Ignoring One's Calling (Part 2)

Here's the conclusion of the story started by Amanda M. Socci, the Creative Idea Gal, last week. Click here to read the earlier post.

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Age 29: Finding Success with another Career Change

Amanda M. Socci

I struggled finding a suitable career, until magic happened in July 2001.  Out of the blue, with no discernible trail, I received a call from a headhunter who had picked out my resume after seeing the words “law” and “marketing.”  To say that I was floored is an understatement.  That afternoon, pretty much in a drunken haze of disbelief, I went to the interview and got the job.

For 5 ½ years, I worked as a technical writer supporting the United States Patent and Trademark Office solely based on my credentials as a law school graduate and for having self-published “Consumers Everywhere.”  Despite not having a stitch of experience in information technology, I worked hard and earned myself a reputation as a strong and thorough worker.

Those 5 ½ years were heaven, but they still didn’t fulfill my soul creatively.  I basically ignored my calling to write, again, by focusing on my new career in information technology while building upon two original ideas that I came up with: Amanda’s Ideas, LLC and Amanda’s Charities, LLC. 

I founded two businesses to sell two distinct services: creative services including story-writing, sewing quilts, and making diaper creations, and charity services: to be hired by businesses that wanted me to execute small-scale charitable programs.

After devoting thousands of dollars and tireless energy to those efforts, can you guess what type of success I enjoyed for being a business owner with an original concept? You guessed it - - goose egg success.  Thankfully, God already had other plans lined up for me, so I ended up drowning my business sorrows in my next calling as a mother, but still not a writer.

Age 34: Motherhood and Leadership Stints

I had my oldest daughter in 2006 and rightfully began focusing all efforts on her.  During this time, I became domestic, turning moments of free time into cleaning, cooking, and shopping time.  On a lark, I found a perfect telecommuting job doing freelance writing of hotel descriptions, but that lasted only a short time.

It was hard finding telecommuting writing jobs, so I gave up. Once again, I turned to new career choices to prove to myself that I could easily get a job that paid quick money and didn’t have the uncertainties of writing. To support this bright theory, I turned to a leadership role in charge of a group of ladies with a religious organization as well as a sales representative gig with AVON.

If you could peek into my life and see how many hours of training, learning, and dedicated work I logged into both of these projects, you would officially dismiss me as stupid, and I would have to agree.  I was so enthusiastic to do everything else that didn’t involve writing, thinking naively that I could propel my career to new heights selling $2.99 lipgloss.  Fortunately, that treadmill of doom ended abruptly in the summer of 2010, when I learned I was expecting my second daughter.

I experienced the worst morning sickness I could possibly endure. Yet, miraculously, I found a telecommuting job writing high school sports features.  Once again, that stint was short-lived.  Right after my second daughter was born in 2011, my oldest was suddenly getting ready for kindergarten, so all gears shifted towards school preparation while now trying to balance two squirmy girls.

My daughter’s kindergarten school year began beautifully. I put my over-achiever hat on while volunteering to be the troop leader for my daughter’s Girl Scout troop.  I also helped my husband chair the chess student group.  I was very busy, even overwhelmed. I was working non-stop and sick all the time from exhaustion.

Little did I know my break-neck pace was catching up to me and preparing me for the big reveal.

Age 40: WTF are you doing?

I continued working hard as a Girl Scout leader right up until February 2012. I had already planned so many activities for the girls, but I was annoyed because the parents were not responding in a way that I wanted them to.  I got mad.  Really mad.  The pressure had been building up for a while and I was fed up with having sacrificed quality time with my family for a bunch of unappreciative people.

It seemed that God had made these circumstances so unbearable for me, that I would have no choice but to quit.  In February 2012 I abruptly quit my leadership role with the Girl Scouts. The way that things happened was so violent, that I felt as if a strong arm had grabbed me by the shirt with brute force and pushed me backwards. I crashed into a brick wall, and like the silly cartoons we watch with our kids, I saw a little circle of stars and birds flying around my head.  What just happened?

That day, God spoke to me, but it wasn’t the gentle calling I had experienced for most of my life. These were words and actions spoofed by the dude with the floppy hair in Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” video, where he scolds the boy and asks “what are you gonna do with your life?”  Except, it wasn’t the dude, but God himself telling me in his own way what I should be doing with my life.

If that experience didn’t cut through my thick head that I should stop playing around with fly-by-night career choices and buckle down to what I was meant to do, then nothing would.  From that moment forward, I quit my nonsensical thinking cold turkey and opened up the curtains to a bright future as a freelance writer.

Not Going to Take It
I knew immediately what my first project would be.  I was going to start writing a book on faith hoping to inspire people with torrid tales of my embarrassing life dramas and uplifting endings couched in faith.  And I did, except I started off slowly by blogging my book on a local news site.

I also started hanging out on Twitter again, hoping to connect with writers.  Eventually, I found Robert Lee Brewer’s April Platform challenge for writers. My personal success within Robert’s challenge went beyond my expectations, as I never expected I’d make so many new wonderful supportive writer friends.

Today, I am no longer hearing that familiar calling in my life because I am living it. Because I have such an open mind about the possibilities of writing, I have improved my blogging, furthered my social media goals, made some pretty good connections, and have achieved the very thing I ran away from so many years ago - - the act of writing consistently.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned through all of this is to pay closer attention when I get that familiar feeling that I should be doing something.  God is not the same to all of us; he is what we make him out to be.  He will talk to all of us and drop hints about our calling in ways that are custom-tailored in our lives. 

For me, that calling happens to be writing. Although I felt that urge back when I was 10, I voluntarily ignored the urge and chased the mirage of success through non-writing work that only paid the bills, but left a void in my satisfaction thermometer.

After having sustained head injuries from being body slammed against the metaphoric brick wall and answering my life’s wake-up call in the positive, I am living proof that it is never too late to answer God’s calling.

*****

If you have something important you'd like to share on the Not Bob blog, please don't hesitate to contact me by e-mail at robertleebrewer@gmail.com with the subject line: Not Bob Guest Post. Please include an idea or two you have for a guest post, your credentials, and how you think it fits in with this blog. The more specific you can be the better.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out these other helpful Not Bob posts:

• Develop a Slogan to Help Your Author Platform.
• How to Build (or Improve) Your Writer Platform in 30 Days.
• Best Blogs for Writers to Read in 2013.

