Continue reading Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness

The story of the 1912 Titanic ship—a beautiful ocean vessel that ended in tragedy—fascinated me when I was 14. I was horrified to learn that people had been mostly saved according to their social class. So, when my school’s English speech instructor asked us to choose a topic we cared about, my selection was easy. I conducted research, created note cards, and practiced my speech for weeks.

However, when it was my turn to speak, I walked slowly to the front of the classroom. That walk seemed to take an hour; my hands became clammy, my knees grew weak, and my mouth felt suddenly dry. I do not remember anything I said. I do remember feeling terrified.

Never wanting to feel that way again, I forced myself to try other public speaking opportunities, and when my dad encouraged me to briefly address our congregation about my church camp counselor experiences in the Black Hills, I reluctantly accepted. I eventually joined my high school’s oral interpretation team, which meant public speaking in a competition format. Oral interpretation mostly consisted of reciting memorized content, so that somehow seemed less daunting. While I still didn’t enjoy public speaking, each time grew a little easier. Continue reading Find your voice and advance your career

*Trigger warning: This column describes a car accident.

My dad often says that it is important to find ways to turn a negative experience into positive energy. That sentiment has helped me reframe Sunday, April 8, 2018, the day my little family survived a car accident. My husband Tim had turned 40 on April 6, and to celebrate, we traveled with our four-year-old son Weston to visit Tim’s childhood friend in Joplin, Missouri. We were returning to Monroe on Louisiana Highway 425 near the Log Cabin Road intersection at around 8 p.m. I was in the passenger seat, listening to an audiobook with Tim. Weston was sitting behind me in his car seat, wearing his favorite red headphones, and watching cartoons on the Ipad. I snapped a photo of him wearing his blue shirt with white stars and yellow stripes on the sleeves and texted it to my mother, knowing she would appreciate his ensemble.

Suddenly, another driver sped through the stop sign at the intersection, struck the passenger side of our Toyota 4-Runner, and threw us 250 feet across the median into the opposite car lane. Later reports indicated our car flipped about eight times. Tim saw the other driver accelerate toward our car, but I did not. I remember a loud noise and staring at the digital dashboard, trying to make sense of what was happening as our car began rolling. Continue reading See the light

As a teenager, I disliked my hands, which were not slender and feminine like my mother’s. Mine were shaped like square blocks, part of my Germanic build, I suppose. One day, my dad held my hands in his and said, “I like your hands. They are strong and sturdy.” Although that was not exactly what a 17-year-old girl might want to hear, I felt comforted by his words, and as I grew older, I worried less about my hands and even started to embrace “sturdy” as part of my Midwestern identity. Then I learned of the need to be sturdy emotionally, to deal with adversity.

My first experience with death was at 16, when I lost my grandfather, whom I loved differently than anyone else. In his kind, benevolent, grandparent mind, I was always “a good girl.” Clark Woodard was a big, broad-shouldered man, and while he was soft-spoken, he had a large personality that drew people to him. He was endlessly patient, and always hopeful, with a sense of humor that could lighten anyone’s burden. He was diagnosed with cancer when I was young, and he chose treatment mainly so he could “stick around” for his grandchildren, and he did. When he died years later, I ran to my favorite park, a few blocks from my house. I sat on one of the swings, out of breath, and looked at my hands. I remember thinking how much my hands resembled his. My hands were smaller, of course, but they were sturdy, like his.

I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in 2005, two weeks after moving from South Dakota to Louisiana. I had to wait a week before finding out whether I had the less aggressive cancer or the kind that would end my life in six weeks, according to my surgeon. After receiving this news, I sat on the bed in my new Louisiana home and stared at my bedroom’s pale yellow walls. I remember thinking, “This does not make any sense. My body is strong. I am only 27 years old. I’m not ready.” For the first time in my life, I felt truly alone, because I knew no one could experience my cancer for me, although my mother expressed her desire to do so. Continue reading Women are resilient