The Mystery of Faith

Universe/Mother Nature/gods/God/Yaweh/Allah/little-baby-Jesus/spirits have always confused me. And being an adult, and not knowing what you believe in, that’s confusing too. The older I get, the more I see, feel, hear, know, and realize that I don’t know. There are times when I think that there is no possible way there’s a higher power and times when I think that there just has to be. Catholic school taught me how to be a good person and maybe learning about Jesus did too. But it certainly scrambled my little soul.


You spend your formative years watching a man in a white robe sing poorly about bread then hold tasteless wafer crackers in the air as two children bustle around him assisting his table-setting, tiny priest-waiters. Napkins, plates, book with a ribbon bookmark. You can see their school shoes beneath their miniature white tunics. They’re just like your own pair. The annual suede bucks from Vandyke and Bacon. Two hundred people file to the front. Then two hundred people share the same cup. The body of Christ. The blood of Christ. And with your spirit.

When you pray before bed, you make up a sign-off you say every night: “Thank you. I love you. Bye bye. Amen.” You pray for the people you love, you think good thoughts for them, you hope that the boys you like start to like you back. Looking back, this was more of a meditation on things you hoped would happen. Is that what prayer is? You’re still not sure at 31. Thank you. I love you. Bye bye. Amen. 

You “earn” your first confession in an old classroom where you tell the same white-robed man who’s now mysteriously wearing all black that you have been mean to your sister. He tells you that you’re absolved and you receive a metal pin. You likely continue to be mean to your sister. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. The act of contrition. You’re seven, and you have no idea what “contrition” means. You’re told you’re supposed to feel differently than before, and so you try really hard to feel differently. You convince yourself that you do, that you’re cleansed. I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.

Now that you are cleansed of your sins, it’s time for First Communion. You dress like a child bride in a dress you love, veil too. You practice: left hand over right, put in mouth with right hand. He will say, The body of Christ. You will say Amen instead of “thank you.” Say Amen instead of “thank you.” Say Amen instead of “thank you.” You get a party afterward because now you, too, have the body of Christ in you. Adults are drinking orange juice with champagne. You are seated at the right hand of the Father.

In 8th grade, it’s time to be confirmed. You must confirm your faith. You are 13 and that is what you do. You choose a new name because now you’re an adult in the eyes of the church. (Does the church have eyes?) There are many events to prepare you and all of your peers for this compulsory confirmation. One is a lock-in where you are to stay up all night. There are high school kids meant to be spiritual guides. They’re nice enough but you’re skeptical of their ability to guide. One of your classmates flashes a group of boys–this is the first you hear of such a thing. You get a special dispensation to chose a virtue as your confirmation name: Hope, rather than a saint’s name. You’re not even really sure why you care enough to write the extra essay. Amanda Marie Hope Doran. I look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.

High school opens doors for more religious history, which you find interesting, horrifying. At some point you watch Alive about the soccer team who crashed in the Alps and resorted to cannibalism. The questions of morality and resulting discussions are difficult and challenging. Senior year you have a doctor of theology for “Images of Christ in the Arts.” One day you’re working at Panera and a person who is blind comes in. You help her order, get her food, and lead her to a table. The doctor of theology is also at Panera that day and sees this exchange (which is simply a part of your job). At the baccalaureate ceremony, you win “The Growth in Christian Womanhood Award” which is a gold necklace. You’re sure this is a a combination of sympathy for being runner-up for the coveted Super Senior Award and helping the woman at Panera in front of the head of the religion department.  Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest. 

Throughout college, you attend the crunchy granola church you grew up in with your mom. It offers intellectual stimulation, community, a Sunday ritual, and beautiful music. This feels right but you’re not sure it has anything to do with Jesus. You start to think of him as a good role model but with your newfound mental independence, you have a hard time believing he’s risen from the dead, walked on water, didn’t eat for 40 days, etc., etc. The mystery of faith. 

You visit the Vatican at 20 years old and the walls inside St. Peters are lined in gold. And a woman with one leg begs just beyond the massive wall lined with saints, for a few coins as all of the tourists walk by, you included, annoyed to even have to look down to avoid tripping over her. You get to go to mass said by the “papa.” He seems mean. It is truly right and just.

You flail aimlessly through services of different kinds, types, faiths, throughout your 20s and into your early 30s. Unsure. Uncommitted. Untethered. And this is a story you keep writing. Because you just don’t know. How can any of us know? Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. 