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Create Your Writer Platform: The Key to Building an Audience, Selling More Books, and Finding Success as an Author
by Chuck Sambuchino

If you want a book that covers platform in all its variations, this is the title for you. Chuck Sambuchino is the author of humor titles such as How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack and Red Dog Blue Dog, but he's also behind Guide to Literary Agents and Formatting & Submitting Your Manuscript. In other words, he's been there, done that, and lived to tell about it. Chuck covers social media, blogs, newsletters, public speaking, and more. Click the link above to check it out today.

Ignoring One's Calling (Part 1)

One of my favorite things for 2012 was the life-changing moments series of guest posts in which readers shared a moment that changed their lives--and how even in the seemingly worst situations they found a lesson that helped them move forward. I'm excited to share an entire series of moments from Amanda M. Socci.

Amanda is a freelance writer and blogger from Alexandria, Virginia, who writes posts on her personal blog (http://creativeideagal.com), blogs entries on a book on faith which she is blogging on a local news service (http://mountvernon.patch.com - search for "Socci"), and searching for freelance writing assignments. Amanda enjoys taking unusual viewpoints in her nonfiction writing, incorporating meaningful analysis with hints of humor, along with references to pop culture. A diehard researcher and natural observer of life, Amanda writes about diverse topics, hoping to entertain her readers through unique perspectives on life.

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Amanda M. Socci

Did you ever experience a time in your life when you felt that you were meant to be doing something and ended up ignoring that feeling, only to let that feeling get stronger?

I did.  I felt a calling to write early on in my life but chose to ignore that calling several times.  Each time I felt the calling, the urge to write got stronger and it became harder to ignore.  One day, the calling shoved me up against a brick wall like a violent wake-up call.  I finally answered my calling.

After 30 years of messing around in dead-end career choices, I finally got down to business and unflinchingly declared myself a writer at the ripe age of 40.  What follows is a chronological sequence of events leading up to the pivotal moment where my life changed. These are the moments where I ignored the calling in my life, which, as I have come to realize, is writing.  This is my story.

Age 10: Reading lots of Books

My writing career began surreptitiously with a foundation in reading.  Just a babe at 10 years old, I borrowed lots of books from our library, loving getting lost in the teenybopper romance stories.  I learned about an author who was published at the age of 13 and became obsessed with being a published author.  From that moment, I put an unnecessary amount of pressure on myself to be published by the age of 13.

As much as I wanted to write, the pressure of copying someone else’s success of publishing a perfectly written book by the age of 13 was more than I could handle.  Too much planning in the brain led to indecision and no real writing. 

This would be the first time in my life that I ignored my calling.

Age 13: Being Different is Hard

When I was 13, I was your typical 8^th grader from New Jersey, sporting big hair and neon clothes, ogling over the hotties in Duran Duran.  As typical as I appeared to the outside world, I was not typical on the inside.  I was depressed and had thoughts of suicide because I was so different than everyone else and not accepted for who I was. 

I became an ostracized square peg living among attractive white people.  Back in the 1980s, my hometown in rural New Jersey was 95% white, with only 5% minority, including African Americans and us, Latinos.  My parents and grandparents were the ones born in Colombia, South America while two siblings and I were born in the United States.  That didn’t stop the cruel illegal alien and immigrant jokes from invading our breathing space.

I went to a Catholic school and dutifully learned my Catholic teachings, practically to a fault. I excelled at school when I failed at relationships.  I buried my nose in the schoolbooks and in reading.  Out of pain came a love for fiction.  My own invented fiction.

Born Amanda M. Castro, I took on a pen name “Chantal Pearcy” as a derivative of my name in French class “Chantal” and the last name of my favorite singer “Stephen Pearcy” from the heavy metal rock band, RATT.  Once I took up that pen name, everything was in my power. 

I was no longer the helpless Amanda who cried because she was teased, taunted, and humiliated for being a Latina, for having acne, for liking the color red, or for any other ridiculous reason.  I became the dark and moody Penny Marshall, adeptly directing my characters on paper, killing off some characters, resurrecting others.

I also wrote letters to God, asking him why he was being so unfair to me.  I ended up writing a lot.  I loved the satisfying experience of writing and creating. I relished every second of it.   

Age 15: Things Start to Turn Around

By age 15, I was a sophomore in high school.  With my life still in turmoil over personal issues, I dove headfirst into my schoolwork as well as my writing, which gave me a cool sword of smarts and writing chops.  I created a novella which I was very proud of.  I submitted a draft to my favorite English teacher, who promptly dismissed it with a polite “thank you” and a few grammatical fixes, but without any substantive feedback. 

My junior year in high school became a turning point in my writing career, dare I say, prophetic.  I read Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which I thought was exceptional, and had a homework assignment to write an essay describing the symbolism in Dracula.  Using my own analysis and creativity, I wrote some pretty decent descriptions of the characters with an impressive masthead that resembled what you’d see in a playbill.

After I turned in my assignment, my English teacher demanded to know how I came up with my description of the main characters.  I calmly explained that I invented everything out of my own imagination. Would you believe that I was borderline accused of plagiarism?  Strangely, I didn’t mind the controversy and silently smirked at myself, happy that my writing could cause such a ruckus in small-town, New Jersey.

Such a strong reaction to my writing meant I was on to something.  Was God calling me to write for a living?  I was only 16 years old when I felt the calling so vividly. Was writing the thing I was meant to do for the rest of my life?

My parents had always been supportive of my eccentricities, but they weren’t too keen on my getting into writing as a profession because, as my father rationalized, in order to be a writer, I would have to write every day.  That wasn’t something I was willing to commit to because my writing happened only when inspired.  If I wasn’t inspired, I could not bring myself to write.  Let’s just say that by convincing myself that I couldn’t write as a result of a perceived lack of inspiration, I succeeded and was not able to write. 

Since I refused to write every day, my junior year in high school would be the second time in my life that I ignored my calling.

Age 19: Recycling Moves into my Heart

In 1991, I was an impressionable 19 year-old who had been shielded from many life experiences and was anything but street smart.  I headed to the progressive, forward-thinking college of Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where I first fell in love with the concept of recycling.  Before I even knew who Ed Begley, Jr. was, I became him, trying to convince my professors to recycle, with very little time or interest in writing professionally. 

