with my niece being the one to do the lacing as she was the expert), we entered the arena.

Booming music.

Flashing lights.

And lots and lots of children.

I tried to appear calm and confident, but the whole “grown up act” was weighing me down almost as much as the ridiculously heavy skates.

I gave the children a reassuring smile and said “Aunt Lori is fine- go skate” as I hugged the railing while trying to also hold onto my “walker” (a device to help “beginning skaters” get comfortable on the ice). I did not dare wave them off to drive my point home though as I was terrified that any sudden movement would cause me to fall.

In my head, I was ten years old again roller skating at Funtime Skateland in Jackson, Mississippi while all the cool kids whizzed past me.

After a couple of minutes, I finally let go of the railing and clung to the walker as if my life depended on it. Slowly but surely, I was able to progress a few ugly paces. The children had probably circled ten times by the time I made it around once.

They would periodically stop by my area next to the edge to make sure I was doing okay and to offer me encouragement.

After a little while, my nephew decided he would skate with me. As we were skating together, I looked at him- 12 years old and moving forward with no walker- and realized that I too had to try it without the walker. As much as I hated the idea of it, I hated the idea of being the aunt who used the walker almost as much as I hated being the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

I announced to Austin “I am going to try it without the walker.”

He looked over at me and said “Are you sure?”

“Yes” I said, in spite of the fact that every fiber of my being was screaming “NO, NO, NO.”

He held the walker for me as I took my first tentative steps unassisted. I was awkward and slow. But I was doing it. We skated several laps like that- me going slowly while he skated next to me with the walker in tow in case I needed it.

After a little while, he looked at me so seriously and sweetly and said “Aunt Lori- You don’t need this anymore. It’s time we put it up.”

I initially protested because just knowing it was close made me feel safe.

But he was right.

I told him I needed one more lap with my security blanket (the walker) in tow. He acquiesced.

Once that lap was over, he skated the walker over to the edge of the rink. “It’s time we leave it-okay?” He waited for my final approval- not because I was the adult but because he loved me and was struggling with wanting me to feel safe but also wanting me to realize I could do it without the walker.

“Leave it!” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt so he would not feel guilty about taking it away from me if/when I fell and broke my arm, leg, hip, whatever.

And we began again- with him slowing his pace to accommodate mine and me pushing myself to go faster and meet his.

Eventually, my niece came over to check on my progress (and probably to relieve her brother of being responsible for me for a little while…). As I skated with her, I started looking around at all the other skaters- these kids who were flying past me, skating backwards, doing tricks. It was amazing. But while doing that, I lost my balance and almost fell.

“Aunt Lori- You have to focus on yourself. If you watch what other people are doing, you are going to fall.”

Out of the mouth of babes….

After our skating adventure was over, it was impossible for me not to see that I ice skated exactly how I live- cautiously, carefully… so afraid of falling and getting hurt… watching other people- convinced they are doing it so much better than I am.

But, just as in life, I realized that even if I wasn’t that great at it, I did not want to be one of those people who sat on the sidelines- so afraid of failing or getting hurt that I settled for mediocrity and safety instead of pursuing the life that would make me happy.

It was also important to me that my niece and nephew look back on that night and remember me as their aunt who tried her best (even if that came with a ton of embarrassment due to being related to me)- not their aunt who sat in the bleachers because she was too scared to try. It was important that I remember myself that way too.

In skating and in life, it is ironic that we have to suffer to find contentment. Think about the times when you have felt the happiest, the most proud, the most alive. Didn’t the vast majority of those experiences arise out of situations where you put yourself out there in a way that scared you as opposed to choosing the comfortable, easy route?

I will never forget when my mom and stepdad dropped me off for college at Stetson University in 1991. I did not know a soul. I was going to be living in a strange place surrounded by strangers. And all of my friends that I had grown up with were together at Ole Miss, safe and secure and having a wonderful time together I was sure.

As soon as my parents left, I went back into my dorm room and locked the door and cried my eyes out. And the entire time all I could think about was how stupid I was to choose this unknown strange place over the known comfortable place. Who chooses to enter through a second story window when there is a door standing wide open waiting for you? That’s how it felt.

Within a week, I was having the time of my life. I had made friends, fallen in love with the campus, professors and town and felt an incredible sense of pride that I was making a life for myself on my own. I grew more in those four years than any other time in my life.