Then, I imagine Grammom in her final month on earth praying the rosary in loop, although she could barely talk. She used the hand that still worked and tore through those decades. I know the steadfastness of her faith and the example she set for us. How she really lived the way we were taught to live in Catholic school. And I just have to hope or have to know that she’s with Universe/Mother Nature/gods/God/Yaweh/Allah/little-baby-Jesus/spirits because sometimes, even in the scrambliest moments, the mystery of faith just feels better than the absence of it.

The Should-Have-Been

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
       Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
       Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
       Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
               Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
       She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
               For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ode on a Grecian Urn – John Keats


In Boyne City, Michigan on the shore of Lake Charlevoix, there is a grassy park where visitors can watch 10 p.m. sunsets in August. Where people can hear the waters of Lake Michigan called by a different name lap against rocks. Where boats stroll by a football field’s distance away like they’re barely moving. Where an hour before midnight, the curfew siren echos over the water, more out of tradition than any need to cut a summer evening short. That park is lined with carefully curated native plants, meant to display purposefully what would have happened naturally a hundred years ago. A few yards back from the water’s edge there is a bench. As benches in tourism towns often are, it is dedicated to someone with a plaque. In carved letters, that bench reads something like: “To Linda, my fiancée. I’ll always think of you here in this spot, especially every year on August 6th.”

I bastardized that man’s tribute but the point is that Linda’s birth year and death year weren’t far apart enough. And that man didn’t get to say “wife,” he said “fiancée.” So my mind went walking. I leapt to their planned wedding day and how Linda must have chosen the details for this park to be the sight of their vows so they could start forever here. With the geese and the tide and the native plants. But Linda and her bench author didn’t get to have that perfect August 6th. For him, that day will remain suspended in air because even though it passed years ago, it also never happened.

Monday, August 12th was my due date. I remember hearing it and thinking it and imagining my big belly all summer. I dreamt about it and planned it and thought about the likely zodiac sign. We stared at those ultrasound pictures, as if they looked any different than anyone else’s set. I thought, “Who are you?” and “How will we help you become that person?” We’d wait to find out. We’d wait until August 12th.

When we found out that I wasn’t pregnant anymore, at seven weeks, after we’d heard the heartbeat and then didn’t and Chas started reading the baby book out loud and then stopped and I hid it in the back of the basement, I still thought about August 12th. I thought about what it would feel like to reach that date and to feel nothing, or worse, to feel everything. I imagine that moment of not finding the heartbeat and 12:00 a.m. on August 12th as being so connected. Because the first completely changed the second.

Monday, August 12th is almost here. And while I’m not who I thought I’d be on August 12th, I am a stronger me. I am a woman who knows how to mourn and grieve and come out on the other side ready to try something again, if even that means risking the same mourning and grief.

August 12th takes on a new identity. It’s the very day that Lillie May Carroll Jackson Charter School will open for day 1 of school in a new space. I didn’t give birth to the school or even the idea of it. But I have been there from the start. I’ve been integral in the incubation, the forming, the mistakes, the bounce backs. Maybe in my heart August 12th will take on a new identity. Or maybe it will remain suspended, printed on a tiny bench in my soul as a day that should-have-been.


My friend Anastasia sent this to me at the perfect moment a few weeks ago. I hope I don’t come off as a victim here but this is a reminder to all the IVF warriors out there…and the people who work with us, who may not understand why we are fine one moment and then angry, sad, confused, stoic, crying, weeping, the very next.

A Country Western Story

My mom travels with an old radio she plugs into bathroom outlets from the Atlantic Ocean to Lake Michigan. Its speaker’s metal lattice tells you more about its age than what pumps through it. Over decades of summers sharing various iterations of the “standard double room,” I’ve heard an eclectic mix. Right wing talk radio–to “get the other side”; local jingles burned into my brain forever–“Goin’ to the fair, goin’ to the fair. Goin’ to the Northwest Michigan Fair…”; and whatever regional music the now lethal snapped-in-half antenna will bring in.


This week it’s been Froggy something-or-other. (Why are country stations called “Froggy”?) My mom singularly calls it “country western” and says she wanted to hear the stories. We’re not a pop country family, not that there’s anything wrong with it. “Country western music is made of stories,” she’s said a dozen or thousand times in the past week.

The other day as I was using my mom’s magnifying mirror to see the horrors of my pores in stereo-vision, I stayed for exactly one song, one story. Somehow Froggy sniffed me out and sent me its current (only?) social justice anthem: “Somebody’s Daughter” by Tenille Townes (a Canadian).