I took several writing-centered classes but refused to get an English minor degree because I couldn’t stomach Shakespeare.  Instead, I shifted gears altogether and became fascinated with crime and the psychology behind the crime.  I took so many classes supporting the science of crimes, that I changed my major and graduated proudly with a Bachelor of Science degree in the administration of justice.  I was headed to law school.

How does one go from being depressed, to writing as an outlet for dealing with emotions, to a sudden interest in crimes en route to law school?  Easy.  Some innocent comments from my parents made the difference.   My parents prodded me to try my hand at law because they said I was good at starting debates with my brothers and always looking to get the last word in.

Age 23: Law School Beckons

In late August 1995, I received rejections from all the law schools that I applied to. I was stuck and didn’t know what to do.  After some more prodding from my father and a 10-page persuasive, heart-written, detailed letter made its way to the dean’s desk, I earned a coveted spot at Howard University School of Law in Washington, D.C., despite having bombed the LSATs and dropped my grades while in college.

Being in law school certainly made me smarter, but it also kicked me in the butt and made me sweat.  I will never forget how the first week of law school had me reading law cases, like complicated short stories for geniuses, and spending just about eight hours of intensive studying to understand them. 

The next three years had me writing legal briefs and legal research papers, which I loved, because I was reintroduced to the mechanics of writing while at law school.  But this writing was different.  I couldn’t just invent what I wanted.  I had to support every one of my statements with thorough legal research of past legal cases (legal precedent) that tackled the same subject matter of the original question or problem.  It was excruciatingly complex and not fun at all.

Nonetheless, I was thoroughly excited to use my new legal research and writing skills to produce strong writing once again.  By this time, my interests were now in consumer affairs, and I seemed to be enthralled with the bureaucracy of business, all while proudly writing about it.

After graduating from law school, I got married and was very happy spiritually, but physically, I was burned out.  I took some time off from the intensity of law school and turned to couponing before the concept of extreme couponing became commonplace. 

I was the original extreme couponer, hoarding multiple coupon inserts, hitting our local supermarkets and getting tons of free stuff.  A far cry from burning the midnight oil and straining my eyesight in reading hundreds of legal cases, I finally felt free again to be myself, but did nothing professionally.

Age 26: Answering the Call with a Huge Writing Project

After doing so much couponing, I became inspired.  Why not write about my good deals in a way that is funny, interesting, and informative?  The inspiration took over me and rained down a million funky thoughts, eventually turning them into “Consumers Everywhere,” a national publication for consumers that was quirky, cute, and promoted unusual themes in each issue. 

Although no one ever regarded “Consumers Everywhere” as special, I absolutely loved it because I did it all by myself without any help.  Plus, it marks the first time in my life that I felt that familiar calling and actually did something about it.

Despite the calling, however, reality set in and in my new marriage, I knew I had to do my part to help my husband bring home the bacon.  I gave up writing and looked for full-time work, in any field, so long as it paid the bills.  Complete strangers admonished me for not getting into the legal field after having graduated law school.  Little did they know how many years I would try to get into the legal field with no success.  That made me 0 for 2. No career in law, no career in writing.

...to be continued.

*****

The conclusion of this story will post next Friday.

In the meantime, feel free to check out some other Life-Changing Moments stories from 2012:

• Finding and Longing for Community, by Jane Friedman.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino, by Nin Andrews.
• When I Learned to Actively Pursue Happiness, by Debbie Ohi.

Overcoming Clinical Depression (Life Changing Moments series)

Overcoming depression is no joke. Major depressive disorder is the leading cause of disability in the United States for people ages 15 to 44, and it's nearly twice as common in women as it is in men. I'd like to thank Sarah Negovetich for sharing her personal story related to overcoming an unexpected failure caused by clinical depression. Sarah is fairly new to the online writing community, but that didn’t stop her from creating a blog and expecting other people to read it (insert shameless blog plug here). When she isn’t ignoring her children to write, Sarah is a marketing consultant for a national non-profit children’s charity. Find her on Twitter @SarahNego. www.SarahNego.blogspot.com

Sarah Negovetich

My senior year in college started out exactly the way I expected. Deciding what classes I needed to graduate, getting measured for a cap and gown, and figuring out where to apply for law school. Everything about my life, from my spacious sorority house room to my wonderful boyfriend, was perfect. I like to think of myself then as the not-so-skinny brunette version of Elle Woods.

So no one was more surprised than me when I suddenly lost all interest in everything. I changed almost overnight from an outgoing social butterfly to a hermit style couch potato.

After several months of sitting around in my pajamas, staring at the unplugged television and eating Crunch 'n Munch from the box, my roommates staged an intervention. A forced visit to my family doctor resulted in a diagnosis of Clinical Depression.

Handling Depression
I started working with the school counselor and figuring out a medication dosage to get my brain chemicals back on track. By the end of the school year I was almost my old self. Unfortunately, months of tuning out the world meant I didn't have enough credits. I wouldn't be graduating with the rest of my class. I had failed and for the first time in my life that failure came with real consequences.

I moved back home, but constant remarks about my inability to graduate weren't helping. My family loves me, but they were convinced the depression was all in my head and I'd just gotten lazy. After a few months of hits to my frail ego, I moved in with my wonderful boyfriend (who is now my wonderful husband) and tried to figure out what I was going to do with my life.

Working a series of odd jobs including everything from Waffle House waitress (Do you want those covered and smothered?) to insurance telemarketing (Did you know we offer a multi-car discount?) provided me with ample life lessons. Most importantly I learned I needed to get my degree…now.

Making Up For Lost Time
It would take me a year and a half to make up for those lost months. And unlike the first time around, I now had to balance a full course load with a full-time job. Classes were crammed in before my shift in the mornings and stretched late into the night. It wasn’t uncommon to leave my house at 6 a.m. and not come home until 10 p.m. Weekends weren't any better since that was my only available time to power through homework and class projects.

Going back to school was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It forced me to face a failure that had become a defining part of my life. It pushed my time management skills and required a level of dedication I had never reached before.

Finishing my degree brought new meaning to the word 'challenge,' but other than my children it is the one thing I am most proud of accomplishing. After three semesters of sweat and tears (there may have been blood) I finally put on a black polyester robe and shook hands with the dean as she handed over my shiny new diploma.