Fast forward seven years to my third year of law school…. I decided after a Christmas trip to Charlotte, North Carolina that I would move there and get a job rather than take the job that I had already been offered in Florida (where I would be surrounded by my family and friends). Again, the choice was between the known and the unknown, the certain and the uncertain, the painless and the painful.

And, thanks to the confidence I had gained while at Stetson, I once again chose the unknown. And it has proven to me one of the best decisions of my life.

The strange thing is that looking at it in retrospect, I cannot imagine my life having gone any other way.

I cannot imagine not having met the friends I cherish from Stetson and from Charlotte.

I cannot imagine not having fallen madly in love with the people that I have loved over the last 20 years.

I cannot imagine living my life without knowing that there was a strong, independent woman inside of me who could make it on her own.

And God knows that doesn’t mean I haven’t made a ton of mistakes along the way. But I wouldn’t trade a minute of it for an easier life of checking off the boxes.

And when I think about the people I respect the most, I realize that the common trait amongst all of them is their decision- in one way or another- to get out on the ice and skate rather than opting for the safety of the bleachers. My friends who have started their own businesses. My friends who have gotten divorced. My friends who have gone back to school. My friends who fight cancer. My friends who run marathons. My friends who refuse to give up on finding true love. My friends who write books. My friends who admit that they need help and get it. My friends who fall down- and get back up.

It is their courage- not just their successes- that I admire.

I doubt I will ever ice skate again. But I am grateful for the reminders that the evening gave me– that the best things in life can only be obtained when we push ourselves in spite of feeling vulnerable and scared, that we have to let go of the security blankets that we cling to if we want to move forward, that we must focus on ourselves rather than others or we will surely fall– and that the only thing scarier than putting yourself out there is choosing to sit in the bleachers instead.

You can’t go back on your word.

You can’t.

No matter how much you want to- you can’t.

Maybe it will be closed.

Maybe she will change her mind.

Doubtful. (After all, she is MY niece.)

This is the conversation I had with myself on Black Friday, as I lay in bed bloated from the carb overload of the day before.

The idea of ice skating did not appeal to me on my best day- much less on a day when I felt even clumsier and bigger than usual.

One lesson I don’t think you fully understand until you have kids (i.e. a lesson I still have not learned) is that you cannot tell a child “You can have whatever you want” or “We will do whatever you want.” You are opening yourself up to paying obscene amounts of money to procure the most coveted Harry Potter Legos from some Ebay extortionist when all the stores are sold out in the days leading up to Christmas. You will find yourself trying not to curse as you cut fondant for a Williams-Sonoma “Build-a-Bear” project that would have Martha Stewart sweating. You will incur the wrath of your friends when you buy their children the loudest, most obnoxious toys you can find (Just for future reference- my personal favorite is Melissa & Doug’s “Band-in-a-Box”).

And, after promising your 12-year-old nephew and 14-year-old niece that you would do whatever they wanted while home for Thanksgiving, you may even find yourself driving through a bad part of town in your mother’s car to go ice skating while praying that 1. you don’t wreck the car; 2. you don’t get car jacked; and 3. you don’t break any bones (and not necessarily in that order).

And of course, there is the whole “adult thing” that goes along with it. It is so difficult being an adult- and it is so much harder when you are with kids. It is like everyone is pretending you know what you are doing and you have to pretend too because otherwise the kids will realize that there really is no captain of the ship.

I vividly recall my close friend Jami’s baby shower when she was pregnant with her first child. She opened up one of her gifts and it was this “emergency kit” of sorts that contained like 9,000 pumps and suckers (for snot apparently) and gauges. Being the supportive friend that I am, I leaned over and whispered “You are so screwed.” (Fortunately, both of her children have survived quite well, but I would still bet $100 that she does not know how to use at least half of the items in that ridiculous, fear-inducing kit.)

When you are the grown up, you have to carry everything- the coats, drinks, bags, etc. (And for some reason, children always hand you their trash?) You are supposed to know where you are going. You are supposed to be able to say “no” and mean it. You are the cruise director, the doctor, the peacemaker, the judge.

It is hard work.

And it involves a lot of things I am not very good at it.

Several years ago, I was traveling with my friend Cathy and her two children. She needed to run an errand so she told her kids that I was in charge while she was gone. Her son looked at her so seriously and pointed to me and said “Mom- is she a grown up??”

Totally valid question. I was not at all offended. In fact, I took it as a compliment. I am a “cupcakes with blue icing, late bedtimes, make-up and nail polish, sparkly shoes, ‘5 more minutes of television won’t hurt'” kind of girl. And I know if they were my own children it would be different. But they aren’t. And making them happy makes me happy.