I drive home the same way
Two left turns off the interstate
And she’s always standing
At the stoplight on 18th Street
She could be a Sarah
She could be an Emily
An Olivia, maybe Cassidy
With the shaky hands
On the cardboard sign
And she’s lookin’ at me
Bet she was somebody’s best friend laughing
Back when she was somebody’s sister
Countin’ change at the lemonade stand
Probably somebody’s high school first kiss
Dancin’ in a gym where the kids all talk about someday plans
Now this light’ll turn green and I’ll hand her a couple dollars
And I’ll wonder if she got lost or they forgot her
She’s somebody’s daughter
Somebody’s daughter
Somebody’s daughter

Aside from those preppy white girl names, I felt grateful to Tenille for telling her country western story on Froggy and we are, this very week, staying on 18th Street in Ocean City. I laughed when I read Taste of Country’s article titled “Tenille Townes’ ‘Somebody’s Daughter,’ the Boldest Song on Radio.” Okay, country western, let’s calm down with the hyperboles. A dash of poverty and a sprinkle of potential opioid crisis does not the “boldest” make. Still, this is good. Art reflecting life.

Townes got at a few powerful themes in her song, a few that really drive me. Everyone has a story. There are an infinite number of circumstances that can bring someone to her knees. Assumptions about strangers are often ignorant and ill-conceived (I really need to work on this one with bros). Be grateful. And, you should always keep granola bars in the door pocket of your Toyota Corolla.



Update: This article tells the story of a man who pan handled on Roland Avenue near Hampden. This is basically the real-life version of the song above. The universe…she knows.

Give Me the Deets with Amanda Doran Eby (Me)

Image may contain: 1 person, sitting, bridge, shoes and outdoor

My friend Erin Drew (a comedian, writer, beacon of light, all around lunatic) has her own podcast. AND I GOT TO BE ON IT! Please listen to educate yourself about the school system…something that literally affects ALL layers of society.

Amanda is the Director of Scholar Development at Lillie May Carroll Jackson Charter School. She coordinates career days, college visits, mentor programs, and meets with every one of her 8th graders’ families to help plan for their daughter’s high school future and beyond. In this episode, we talk about first-time teaching experiences, urban education, race, secondary trauma, teacher retention, and the complicated lottery system for Baltimore City high school placements. Read more at

Dear Young Lady, I See You

You will come of age with our young nation
We’ll bleed and fight for you, we’ll make it right for you
If we lay a strong enough foundation
We’ll pass it on to you, we’ll give the world to you
And you’ll blow us all away
Someday, someday
Yeah, you’ll blow us all away
Someday, someday

– “Dear Theodosia” by Lin-Manuel Miranda, Leslie Odom Jr. from Hamilton


Dear Young Lady,

Even though I saw you today for the first time in months, I see you all the time. I see you in children younger than you who walk the halls in pleated skirts. I see you strolling to school in West Baltimore, three feet tall, holding hands with a momma. I see you in the squeegee kids and their drive and lack of couth balanced out by their wide smiles. I see you when I pass a house with windows that’s among a row of vacants. I see you in red hair dye and abandoned binders and an old card you wrote me. I see you in faces and hear you in songs and imagine you turning on your heels so gracefully like when “Yip” is playing. When you texted me on Mother’s Day, my heart grew three sizes. You told me you knew I’d be a mother soon and that I’d sort of been one to you–I’ll take it.

When you told me what’s going on in your life, I hope you know I heard you. And that time you said you wondered what it’d be like if you grew up with parents like mine, I never stopped hearing that. When you smiled big enough that I could see the new tooth you’ve got poking through your gum, I was reminded that you are still a child. That although you just unloaded a set of stories most wise and well-supported adults couldn’t persevere through, you can’t vote or drive or buy a lottery ticket.

Those times I catch myself saying something like “Slow-close cabinets are a life saver,” you and your presence in my life, are among the factors that help me stay in check. You wouldn’t know this but you help me see my minutia and how trivial it can be. When you rattle off even a few of the things your mom has put you through, I lose my breath. And I get it back when I see in your face that you know you deserve so much more. More than someone who spelled your name wrong the day you were born or left you to raise yourself or doesn’t call or stops sending you money for food.