Anything Is Possible
Now, when I’m faced with a difficult situation, I know I can get through it. A scene I can't get right, feedback that cuts me to the core, yet another round of edits. Hard stuff, but not as hard as going back to school.

There are times in life when I think "I can't do this," be it writing or learning how to knit (a skill I still can't master). But when those moments crop up I remind myself of that muggy day in May when I shook hands with the dean in front of my friends and family and changed a failure into success.

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Is This Really What You Want: Or Unbecoming a Shark.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Knowing What Is Best: The Value of Another's Perspective.

Lose Control: Traveling Alone With a Lost Passport in a Foreign Country (Life Changing Moments Series)

Traveling alone with a lost passport in a foreign country, Bernadette Ignacio found herself in a situation out of her control. In fact, Bernadette found her best way out of her problem was to simply lose control and surrender herself to the world around her. Bernadette is a burgeoning freelance writer and blogger based in the sunny, sometimes sleepy beach community of Ventura County, CA. Being from a small So Cal bubble-town, her life passion lies in exploring the near and far nooks and crannies of the world, and sharing her experiences as a travel writer. Her current blog babies are Words of the One, a weekly wisdom site with posts every Wednesday, and Bee's Stoetry, where she shares short story snippets and poetry from her many international misadventures. Learn more about Bernadette's never ending story at bernadettelynnignacio.com.

Bernadette Ignacio, world traveler.

Lost Passport

I should have been kidnapped...

Alone in the ripped apart pile of my life, I cried until I felt sick. Catching my breath, I tried to keep chunks from flying all over the mess I scattered on the airport floor that cloudy day in Cuzco. Bravery of doing this by myself backfired. There was no one to call, nothing else I could do, so I just hung my head between my shaky knees and cried some more.

Along with my passport I lost my senses. After sobbing myself dizzy, I couldn't think of anything. And without a passport, I knew I couldn't do anything. I felt the strange tingle of on-looking eyes. Hovering above me, stood a silver-haired man looking puzzled, yet empathetic. Glaring through tears, his white shirt glowed against weathered, tan skin. A shiny badge swung from his neck that led my eyes to his.

"What's wrong," he asked in soft, slow, accented English.

I felt a burn rise in my throat, and began to word-vomit my pathetic predicament in pathetic Spanglish, wiping snot away with my sleeves. He paused, asked me to take a deep breath, and looked at me the way a dad looks at his daughter after showing him an owie.

"Don't worry," he said. "My name is Mr. Alexander. I'm going to help you."

This is the moment when the girl agrees, gets snatched, and is never seen again. But I sensed no sign of stranger danger in his kind, old eyes. A small, weak smile cracked through as I surrendered a simple, "Ok."

Traveling Alone

The months that led up to the day I met Mr. Alexander couldn't have been more carefully planned. It wasn't until 48 hours before my travel troubles literally hit the floor did it all spiral downhill.

In June of 2009, I set out on an epic backpacking adventure to South America. As a 20-something, solo female with a frame of 120 lb., I was a walking target for another horror story abroad in the headlines. So I planned my travel days ahead with attention to detail I thought would make Howard Hughes proud. Travel Visas, check! Flight schedule, check! Monstrous backpack full of first aid sh*t, check! And most importantly...PASSPORT, CHECK!

First stop to the mystic top, Machu Picchu, Peru. Next, Cordoba, Argentina for a volunteer opportunity with orphans. Then, Brazil, where I would reclaim a love lost. Yup, I was out to open my eyes, race to romance, and change the world. And because I had my plans set in stone for weeks, I couldn't be stopped.

Well, my high horse of confidence got shot down the moment I landed in Lima. It was 12:49 a.m. in the pitch black of Peruvian night, when I finally fetched my "Green Monster" off the conveyor belt after an agonizing line through customs. Surely I couldn't walk foreign streets with no clear direction, bearing that thing on my back, holding a map. I needed a cab. With the first step outside, I got startled from scolds of taxi hustlers. I hastily chose the driver with the most trusted looking car. Off to Cuzco I would go come morning.

Two weeks flew filled with mythic memories fueled by bottomless cups of Macha, or as I called it, crack water. I connected with countless global nomads, but every day, someone moved on. On June 18th, it was me. So I thought.

No More Options

Six days prior I got a tip from a fellow traveler to book cheap flights through a website called E-Dreams. The catch, she warned, was slow service from the budget booking company. With a week to spare, I assumed I was safe. But worry built up each day I woke to a ticketless inbox. On the night before expected departure, I screamed on the phone overseas, demanding they send my ticket. With frustration of accents and office hours in Europe coming to a close, dread set in. Finally, I got a confirmation number. Still stressed and unsatisfied, I "slept."

I scrambled around the morning market like a maniac; Snack, cash, last minute souvenirs--Fetch the Green Monster, check-out, grab a cab, and race to the airport. Throwing a wad of Pesos at the driver, I ran to the check-in counter two hours before take off. A startled woman confirmed my reservation, and asked for my passport. Reaching into my day pack, I tried to produce it. To my unthinkable horror, my hand found only empty space. A travel nightmare come true.

I tore through my Green Monster in a panic to find it: nothing. With her guts gravely strewn on the ground around me, I collapsed. "I'm supposed to be on that plane! I'm supposed to help the orphans! I'm supposed to NEVER lose my passport!" My head spun with possible places it could've been stolen, or mindlessly left during my mad rush around Cuzco. With time to work, I decided to retrace my frantic steps.

Blitzing back to my hostel, I checked reception. They told me they didn't have it, but what they did tell me was more unsettling. Apparently minutes ago, the man who found it came to see if I was there. Tucked in the pages was a receipt from my stay. They told him I left for the airport, and my airline. He claimed he would try to catch up. Desperate to meet, I dashed back to the airport. Again, I sprinted to check-in with hurried hopes.The same confused lady said a man came, parading my passport. But alas, I was not there for him to find. We were chasing each other's phantom footsteps. Him in search of a hefty finder's fee. Me, my lost key to the world. I waited.

20 minutes passed, then 40, then, gate five closed for flight 918 bound for Cordoba. My $360 dollar seat flew away cold and empty. There were no more solutions, no more options for me to "fix it." At the mercy of my mistake, instincts said I should suck it up. But I could barely breathe. That's when Mr. Alexander found me.