And in this particular instance, what made them happy was ice skating.

To say I was anxious about the prospect of trying to maneuver myself around a circle of slippery ice on two blades would be quite an understatement.

I knew the easy way out- the responsible “adult” thing to do- would be to sit in the bleachers (holding everything of course) while my niece and nephew skated. I would be warm. And safe. And a lot of the parents were doing just that.

But I didn’t want to be the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

Once we were all laced up in our skates (with my niece being the one to do the lacing as she was the expert), we entered the arena.

Booming music.

Flashing lights.

And lots and lots of children.

I tried to appear calm and confident, but the whole “grown up act” was weighing me down almost as much as the ridiculously heavy skates.

I gave the children a reassuring smile and said “Aunt Lori is fine- go skate” as I hugged the railing while trying to also hold onto my “walker” (a device to help “beginning skaters” get comfortable on the ice). I did not dare wave them off to drive my point home though as I was terrified that any sudden movement would cause me to fall.

In my head, I was ten years old again roller skating at Funtime Skateland in Jackson, Mississippi while all the cool kids whizzed past me.

After a couple of minutes, I finally let go of the railing and clung to the walker as if my life depended on it. Slowly but surely, I was able to progress a few ugly paces. The children had probably circled ten times by the time I made it around once.

They would periodically stop by my area next to the edge to make sure I was doing okay and to offer me encouragement.

After a little while, my nephew decided he would skate with me. As we were skating together, I looked at him- 12 years old and moving forward with no walker- and realized that I too had to try it without the walker. As much as I hated the idea of it, I hated the idea of being the aunt who used the walker almost as much as I hated being the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

I announced to Austin “I am going to try it without the walker.”

He looked over at me and said “Are you sure?”

“Yes” I said, in spite of the fact that every fiber of my being was screaming “NO, NO, NO.”

He held the walker for me as I took my first tentative steps unassisted. I was awkward and slow. But I was doing it. We skated several laps like that- me going slowly while he skated next to me with the walker in tow in case I needed it.

After a little while, he looked at me so seriously and sweetly and said “Aunt Lori- You don’t need this anymore. It’s time we put it up.”

I initially protested because just knowing it was close made me feel safe.

But he was right.

I told him I needed one more lap with my security blanket (the walker) in tow. He acquiesced.

Once that lap was over, he skated the walker over to the edge of the rink. “It’s time we leave it-okay?” He waited for my final approval- not because I was the adult but because he loved me and was struggling with wanting me to feel safe but also wanting me to realize I could do it without the walker.

“Leave it!” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt so he would not feel guilty about taking it away from me if/when I fell and broke my arm, leg, hip, whatever.

And we began again- with him slowing his pace to accommodate mine and me pushing myself to go faster and meet his.

Eventually, my niece came over to check on my progress (and probably to relieve her brother of being responsible for me for a little while…). As I skated with her, I started looking around at all the other skaters- these kids who were flying past me, skating backwards, doing tricks. It was amazing. But while doing that, I lost my balance and almost fell.

“Aunt Lori- You have to focus on yourself. If you watch what other people are doing, you are going to fall.”

Out of the mouth of babes….

After our skating adventure was over, it was impossible for me not to see that I ice skated exactly how I live- cautiously, carefully… so afraid of falling and getting hurt… watching other people- convinced they are doing it so much better than I am.

But, just as in life, I realized that even if I wasn’t that great at it, I did not want to be one of those people who sat on the sidelines- so afraid of failing or getting hurt that I settled for mediocrity and safety instead of pursuing the life that would make me happy.

It was also important to me that my niece and nephew look back on that night and remember me as their aunt who tried her best (even if that came with a ton of embarrassment due to being related to me)- not their aunt who sat in the bleachers because she was too scared to try. It was important that I remember myself that way too.

In skating and in life, it is ironic that we have to suffer to find contentment. Think about the times when you have felt the happiest, the most proud, the most alive. Didn’t the vast majority of those experiences arise out of situations where you put yourself out there in a way that scared you as opposed to choosing the comfortable, easy route?

I will never forget when my mom and stepdad dropped me off for college at Stetson University in 1991. I did not know a soul. I was going to be living in a strange place surrounded by strangers. And all of my friends that I had grown up with were together at Ole Miss, safe and secure and having a wonderful time together I was sure.