I asked you how you picture your life in September and you said you cannot do that. Not where you’ll be living or where you’ll start 10th grade. What pops into my head is that although you can’t imagine what three months away will look like, I can see what I hope for you in twenty years. And so I’m asking myself, is this something that growing up in a good family grants you? The ability to see the future? The agency to create it? The vision of the steps to get to a goal? So I try to keep my face neutral but I know the answers are yes, yes, yes, and yes. If only I could touch my pointer to yours and zap you with some of what I’ve got. If only I could stare you in the eyes and transmit how I imagine you as a happy, successful adult. If only we could enter some alternative universe where your name on your birth certificate matched the name you’ve always used and all the other good things, or just reasonable things, that followed that first act.

Young Lady, I will probably keep writing you letters I can’t show you. And to you, I will reveal a fraction of what I say in these. I try not to scare you when I tell you how much you’ve taught me and how amazed I am and how strongly I feel about your future. I’ll be seeing you…


Ms. Eby

See You Later, This is Not Goodbye



Now THIS is a “Healthy Holly.” In our front yard. And if you don’t get why this is funny, read up on Baltimore’s mayor.

Dear Readers,

If you’ve ever been tubing, attached to the back of a speed boat you will know this feeling. You’re on the ridge of the wake, high up, you have to hold on extra tight. You don’t know whether your tube is going to slide to the left or fall to the right but it’s imminent. It’s like waiting for a balloon to pop or that feeling when you’re about to fall into cold water or rip a wax strip off your arm pit. It’s purgatory. The change is pending. This is where I am right now with my writing. I’m on the brink of a change and it’s time to slide left or fall right.

Thank you for being here, whether once or 104 times. The amount of love and support I’ve received for these pieces in the past two years has been incredible. It has buoyed me through immense anxiety at the start and most recently, through familial weirdness and unexpected life-altering sadness, through the forced patience of IVF. It’s helped me to speak things on the computer keyboard I couldn’t figure out how to say out loud, whether to myself, to anyone, to one of my girls. I’ve tried to be funny, I’ve tried to be emotive, I’ve tried to be helpful. I’ve planned how to help my most-challenged girls, I’ve pondered the arrival of my niece, I’ve spoken to family and I’ve spoken to strangers. I’ve attempted to garner more help for my beloved Baltimore. While writing these, I have both laughed at my own thoughts and cried at my own heart.

My next venture is to take some of this writing and to try to self-publish a book. Would you read it, even if you’ve already read it here? This is me, putting this down on paper, that I will work toward a book. Accountability.

Now, I still have this domain (I just paid to re-up for another year) and I want to actively write new things so I will aim to post at least once per month, always on a Friday. If you have a guest blog you’d like to post, please reach out!

So, thank you for your support. Below are some of my favorites in case you were late to the party or are looking for something to do on your work computer, other than work. Please, as always, comment, share, spread! I love having you readers and as humans in this world.

So much love to you,



Dichotomy (yoga + West Baltimore)

Five Strangers Walk into a Bar (written by Shar)

A Hard Thing We’re Not Supposed to Talk About (IVF)

Ms. Renee Means Peace (Renee Buettner)

Dear Baltimore (a letter to the flawed city I love)

That Karaoke Singer from Hon Bar (about Bobby Ray, astronomer, numerologist, karaoke singer)

Perspective: Baltimore/Amandy (photos)

Anxiety and the Advice I’m Not Legally Qualified to Give (anxiety and healing)

Paint Baltimore Kind (ways to help Baltimore’s peeps and streets)

The Rose that Grew From Concrete (a Dear Young Lady letter)

Dear Niecephew Part II (a letter to Emma, when I didn’t know she was Emma)

Two Months is Not Enough (Dear Young Lady letter)

Humans of Hampden (photos)

A Modest Proposal: Compulsory Teaching (my idea of a societal advancement)

Be a Doer/Dreamer Like Erricka Bridgeford (about leader of Baltimore Ceasefire)

30 for 30 (30 thoughts near my 30th birthday)

Let There BMore Love (ways to help Baltimore)

Dear Young Lady (yes, another one)

Everything I Shouldn’t Have Known When I Was a Kid, I Learned from Seinfeld (implied)

To Gram, Mary Lou Lucskowski Lutz Papa James (a letter to my grandmother)

The World is Too Much With Us (commentary on the absurdity of the 21st century)

The Local’s Guide to Baltimore (what to do in Charm City)

Reinvention (repurposing of all kinds)

Welcome to Hampden, Hon: Old, Weird, Fancy (a present and past guide to my neighborhood)

A Sense of Place (being there, there)

Gratitude (no eye rolls)

An Urban Education Wishlist (what I want for our schools)

A Week in White Girl Hair (when all in one week I had cornrows, let my kids cut my hair in my classroom, and donated 12 inches to Pantene Beautiful Lengths)



When you walk through the garden
You gotta watch your back
Well I beg your pardon
Walk the straight and narrow track
If you walk with Jesus
He’s gonna save your soul
You gotta keep the devil
Way down in the hole

“Way Down in the Hole” by Tom Waits, theme song of The Wire

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Thank you, Dichotomy. Thank you for the reminder that the world is not all one way. I appreciate the way you show up, just when I need you. Like a shower after a day of sweaty exercise and dusty cleaning, or an email from an uncle who sees the world through a completely different lens, a smoothie after too many French fries, a dark political podcast and followed by an episode of Schitt’s Creek.