Lose Control

Helping me onto my feet, he revealed his position as manager of the airline. He explained I needed to go back to Lima where the U.S. Embassy could issue a replacement passport. I showed him copies of I.D., and to my astonishment, he proceeded to book me a discounted flight for Lima 300 miles away. He assured that I was to have no issues.

The next step was going to the police for a theft report needed to present at the embassy. He asked if it was OK that he personally escort me there so he could translate my snafu in Spanish. Noticing my apprehension about the "personal" part, he suggested I might be more comfortable in my own cab (which he insisted on paying for), we followed him to the station. It all just happened.

Afterward, he asked if I had somewhere safe to stay that night. I mentioned my hostel, he knew it, and with the same hand-held steps, he returned me to my haven. After hearing my story, they let me stay for free. You see it all the time, a traveler with atrocious troubles. You never think it could be you.

Mr. Alexander handed me his card with that same stern, yet sweet look. "If you have any more problem, you call me OK.”

I wrapped my wimpy arms around him. Smiling, he told me he didn't want me leaving Cuzco with cold memories in my heart, and kissed my hand goodbye. With tears welling up in my eyes again, his beaming white shirt blurred away behind the big wooden door. On June 19th, I flew away.

It is hard to surrender when we truly believe all we have to be is strong. However, sometimes it's about letting go of what you think should be happening, and accepting what is actually happening. Life gives you these moments when it seems everything ought to be perfectly orchestrated because you've prepared so much. Though when left with no choice but to be held in the hands of the universe, it's possible that we be taken care of in ways we couldn't even dream.

The truth is, our concept of control is an illusion, and there comes a pivotal point when we can understand and embrace that. It's a point when giving up seems like the last thing you should do, but really, it's the only thing you can do to save yourself.

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Is This Really What You Want: Or Unbecoming a Shark.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Knowing What Is Best: The Value of Another's Perspective.

Overcoming the Fear of Failure: You Can Beat the Odds to Find Happiness (Life Changing Moments Series)

Today's guest post looks at the process of overcoming the fear of failure to find happiness and comes from Susan Craig. I love this post, because it totally nails "the odds" of anything, whether it's getting published, finding a job, landing the perfect girl (or guy), or whatever. Many people use the odds as an excuse to "not try," but that only plays into the hands of "the odds," and well, I'll let Susan tell her story. Susan is a writer, parent, photographer, scientist, and pizza-lover. Her passion is writing romance. Her day job is teaching college biology, and in her spare time she loves her family and takes photos of plants, critters, and scenery. Check out her blog at http://bysusancraig.wordpress.com.

Susan Craig, Making Her Own Odds to Find Happiness

Overcoming the Fear of Failure: You Can Beat the Odds to Find Happiness

Trying to make my dreams come true seemed an overwhelming task until a statistician taught me how to beat the odds.

I Was in Over My Head

At 36 years old, I was beginning graduate school—not in a user-friendly discipline like sociology or education, but in hard science, where graduate school is a full-time enterprise: total immersion. I was the last person accepted into a cohort of 12 first-year students that faculty considered to be the crème de la crème of the current crop of biology graduates. The other 11 had been trained at the cutting edge of science, had the energy of youth, and were experienced in research.

I, on the other hand, had a degree in education (a B.A., yet) that was 14 years old and could claim not one whit of research experience. My previous life revolved around raising children and teaching elementary school.

How on earth had I gotten in? Somehow, by Divine intervention perhaps, each of my scores on the Graduate Records Exam was above the 90 percentile range. Apparently that was relatively unusual. So, on the last possible day, I was informed that I would be given a chance.

Don't misunderstand. I wanted to be there. It was my dream to become a scientist. But I felt like I'd been thrown into deep water, and the only hope was to keep kicking madly away until I learned how to swim. Less than a week into the program, we were informed that we were required to apply for National Science Foundation Graduate Fellowships. We would fill out some forms, write a personal essay, and design a research project to submit. I was totally out of my depth.

There Was a Better Chance of Winning the Lottery

The word on campus was that no one ever actually got a fellowship. The faculty just thought it was good practice for us to apply. You had a better chance of winning the lottery. That eased my fears a bit, until I spoke to my advisor.

Some of the other first-years had been told by their mentors to waste as little time as possible fulfilling the application requirement. That sounded good to me, but not to my advisor. He made it clear he expected a quality product, "your best effort." Eager to impress him, I worked hard, polishing my essay and proposal until they sparkled—or so I thought.

Try Again

When I brought my work for review, he was not impressed. "Try again," he ordered. "Keep it simple and straightforward."

Back to the drawing board.

Next time, he grunted and told me to have the post-doctoral trainees in the lab critique it to "help polish up the language." So I went to Pat, the lab numbers guru, who also had a reputation as an excellent writer.

No luck. He was too busy to look at my work. So I shopped it around the lab. Every time someone agreed to take a look, the papers came back to me bleeding red with snide remarks and comments. I was falling behind in my other work, as I spent hour after hour trying to please my critics.

At last the day arrived to send off the application. Grateful that the end was near, I printed a fresh, clean copy of the last draft and slipped it into the envelope. Just as I was about to seal it shut, Pat strolled into the student office. "Did you still want me to look at that?"

No, my mind screamed. I want to mail it and be done. "Yeah, thanks," said my traitorous mouth, and I pulled the sheets out.

After a 15-minute eternity he came back, smiling. "I hope it's okay that I marked on these." I saw streaks of red like open wounds on the once-pristine pages.

"It's fine," I lied.

The Moment of Truth

Pat nodded in acknowledgement and left. That was my moment of truth. I wanted nothing more than to crumple up those sheets and throw them away. Or stuff them into the envelope, red and bleeding as they were. We were required to enter, not to win.

As I struggled with myself, the door to the office opened and Pat stuck his head back in. "Funny thing about statistics," he said. "The odds of an outcome only apply to the group, not to the individual." He nodded his head at me and left.

Puzzled, I sat down at the computer and began making revisions—again. Half an hour later, I carefully locked the office door, then printed out a clean copy of the application and sealed it immediately in its envelope. Racing to the post office, I got it stamped with 40 minutes to spare.

It took weeks of hard thinking before I understood what Pat had said. If there is only a 10 percent chance of success in a venture, this does not mean you are at the mercy of random chance. It means that 90 percent of the group will give up, hedge their bets, or hold back from giving the task their all.