As soon as my parents left, I went back into my dorm room and locked the door and cried my eyes out. And the entire time all I could think about was how stupid I was to choose this unknown strange place over the known comfortable place. Who chooses to enter through a second story window when there is a door standing wide open waiting for you? That’s how it felt.

Within a week, I was having the time of my life. I had made friends, fallen in love with the campus, professors and town and felt an incredible sense of pride that I was making a life for myself on my own. I grew more in those four years than any other time in my life.

Fast forward seven years to my third year of law school…. I decided after a Christmas trip to Charlotte, North Carolina that I would move there and get a job rather than take the job that I had already been offered in Florida (where I would be surrounded by my family and friends). Again, the choice was between the known and the unknown, the certain and the uncertain, the painless and the painful.

And, thanks to the confidence I had gained while at Stetson, I once again chose the unknown. And it has proven to me one of the best decisions of my life.

The strange thing is that looking at it in retrospect, I cannot imagine my life having gone any other way.

I cannot imagine not having met the friends I cherish from Stetson and from Charlotte.

I cannot imagine not having fallen madly in love with the people that I have loved over the last 20 years.

I cannot imagine living my life without knowing that there was a strong, independent woman inside of me who could make it on her own.

And God knows that doesn’t mean I haven’t made a ton of mistakes along the way. But I wouldn’t trade a minute of it for an easier life of checking off the boxes.

And when I think about the people I respect the most, I realize that the common trait amongst all of them is their decision- in one way or another- to get out on the ice and skate rather than opting for the safety of the bleachers. My friends who have started their own businesses. My friends who have gotten divorced. My friends who have gone back to school. My friends who fight cancer. My friends who run marathons. My friends who refuse to give up on finding true love. My friends who write books. My friends who admit that they need help and get it. My friends who fall down- and get back up.

It is their courage- not just their successes- that I admire.

I doubt I will ever ice skate again. But I am grateful for the reminders that the evening gave me– that the best things in life can only be obtained when we push ourselves in spite of feeling vulnerable and scared, that we have to let go of the security blankets that we cling to if we want to move forward, that we must focus on ourselves rather than others or we will surely fall– and that the only thing scarier than putting yourself out there is choosing to sit in the bleachers instead.

Many Halloweens ago, as I hid in the bathroom suffering from the last minute jitters of realizing how much there was of me versus how little costume there was to cover it, a good friend summed up the situation in one sentence: “Either you wear the costume or it wears you.” With that, she turned and walked out, head held high in her Dallas Cowboys’ cheerleading uniform and drugstore tan pantyhose, leaving me to decide who was going to own my night.

Fast forward fifteen years to Halloween 2012, and there I sat with a honey bun wig on my head, suffering the same insecurities even though there was a little less of me and a lot more costume to cover it. With the help of Spanx and a few glasses of wine, however, I decided I looked pretty good. The wig was a little cheap and itchy. Ditto the polyester gown and cheap pleather belt. But I was dressed as one of my childhood idols, and I was wearing white go go boots. How bad could the night be?

“Honey- look- there’s another Princess Leia!”

I turned my head at the sound of my “name” only to find the thinnest, most beautiful Princess Leia I could imagine (second only to Carrie Fisher of course).

As I got closer to her, I realized that she even had long dark hair and thus her honey buns were real.

My wig instantly felt even cheaper and itchier.

“We must get a picture of the two Princess Leia’s together!” said her Luke Skywalker husband.

I hated him. So damn much.

But my perma grin stayed absolutely still.

“Of course.”

As I stood next to Ms. Thin Perfect Real Honey Bun Hair who truly seemed very nice and totally oblivious to her superiority (of course- because that just made her even MORE superior), I had a strong suspicion that my costume was going to be owning me that night….

While the Princess Leia encounter is a silly (but true) example, it did get me thinking about this subconscious scorekeeping I do. And I am pretty sure that I am not alone in this exercise.

I am confident I am not the only one who immediately googled “Petraues wife” when his scandal broke so I could see how she compared to Paula Broadwell.

And I know I am not the only girl who has ever uttered “Am I prettier than her?” in a whispered drunken voice to my close girlfriends after being dumped for another.

But, after I recovered from the initial sting of “Princess Leiagate,” I started thinking about how much better off I would be if I could find a way to turn that scorekeeper off. To get to a place where I define myself without reference to the other Princess Leias, the other attorneys, the other 39 year olds, the other authors, the other anythings.