The world is so full of contrasts that help illuminate that which is sometimes hard to see. There are times when I can’t see what is right in front of me, until I spot the opposite. For example, I do not appreciate my health, until I get sick. It takes the scary depths of a stomach bug to realize that almost every day I feel absolutely great.

You don’t realize you’re surrounded by noises, until you hear nothing at all. When you drive over a series of steel plates laid out like crooked teeth, you see that most of the roads are paved smooth. Maybe you don’t notice how gray winter was until spring green fills in the skyline.

Running once a week in West Baltimore with Back on My Feet and my team (Bad Ass Penn North) makes this sensation of dichotomy more apparent. The sights in West Baltimore can implode the notion that everyone has it as good as you do. Empty houses and buildings, the intermittent smell of urine, crunching glass underfoot. Street lights out for months, discarded food vessels, construction equipment deposited in front of peoples’ homes, cigarette butts and needle remnants. Black plastic bags and signs of white flight. Splintered window panes and weeds reclaiming sidewalk tiles. Bus fumes swirl past half broken benches. Forgotten cats slink by, tails curled under their skinny bodies, as they dart through peeling retread tires and pieces of an old bike. Red and blue lights bounce off all structures where the Avenue meets North, constantly piercing the end of the night at 5 a.m., a reminder that you are being watched. You may be anonymous but you will not go unseen. A cop under those lights flicks through his phone, his brain in some place other than right here in West Baltimore–a spot large swaths of our city, state, country, and world, have determined is forsaken, for good.

But yes, Dichotomy, you’ve got me again. Today is the fourth anniversary of Freddie Gray’s murder. Has much about West Baltimore changed since then? Since the night of April 27, 2015 when I sat shaking in Aubrey’s living room as we clicked back and forth from the news to The Little Mermaid, attempting to hold the book club meeting we knew couldn’t really happen, what with our city burning? Back then, I wasn’t in the pattern of driving Over West much, unless it was to my mom’s school or to the Mondawmin Target (R.I.P.). I didn’t have kids I picked up and took places, didn’t have my running team, no yoga classes or people I knew. It felt at the same time right down the street and lightyears away. And now that I go to West Baltimore often, I feel more in that memory of her distance–like I’ve added to something that’s from my past. Because in between the despair, the dilapidation, the crumbles and sighs and the lack of investment, I see a collection of neighborhoods teeming with life and loveliness. People mostly doing their best, or what they’ve learned or been told is their best.

Singer Billie Holiday’s open mouth next to an image of writer Ta-Nehisi Coates, intricately layered on a brick wall. Billie’s got a pink flower in her hair. Murals of history and of hope. Tiny gardens inside repurposed Goodyears. Knee-high fences and fresh spring plantings. Rowhouses splashed with crayon colors. Babies and mommas and morning greetings. Bird nests on window sills and hundred-year-old spires topping attic windows. Kids in school uniforms and year-round strings of lights. Basketballs bouncing and “No Shoot Zone #123.” Kids and adults swinging in the playground. Recycling bins, churches, and schools named for figures in civil rights. Parks, green space, and porch lights switched on. Marble stoops preserved for decades adorned with flower pots. I see small businesses, both store front and street corner. Brick and mortar beauty shops and young hands slinging cool bottles of water for a buck at a red light. Spots people forgot and those some are just starting to remember. Pride and careful paintings and people going to work before the sun does. A driver yells a name from car windows to a walker nearby and their faces collapse into matching smiles.