The Odds Tell You How Many People Put in the Effort Required

For the individual, success or failure with any specific task is clear cut. Either you make it or you don't. And success is always determined, not by the odds, but by a combination of work and ability—heavily weighted in favor of work. In essence, the odds just tell you how many people in a group were willing to put in the effort required to succeed.

Is this simple? Yes.

Is it easy? Not in my experience. I've always found it difficult to make myself actually put forth my best effort.

Is it worth it? Only you can answer that question.

So, did I get a fellowship? Actually, yes, I did. All the hard work paid off. But the part that meant the most wasn't the funding. It was learning how to beat the odds.

*****

Put Extra Work Into Your Query Letter!

Just as with Susan's example, a little extra work on improving your query letter can create an amazing results for your writing career (and your bank account). During the 4-week Writing the Query Letter course offered by Writer's Digest University, writers will learn how to dig deep and turn out query letters that get results.

Click here to get a seat in the next query letter course.

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Is This Really What You Want: Or Unbecoming a Shark.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Knowing What Is Best: The Value of Another's Perspective.

Knowing What Is Best: The Value of Another's Perspective (Life Changing Moments Series)

The following story from Kelly Williamson is one that speaks to me personally, though I'll refrain from giving away her story since she does an excellent job of presenting it herself. Kelly is an assistant principal at an elementary school, a new position she took after teaching for 10 years. She's always loved to write, and for much of her life considered writing a hobby, working on short stories, picture books, and personal narratives for her own enjoyment. As a teacher, she shared much of her writing with her students. She's always had the philosphy that a writing teacher has to be a writer first and use that material as a way to exemplify the process for students. Kelly's family is currently dealing with the effects of her mother's sudden mental breakdown and refusal to seek treatment. Her mother's complete change in personality has been a tragic loss, and this experience has drawn Kelly into writing with a passion greater than she's ever felt. Learn more about Kelly via her blog, http://kellyannwilliamson.blogspot.com/.

Kelly Williamson, mother/daughter

Christmas morning at our house has always been joyful, even when my husband and I were first starting out and had little extra to spend. For me, it’s never been about the gifts but having time to enjoy and appreciate special moments with family. The anticipation of seeing my children walk into the living room to gaze at the wonders Santa has left usually causes me to lose sleep on Christmas Eve. This year, I lost sleep, but more because of a painful realization that this Christmas was going to be difficult. Waking up that morning, I had no idea how right I was to dread the events about to play out.

Several days before Christmas, my mother was hospitalized in a mental health facility for the second time in as many months. The pain of that reality consumed my family in the days leading up to the holiday, but we were all doing our best to preserve what we could for the sake of my two children. They would miss the big turkey dinner at my parent’s house and all the festivity that went with it. The day would not be the same, but we had to try. My mother had made it clear: She did not want to see any of us, but we had a plan, and we were ready to put on brave faces for the sake of the kids. Then, the phone rang.

A Decision to Make
The sound of my mother’s voice was comforting, though her words were agonizing, “I know I said I didn’t want to see you today, but this is my favorite holiday. Can you come see me? I want to see the kids.”

My husband was in the shower, readying himself for the day, when she called. “Who was that on the phone?”

I explained to him that she had called and wanted us to bring the kids to see her. I told him how she had a room set aside for the visit. He looked down at the floor, and I knew I was asking too much, yet there I stood, asking. As he looked me in the eyes, I could see the mix of emotions he felt at that moment. It was hard for him to see me in such pain, and he had done everything in his power to help me through this tragedy, but this was more than he could give.

“I cannot let you bring the kids there. That is not a place for them, and certainly not on Christmas Day. You can go, but the kids are staying with me.”

Giant tears rolled down my cheeks, raw from the sheer amount of time spent crying over the last several weeks, but I knew he was right. I had never been inside the hospital, and I had no idea what to expect. I was apprehensive about going myself, afraid of what I’d see. My head knew he was right, though my heart was torn apart.

We plodded our way through the day, making a few stops before ending up at my sister’s house for dinner. Dad wasn’t going to join us for dinner or presents; it was too painful for him, but he’d be there later so we could ride to the hospital together. My daughter, old and perceptive enough to get the gist of what was going on, asked if she could come with us to visit. I hugged her and told her she couldn’t, and as I peered over her shoulder, my sister nodded in agreement.

I could feel my heart pounding as I saw Dad’s headlights pull into my sister’s driveway. I once again approached my husband, asking if he was sure the kids shouldn’t go; it was Christmas, there was a room set aside. He was steadfast in his position, and I did not push.

As Dad came into the house, his face revealed the kind of day he’d had. “Ready?”

We grabbed our coats from the closet, and I had trouble making eye-contact. I knew he was wondering, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.

“Are the kids coming?”

“No. It’s not the place for them.”

“Okay, let’s get going. She’s expecting us.”

No Turning Back
As we drove, the car was mostly silent. At one point, my dad asked how the kids were doing. My sister mentioned how my daughter had wanted to come with us. My dad replied that we probably should have let her come, and my heart splintered into pieces. As we pulled into the parking lot, I was second-guessing my decision. Should I have tried harder to convince my husband? I felt paralyzed in the car, but I managed my way into the building, my heart beating out of control.

The buzzer sounded, and I saw her through the narrow window in the door, hair done up and wearing a festive red sweater. She smiled when she saw us, but I could see the look of concern as she came closer to the door.

“Where are the kids?” Her face was distraught. “Are they coming?”

“No, Mom, they aren’t coming. It’s been a rough day on them. They don’t understand what’s going on.”

She stormed down the hall and around the corner to the community room, where she sat at the head of a long table. We took seats around her and tried to make small talk, but she wouldn’t look at us. She was rummaging through a bag, pulling out papers and making piles on the table. She started talking about this being yet another disappointment, and we should not have even come. We tried to engage her, but she wanted nothing to do with us. She told us to leave, and my dad and sister led the way toward the exit. I lagged behind as she packed up her papers. I wanted to explain to her why I couldn’t bring them, that I was sorry she was struggling, but she brushed by without a glance in my direction. She escorted us to the door, and I had broken down at that point. Finally, she looked directly into my eyes.

“Thanks for ruining my Christmas, Kelly.”