And though I am still working through it, here is what I have pieced together so far:

1. “Let’s Make a Deal”

I believe that so much of this scorekeeping stems from failed relationships. There is nothing like a bad break up to make you look around to try and figure out how you measure up to those around you (i.e. “He is going to date HER instead of me?” and “Why is she married and I’m not?” etc.).

Remember the game show “Let’s Make a Deal”? Monty Hall would tempt contestants with the unknown. They would see what was behind curtain number one and then have to decide if they would keep it or if they wanted to give it up to see what was behind curtain number two. And sometimes the risk paid off- they traded a green polyester living room set for a new car. Other times, they ended up passing on a new car for a box of Rice-a-Roni.

It is a perfect analogy for dating. You go out with someone a few times and they stop calling or you get dumped or whatever. Result? You feel like crap about yourself. And you secretly hold your breath to see what will turn up behind their curtain number two (a/k/a the next boyfriend or girlfriend) so you can decide how you measure up.

Here is the thing though- no matter how incredible (amazing, spectacular, fantastic) the prize is behind curtain number one, there are just some people who are going to risk it to see what is behind curtain number two. Maybe they are scared. Or stupid. Or hold an unrealistic view of themselves (i.e. stupid). But the fact that they need to see what is behind curtain number two has absolutely nothing to do with you or how wonderful you are. In other words, as with so many things in life, it is their issue- not yours.

2. The Grass is Not Greener

For some reason, I have the hardest time being single around the holidays. There is just something so “couplish” about the holidays. You go and get a tree together. You cook a turkey together. You drink egg nog together. You go to Christmas Eve service together. You hang your stockings together.

Are you getting the key word here? Together.

And there is no Normal Rockwell painting that I recall that features a lovely single 39 year old girl hanging her stocking? Maybe I just missed it.

I notice it most for some reason when I am on the plane en route to Florida to visit my family for the holidays. I look around my flight and (in my mind) everyone is with their spouses and kids. And I am alone. I look at their big engagement rings (in my mind) and their perfect kids (in my mind) and their cute husbands (in my mind) and think “Why didn’t I get THAT life?”

I recently shared this feeling with a girlfriend of mine who is married to a doctor and who has one of those seemingly ideal lives that I envy. She literally laughed out loud. “Are you kidding me? If you saw us getting on your flight, the chances are we would be trying to cover up the fight we just had over whose fault it was we were late and the kids would be behaving only because we promised them something if they were quiet and I would be totally stressed out and would see you and envy your life- the single girl whose life must be so glamorous and exciting.”

Glamorous and exciting? I would hate for her to see me curled up in my flannel pajamas watching Lifetime most Saturday nights….

I felt slightly guilty that knowing her life wasn’t so perfect made me feel better. But I am pretty sure knowing mine wasn’t so perfect made her feel better too.

And our conversation made me realize that these comparisons I (we) make with strangers are bogus. None of us have any idea what other people’s lives are really like- nor do they know what ours are like. And all that envy is just wasted energy that each of us could be spending to make our own grass a little greener.

3. That Damn Lens

One of my friends who is a life coach and generally extraordinary person (I am talking about you Leslie Palmer!) taught me about the lenses through which we see our lives. She had me look at some of the most significant events of my life and the explanation I came up with to understand them. She even had me draw it out on a timelime so I could see how over time, that explanation became the lens through which I saw and processed everything that happened in my life.

I think we all tend to use these lenses when we are engaging in the comparison game. I know I do.

I thought of Leslie and my lens a few months ago when a friend’s seven year old daughter came over to my condominium to play. As she tried on all my jewelry and purses and shoes, she asked me “Do you have a husband? Do you have kids?” I told her I had neither. She thought about it for a minute and then just looked at me and said “I have never met anyone like you.”

And there I sat, completely embarrassed and mortified that this seven year old thought I was a loser.

A few days later she sent me a thank you note. After reading it, I once again felt totally embarrassed. But this time, I felt that way because I had allowed my lens to so misconstrue how this precious seven year old perceived me and my life….

4. Wonderfully Made

At the end of the day, I am beginning to realize that the biggest problem with all this scorekeeping isn’t how much we overvalue others- it’s how much we undervalue ourselves.

To help me remember my value, my best friend recently told me to print up Psalms 139 and read it every day. She will be happy to know that I obeyed her directive, and I keep it in my desk drawer and read it at least once a day.

“I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

I had not thought about that passage in a long time.