On Wednesday night I attended a Core Power continuing education training. It was four hours long in a sterile studio with fake wood floors, dim lights, and forty-ish people all white but one black man and two Asian girls. We received a printed packet containing  photos of skeletons and muscles and several grammatical errors. The presenter included messages about how to speak about postures, how to set a universal intention, how to make a shorter surya namaskar B, and several tips the following phrases were repeated (among others): “point your hip tips down,” “filling your diaphragm,” and “the natural curve of your low back.” Some people showed off their knowledge of the sagittal plane or kyphosis or hip dips. We were told not to plan sequences at home–the subtext being, “We will not pay you for work you do outside the studio.” The leader of the workshop called us “team” because “guys,” often a default, sends the wrong message. She rattled off questions to which the answer was always yes. “Does your theme matter?” (Yes.) “Is it important to work the entire core?” (Yes.) “Do you eat spinach?” (I’m kidding…but yes.) I get it. It’s a corporation. It’s a yoga training for a large national company. None of this doesn’t make sense. But, the older I get, the more dichotomy I see, and I am having a harder and harder time with minutia.

On Thursday night, I taught a yoga class to members of my BoMF team. We practiced in a field on a random concrete platform next to a chipping mural of figures from black history. Before we started, we picked up two bags of trash including several pieces of very stale bread which could only be described as rat food at this point. After we cleared our space, we set up my motley crew of yoga mats I’ve gathered by donation. Two elementary aged girls asked if they could join us, which was an emphatic yes and a pair of women who live nearby hopped in too. We were 9 yogis practicing in the sunshine in a field in West Baltimore, across from a community resource center that houses people in recovery. Kids ran the basketball court across the field and the playground was full too. Members of Penn North stood across the street and watched us flow–maybe wanting to join in. Life continued around us, a helicopter circled over head, and people did what they do on Thursday afternoon, arrived home from work, rode by on motorcycles, walked through with a waving toddler.

These two “yoga” experiences offered such a great dichotomy. “Yoga” means to unite–but which night offered the greater example of uniting?

On Thursday night, my breath cues weren’t perfect, you could barely hear the music from my portable speaker, I never mentioned hip tips (I don’t even really know what that means), and the soles of my feet wore dirt socks, but it was beautiful.

Thank you, Dichotomy, for all that you teach me. At the end of both nights, we all said namaste at the end but only on Thursday do I think we all truly agreed that, “The light in me sees the light in you.”


Get Out of Your Own Way


Taken at the National Museum of African American History and Culture.


“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It’s not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

— Marianne Williamson

Surely you have seen Coach Carter. How about Akeelah and the Bee? In a somewhat strange choice by Samuel L. Jackson in 2005 and another by Laurence Fishburne in 2006, these men starred/co-starred in really what are both children’s movies. Don’t get me wrong–I own AatB. Aside from being kids’ movies, these films have another thing in common: Marianne Williamson (above). While I cannot figure out which version of her quote is the correct one, I choose the one up top. And what this makes me think of, is this blog. Not this one, but this blog, generally.

Having written weekly for nearly two full years, I am almost stunned by myself. I know me. I can clean a tub, three toilets, and weed an entire backyard in two hours if it means I can avoid doing something that advances my personal goals. I could make it through my whole closet, make a pile of give-away clothes, and switch out summer and winter attire, all before submitting a piece to a literary journal. I get some deep-seeded satisfaction from completing tasks that do not directly lead to my self-fulfillment. I’m not here seeking pats on the back. Quite the contrary, I am here to say that if I can do it, you can do it. What “it” is, I’m not sure. It is totally up to you.

I completed my MA in Writing in May 2015 and then did not write again for 23 months. I was scared. I was afraid of myself. What if I mussed up what I had already written? (Not actually possible. It was already written.) What if I got rejected? (I did.) What if they took away my thesis award? (They wouldn’t even know how.) What if I sounded stupid? (I often do.) What if, if?

The writing degree. It says you can…write? But does it say you will write?

When I got my life back together, I figured it out. You simply need to get out of your own way. Which, as this article says, you do not sacrifice who you are, you do not pretend your baggage doesn’t exist, you simply see through it, like a fruit snack, not the milky ones. Your baggage is part of your view but you go on anyway.  You see through the cherry color.

According to Dennis Palumbo writing for Psychology Today,

“From my perspective, a creative artist who invites all of who he or she is into the mix—who sits down to work engulfed in “stuff,” yet doesn’t give these thoughts and feelings a negative connotation; who in fact strives to accept and integrate whatever thoughts and feelings emerge—this artist has truly gotten out of his or her own way.

From this standpoint, it’s only by labeling a thought or feeling as either good or bad, productive or harmful, that you’re actually getting in your own way. Restricting your creative flow.

Getting out of your own way means being with who you are, moment to moment, whether you like it or not. Whether or not it’s easy or comfortable, familiar or disturbing. And then creating from that place.”