With that the doors opened, and some EMT’s rolled past us with a disheveled man strapped to a gurney, obviously a new admission to the unit. The doors closed behind us, and I wanted to rush back. Why was seeing me not enough? Couldn’t she see that the kids didn’t belong in a place like this? Instead, I crumbled in the elevator, sobbing harder than I had in years.

It Was the Right Choice
That was over four months ago, and I will say that it took me a long time to get over what happened on Christmas Day. Being in the position of having to choose between your mother and your children is an impossible one, but we all thank our lucky stars that my husband had the clarity of mind to make the right decision. I was so emotionally involved that I was not capable of making the best decision.

She wanted them there, and if it had been up to me they would have gone, and that would have been wrong. An environment like that is highly unpredictable, and they could have seen or heard things that could have been frightening. They would have seen a man strapped to a gurney. On Christmas Day. I would have regretted that decision.

In life, when things get emotionally charged, there is no substitute for the perspective of someone less involved. Emotions can cloud our judgment, they can prevent us from seeing clearly and making wise judgments. From this devastating situation I have taken this lesson, it will guide my way into the uncertain future, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Is This Really What You Want: Or Unbecoming a Shark.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Why I Give Back to Writers.

Is This Really What You Want: Or Unbecoming a Shark (Life Changing Moments Series)

After a month of platform building, it's refreshing to get back to sharing these life changing moments again. They really help me feel more connected to my human side, and I'm so thankful for everyone who has already shared--and everyone who's in line to share. I'm excited to share this story from Jeannine Bergers Everett. Jeannine is a mother, writer, musician and Red Sox fan. An escapee from corporate life, she now blogs essays and poetry at http://mobyjoecafe.wordpress.com/ and http://momaiku.wordpress.com/. Known for her humorous haiku on parenting and life's other absurdities, she's recently completed her first novel.

Jeannine Bergers Everett, mother, writer, musician and Red Sox fan

Why don’t sharks attack management consultants? Professional courtesy. I first heard this joke from a fellow consultant, which probably tells you everything you really need to know about the business.

At the time I was the Market Research Director for a prominent consulting firm. I didn’t feel like a shark—no fin, no razor-sharp teeth, no taste for carnage. On the other hand, I was at the top of my game in an industry that demanded 24/7 availability and total commitment. I was ambitious, always looking for the next big step. Like a shark, I never stopped moving. So, maybe the shoe did fit.

Every Fish in the Ocean

Then I had my son, and along with the cuddling, the late night feedings and the dirty diapers came a crushing case of post-partum depression. My doctor put me on medication and the fog began to lift, but it did nothing about the ever-increasing demands of my job.

I began to have nightly panic attacks which led to insomnia, so I’d just stand over my son’s crib and watch him sleep. The days weren’t much better. Every time the phone rang I fought back the urge to answer “now what.” I felt like a shark whose first to-do list item was to eat every fish in the ocean. I like sushi, but every fish? Right now?

I thought about finding a new job, but I was making great money and the benefits were amazing. Plus, I’d been in the industry almost twenty years. What else would I do at this point? If I went someplace else would it be any different, or would I just be devouring fish in a different ocean?

So I asked my doctor to increase my meds, and kept moving.

'Is This Really What You Want'

I lived for the moment each day when I’d pick up my son. He’d run across the playground and fling himself into my arms. I soaked him in like sunshine. Then, in second grade he started having problems at school. He was behind in reading, and he wasn’t picking up math.

Under the stress of navigating the school system’s maze of educational resources, I was unraveling fast. I went to my doctor, hoping that another uptick in meds would get me through once again. This time, though, she said no. I was already taking a larger dosage than she felt was safe. My only options were medications with significant side effects—those usually reserved for seriously ill patients.

She asked me, “Is this really what you want?”

She was talking about the meds, but all I could think about was my life.

Stop Swimming, Start Sinking

Quitting my job was not an easy decision. We had a mortgage to pay, and a lifestyle built around two careers. We’d have to make some changes, but I knew we could make it work, because I built a spreadsheet. It said so.

So I quit. And just like a shark, I began to sink the second I stopped swimming.

I had very few friends outside of work. I had always been too busy to chat with the other moms, or volunteer in the classroom. While I’d been working, they’d been developing their relationships. It felt like I was trying to gain admittance to the Mommy Mafia.

I hated answering the question “What do you do?” When I’d say I was a stay-at-home-mom, I’d get the “how nice” smile and the person on the other end of it would find someone else to talk to.

Most of all, I had no idea how to be. Every day I faced a blank planner. I didn’t know where to begin. With nothing else scheduled, I spent the next week pulling crabgrass from the lawn.

Slowly, little by little, I built a life.

Building a Life

I moved on from the crabgrass to mastering the lawnmower, getting to the point where I could start it on one pull. I learned I really loved gardens, but I hated gardening.

I cleaned out the attic. We’d moved three times in seven years, and there were boxes we hadn’t even opened. The Goodwill guys got to know me by name.

My son and I snuggled on the couch reading Harry Potter and Captain Underpants. We invented games to learn how words go together and to memorize times tables. We pitched a tent in his bedroom where we sat with glow lights and debated who had better pizza, Presti, or Reggiano’s. We built snow forts and broke the rules by playing football outside in the pouring rain.

I took my violin out of storage and found a piece of my soul I hadn’t realized I was missing. I explored tranquility through yoga, and shed some anger through kickboxing. I tried African Dance and French cooking, and watched the Red Sox win a world series.

And I wrote. First journal after journal, then bad overly emotive poems, and snarky haiku. I started a blog that nobody read, wrote some flash fiction that a few people did, and finally, began a novel. And I remembered that when I was little, I thought I’d write books when I grew up. Throughout this process, the medication levels came down, until I was at the lowest dose of meds doctors prescribe.

Last Chance to Be a Shark

One day, out of the blue, a former colleague called, asking for help on a consulting project. I needed to know if that part of my life was really over, so I did the project as an independent contractor, hopelessly complicating our tax returns. The work that had seemed so urgent before just didn’t feel relevant anymore. I still had it, but I didn’t want it.

Now, I’m a writer, which in its own way is just as stressful. And I don’t know that I have it. But at least this time the answer to the question “Is this really what you want?” is yes.

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Where Angels Fear to Tread.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Why I Give Back to Writers.