And the truth is, I have not thought of myself as all that “wonderfully made” in a long time either.

I think we all tend to forget that about ourselves as we age. When you see a baby, you remember it instantly. But grown ups aren’t so cute or pure or perfect.

Nonetheless, we were, are and will always be “wonderfully made.” And there isn’t a Princess Leia on the planet who can change that.

So this week, when I get on my flight to travel home for Thanksgiving, I am going to do my best to just skip the whole comparison game. Instead, I am going to take my seat and smile at my seatmate and think about how lucky they are to be sitting next to a wonderfully made Princess.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

I have entered what I like to call my season of surrender. For those of you who know me, stop laughing…. Now.

To say I have a hard time relinquishing control would be a bit of an understatement.

I hated group projects in school. (Hate them as a grown up too.)

I despise roller coasters, the dark and “maybes.”

I hate ride along car washes because you can’t see where you are going.

The term “surprise party” is an oxymoron to me.

I try to hit the brakes even when I am a passenger in a car.

I love routines, lists and organization.

I hate messy… rooms, relationships, children- anything.

You get the idea. Relinquishing control is not one of my strong points.

As a child, I loved the “Choose Your Own Adventure” books where you picked what choices the main characters made and there were different endings based on those choices. Though I did not understand it at 12, I guess I loved them because it made sense to me. If you make the right choices, you get the happy ending. If you make the wrong choices… well, you know the rest.

Ditto for the “Goofus” and “Gallant” cartoons from Highlights. Remember those? “Goofus hogs his seat – Gallant makes space for someone else to sit down.” (I still don’t know if anyone actually subscribed to those magazines. We just read ours in doctors’ offices.)

And we are bombarded with this message– that being “good” and working hard lead to good things and vice versa– as we grow up.

If you study hard, then you get good grades.

If you get good grades, then you get into a good college.

If you get into a good college, then you get a good job.

And for most of us, these “if/then” equations prove true. And we are lulled into believing that we are able to control what happens to us.

But the problem comes when things start to fall apart. When your happy ending decides you aren’t his, when you or someone you love gets sick, when you lose that great job, when a friendship is destroyed, when marriage, having kids, being an adult, _________________ (you fill in the blank) turns out to be so different than what you expected.

Then what?

When faced with these “then what?” situations, I think many of us are determined to find a way to attribute whatever the particular disappointment is to ourselves. Because if it is our fault, then we can fix it. And while failure is terrible, the other option– realizing that it is not our fault– is even worse because it carries with it the obligation of accepting that we are not in control of everything that happens to us or those we love. And that idea is contrary to everything we are taught growing up.

During the past year, I have found myself trying again and again to “fix” all kinds of situations- both personally and professionally- and failing miserably on all fronts. Over time, it began to feel like I was trying to repair a dam with holes in it. And every time I got one hole plugged up, another leak sprung. But I could not stop because the mantra that played so loudly in my head– “I can fix this. I just need to try harder. I just need to be a little better.”– would not let me. It was exhausting. And it was futile.

Anna Quindlen gave an amazing speech to the graduating class at Mount Holyoke College in 1999. In the speech, she encouraged the students to “give up the backpack, give up the nonsensical and punishing quest for perfection that dogs too many of us through too much of our lives. “

I have thought a lot about that backpack through the years. And I believe a part of its load- at least a part of my load- is filled with these false notions that I can control what happens to me and to those I love. I have tried to carry that backpack for my entire life. And though I have enjoyed brief moments where I put it down, I have always picked it back up because the alternative- feeling out of control- was just too scary.

But I cannot carry it any longer. It is too heavy. And more importantly, it does not belong to me.

I cannot make someone well.

I cannot make someone love me.

I cannot make someone stay or leave.

I cannot fix someone.

I cannot love someone so much that their lack of love for me or for themselves disappears.

I cannot make someone brave.

I cannot sacrifice myself to save another.

Not by being smart or kind or good or forgiving. Not by being thin or pretty or interesting or thoughtful. Not by bargaining with God or shrinking myself to give them room to expand. Not even by being “perfect.”

And it is these unhealthy, false notions that I am choosing to surrender.

These things have always been God’s to carry- never mine.

I know there will be times I am tempted to pick the backpack up again because its weight has become so familiar to me. And because the false logic of “if/then” life is comforting to me. But when I find myself carrying it again, I will force myself to put it down, opting instead for an imperfect but authentic life where I will try to accept the dark, embrace the “messy,” and cherish the happy.