It took me putting my own insecurities aside, my own fear, my own self doubt. It doesn’t mean I got rid of those things, they are here. But I go on anyway. I write anyway. Maybe, partially, or entirely, because I told you I would. For some absurd collection of reasons, on April 21, 2017, I said “I will post on Fridays.”

This is the same way I ran a marathon–twice. I signed up…and I told people I’d do it. I created my own accountability partners, by knowing my own shame would be strong enough to keep me going.

So, I pass that to you. What holds you back? Is it a good reason? Is it life-altering? Is that a positive thing? Is your thing good for you, good for the world, good for Baltimore? (You knew I had to plug it.) Do it. Getting out of your way doesn’t mean not being you. It means allowing yourself to be you. If I have 100+ weeks of things to say, surely you have it in you to do your thing, to go to the gym, to try this or that, launch your 501c3 or LLC, start the program, try the class, eat the peach. It’s just a life. “Your playing small does not serve the world.” Get out of your own way.


My purpose is to use creativity and connection so that we can become better


On Wednesday I participated in a leadership conference with 10 of my girls. An interesting layer to the conference was that the middle and high schoolers participated, and facilitators–like me–were able to participate while leading. Teaching is most rewarding when your kids are learning, receiving some intellectual gift, interacting, growing, having fun, building with others, and all the while, you are typically on the sideline. Sometimes, we get to work together, teachers and students. But, for the most part, being a guide on the side makes for a great teacher. Meaning that a chance to learn and grow with the kids, was pretty special. 

The conference was about leadership and purpose and was run by Ross Wehner of World Leadership School, someone I have worked with once in the past, also about purpose. Wehner (who is one of these incredible people who just radiates good things, opportunities, and genius) bases his learning, speaking, and ventures entirely on the huge concept of purpose, and I smell what he is cookin’. Without going down the purpose-rabbit-hole, Wehner talks about how when purpose is central to education, learning increases, applications to the larger world become essential to the learner, life-long scholars are born, and the evils of unhealthy stress, anxiety, and meaninglessness, all decrease. Wehner links stress with meaninglessness, asserting that, and citing others who assert the same, stress is often imposed on those who don’t believe in what they’re doing. This speaks to me in more ways than I can go into.

I also learned that hedonic happiness is happiness that has to do with the self—pursing pleasure, eating pleasure, getting “mine.” Eudaimonic happiness is “based on the premise that people feel happy if they experience life purpose, challenges and growth.”

Throughout the day, using multiple exercises and funneling those results, we came to our own purpose. After what Shar and I thought was an appropriately timed lecture (less so for the teenagers with us), we were able to use these Calling Cards (which I just ordered on Amazon). We narrowed down the activities that most felt true and appealing to us and got down to five–the cards included activities such as “organizing things,” “exploring the way,” “creating dialogue,” “adding humor,” and one that felt very true for me: “making connections.” Short of recounting the entire conference and giving up Wehner’s “aha factor,” from the cards, to a movement activity, to a long conversation with a stranger, and so on, we were able to whittle down a purpose statement. Like a one sentence vision that says: here’s why I am alive.  

I am still somewhat workshopping mine but the best I have right now is something like “Using creativity and connection so that we can become better.” The we, in this case, is everyone, anyone, my girls, me, you, Baltimore, the world. A concept that feels very present to me is connection. If I wrote my own version of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music it would contain a line something like, and imagine the tune in your head as you read this,

“Trader Joe’s flowers and whiskers on puppies,

bright social justice murals and Emma’s fleece mittens,

Connecting people I care about, and sometimes complete strangers,

with helpful resources around Baltimore or anywhere I can find them,”

or something more or less broad.

I love making connections among people, among ideas, among opportunities and nonprofits and jobs and yoga studios, long form nonfiction articles, podcasts, my book club, and things I haven’t even thought of yet. I have this narrative in my head that I know and have the best of everything, but rather than a “false narrative,” it’s more of a half naive/half true narrative. 

In Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point, Gladwell starts chapter two, “The Law of the Few” with the story of Paul Revere, and his lesser known fellow revolutionary, William Dawes. Dawes essentially took actions similar to that of Paul Revere, but lacked Revere’s “rare set of social gifts” (p. 33). Revere was what Gladwell calls, a Connector, with a capital C. Revere had a large social network, he was gregarious, and as Gladwell says, his funeral was attended by “troops of people.” He had a slew of hobbies and interests including fishing, hunting, card playing, theatre-going, drinking, business, and he was active in the local Masonic Lodge. History knows Paul Revere. There are poems about him, stories, he’s in history books. We all know, “One if by land, two if by sea.” And who is William Dawes? I know as well as you do. In history, he’s a nobody. Revere caused what Gladwell calls “a word-of-mouth epidemic.” His role as a Connector became essential when, the British were coming.