The Unexpected Souvenir, Part 2 (Life Changing Moments Series)

Here's part 2 of "The Unexpected Souvenir," by Ellen Weeren (click here to read part 1), in which her trip winds down and takes an unexpected turn. Ellen graduated from college with an English Writing degree 20 years ago and began her career as a law enforcement policy writer, newsletter editor, and conference planner. When her second child was born in 1999, she quit working and quit writing. Then, three years ago, her husband was very unexpectedly offered a job in New Delhi, India. After Ellen literally threw up, she moved her family across the ocean to a country she knew very little about. She knew it would be amazing but she was also more than a tad overwhelmed. As part journal and part therapy session, Ellen started a blog about her family's adventure--A Reason To Write, which has received international recognition as one of the best travel blogs in the blogosphere. Moving to India was a gift in many ways--a gift to see what rest of the whole world is really like, the gift to travel, and the gift of many reasons to write again. Ellen enjoyed writing so much that she started a second blog called A Reason To Read, where she reviews books. Since returning to the U.S., Ellen continues to pursue writing and is even now dabbling in a little fiction. You can follow her on Twitter at @EllenWeeren or @AReasonToWrite.

As I was putting my phone away and sinking into my seat, I looked around at the busyness on the street. It was chaotic and endless. It was hard to pick out a single scene and focus on it. The realization that I was now exhausted began to settle in and I leaned back in my seat, turning the air vent toward my face.

But then just over to my left, a man came into view. There was no reason, really, that I should be drawn to him. He was loosely defined in the same dusty, brown haze as the foggy air that surrounded him. He wore a simple and stale, used-to-be-white robe and was standing in the middle of the road. In between traffic and blinks, he could have easily disappeared. He looked like he needed help.

It was not immediately clear just how truly desperate he was. You can unfortunately and unintentionally become numb to the desperation in India a little too easily. Even with the biggest most generous heart, the knowledge that you simply can't help everyone graciously lends you an excuse to ignore someone who is clearly struggling.

The Reveal
My friends were still on their phones and I am pretty certain that they never even saw what happened next. I don’t know how my driver could have possibly missed it but he showered me with the gift of never discussing it. As the traffic light in front of us turned red and traffic slowed, the man in the middle of the road slowly began lifting the skirt of his tattered robe.

At first, I only saw his bare and wrinkled brown feet. His toes seemed to be bent in half from holding on too tightly to the melting asphalt. Then he revealed his far too skinny ankles. Followed by his knotted, bent, and ashy knees. His skin was stretched tightly over bones that were very likely brittle and deteriorating. They were bones that had probably never tasted milk and knew nothing of vitamins. Maybe they had never even had the chance to be strong enough to allow him to hold up his slight frame with pride and determination or, more importantly, hope.

It took me a few seconds to fully comprehend what he was doing. To allow myself to believe I wasn't just imagining it. But not enough time to distract myself from it--to delve into conversation and disappear or close my eyes and wish him away.

With his skirt fully lifted, I finally began to understand what he was doing. This man had taken straw-colored raffia and tied it around one of his testicles. It had swollen to nearly the size of a basketball. He would lift his robe to show the people driving by just how profoundly he needed help. Their help. And, then, my help.

What Are You Supposed to Do?
Questions raced through my head. How are you supposed to respond to that? How do you digest that? How can you explain it? What are you supposed to do? I wanted to understand how this could possibly make sense. How do you say that, from an air conditioned car with a full belly and new rings on your fingers, you are not going to stop and do something, anything?

I was momentarily mad at India for hosting me in this amazing adventure through the streets of Old Delhi, only to bring it to this nonsensical end. There were so many times when there was truly nothing I could do to make a situation better. But this time maybe I could have, at least momentarily, helped another human being.

As the light blinked back to green, my anger drained back into its more comfortable state of confusion. The "why" of it once again hung in the air as a question without an answer. We drove away but I can never forget his face. His black eyes were unwillingly resigned to accepting his position. His absolute destruction was the way he fought back and garnished attention.

Many westerners might have seen him and railed against his condition, calling him lazy or foolish, angry that he would expect others to make his life better. India has the unique ability to make you feel angry, sad, helpless, and guilty all at the same time. Sights like this man leave the visitor wondering, "what the bloody hell."

I was so stunned that I could not have acted even if I had thought of something to do. Even if I had thought to empty my purse at his feet, I could not have done it. In the tremendous heat, I was frozen. I never even turned my head away. Our eyes met as we were rolling away and he just looked at me as if to say, "Yes, my dear, you are seeing exactly what you think you are seeing, and what are you going to do with it?"

I sat in disbelief that I completely ignored a man who had intentionally mangled part of himself beyond all recognition.

What Am I Supposed to Do?
I still question what I am supposed to do with his image. I am not sure how to handle this experience. What to do with it. I sometimes wonder who would care what this man across an ocean did. How does it relate to life here and now?

It would be all too easy to pretend that his suffering was unique to that land so far away from the home I have now returned to. But struggle in the human condition is universal and need is everywhere, even though it is not always so obvious.

So, while I still regret not acting in that moment, the experience did change me. I am disappointed in myself for not finding a way to make a difference for that man and the thousand, maybe even million, others who join him on the streets of Delhi and other places.

But now, more so than ever, when I have the chance to be helpful, I take it. And, it is most often in simple ways that really don't cost me much more than a few minutes. My actions won't change the world and I understand that. But I can make little moments a little better. It's not that hard really--hold the door open a little longer so the person behind you can walk through it too, smile more, make dinner for a friend, call someone who is hurting, donate food to a food bank, ask how you can help, etc. Most of it can be accomplished without much sacrifice.

I am not able to store this broken souvenir memory of a tattered man across an ocean away on a shelf and let it gather more dust. It is not a picture that I can shove in a scrapbook and close the cover to forget. It lives in my memory and reminds me nearly every day to be more helpful, kind, and generous. I am reminded to slow down and pay attention and not be so self-absorbed.

Now my vision of him has purpose, reminding me to not ignore the needs of others right in front of me. My memory of him matters more than any other trinket I brought home with me--even more than the bright, untarnished ring I bought that day in Old Delhi. Sadly that ring very often sits in the back of my jewelry box, mostly forgotten because it is just a thing that doesn't make much difference in the life of anyone I know.

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Where Angels Fear to Tread.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Why I Give Back to Writers.