I feel like I have a few traits in common with Paul Revere–and I’m not talking about the fact that we both have long brown hair, generous cheeks, and a penchant to rest our chins in our right hands.  I think what I have in common with Paul Revere is partially due to the fact that I’ve lived in Baltimore City my entire life and continue to milk it for all it’s worth. I have a lot of people here, and I have a lot of hobbies here. Gladwell says, “In the case of Connectors, their ability to span many different worlds is a function of something intrinsic to their personality, some combination of curiosity, self-confidence, sociability, and energy.” While I do think at my core, I am an introvert who recharges alone and gets irrationally angry at the drivers of luxury vehicles, this speaks to me. And what’s crystalizing in my head following Wednesday’s conference (see the post from April 3), is that my role in the world is that of a Connector. I feel a jolt of the truest joy any time I think of, make, carry out a helpful connection. I love when people turn to me for ideas, people, advice, and that’s increased when or if I can help.

Generally, I think most people really enjoy helping others. In other words, this does not make me unique. From a completely selfish perspective, helping others, making a connection, launching someone into something, recommending a job, giving away a free gym pass, passing along an email address, these things feel good for the helper or connector. I am glad we are wired this way–it’s truly helpful to society, and I urge you to look for ways you can connect and lift up others. There’s a high to be had. Baltimore is a great place for it because we are a small city. We’re insular. Everyone knows everyone. Scary, but also incredibly helpful. It’s easy to connect here. And maybe that’s another reason I fell into this role so easily. I live in an incubator for connection.

Knowing some semblance of my purpose in this world is helpful. It’s funny that Gladwell’s book, which came out in 2000 and which I read more than a decade ago, popped into my head when thinking about this concept of connection. Somewhere in the deep parts of my brain Gladwell’s idea and the description of the “Connector” lived for all these years ready to pop out and take hold. It’s like I knew to remember the concept for when I was ready to be who I really am. Like I knew I would be a Connector.

I was never a die-hard Sex and the City person but I like this summation in the form of a quote from the show: “Enjoy yourself…that’s what your 20s are for. Your 30s are to learn the lessons. Your 40s are to pay for the drinks.” While I’m only 31 and I know I have umpteen more realizations to make, I think I have learned a few lessons already.

Know who you are. Know your purpose. Mine is to use creativity and connection so that we can become better.

Dear Emma


Dear Emma,

Before you were you, back when you were just a tiny alien-mushy-human-squish. I wrote you letters. I called you “Niecephew” because we didn’t know you were you. I told you how I’d be there for you and what I’d teach you and how well I’d listen. I wrote about what I hoped for you and what you’d be to us and how much we’d love you. But I was wrong.

I was wrong because you far exceed what I imagined you to be. You are quite literally incredible. You lift my soul. I love your smiley face and your smooth forehead, your giggle, and those puffy little feet. Your Bam Bam ponytail and your wobbly practice walk. I love your laugh and the noises you make. I like watching you eat and your happy food dance. I like how you actually “eat your peas one at a time.” I love when you kick your little leggies in a swing or while Momma’s holding you. I can barely handle that you smile and giggle when I arrive to your house–like from a cardiac perspective, I can barely handle it.

Your presence and your splendor have markedly improved my life. I can’t stop visiting you. Your momma says it’s good to have me visit, but I can imagine it’s a lot. I feel drawn to you. Like I must make you laugh. I must make you smile. I need to hold you.

Everyday you’re growing muscles and using brain cells and being amazing. You play peak-a-boo behind the coffee table as you’re doing squats. When you grip the oven handle and dance, you’re working those triceps and forearms. As you roll over Momma and Joe or Dadda or some toy, you’re using those little baby abs.

You look at the world with eyes I envy. Everything is new, everything is interesting, everything matters. Watching you watch anything makes me believe in humanity. I know behind that amazing bouffant there’s a growing brain. You’re taking in knowledge and working it in with what you learned last week, yesterday, and seven minutes ago.

I just need you to know that I am grateful. I am grateful for everything you are. I’m grateful for your joy and innocence, your beauty, vigor, and amusement. I’m grateful to have you as my niece.


Aunt Amandy