Today, May 1, my daughter graduates with her BS in Environmental and Sustainability Studies from the University of Utah. I feel all the ways you might expect: proud, excited, happy, curious, thrilled and definitely awed. Some of that awe stems from the fact that she earned her degree in two years. Some of it stems from the person my daughter is: caring, generous, fun, driven, athletic, self-aware, and adventurous. Some of it stems from the way she approaches life, a confidence to take on new things without holding back. This isn’t just because she’s young. It is how she engages with living, and it is inspiring.

Along with the expected ways I feel about Charlotte completing her undergraduate education, I notice something else. A tightness in the center of my stomach, a tinge of heaviness at the back of my heart. She’s travelled the educational conveyor belt from preschool to university, and is now jumping off into the world at large. With this discernible step into real independence - working full-time, creating a structure for her life that is dictated fully by her choices and not by her parents, teachers, or an educational institution - as her parent I feel a bit…irrelevant.

When Charlotte first came onto the scene, there was a moment of tremendous resistance and heel dragging on my part. I had an identity - endurance athlete, runner, cyclist, and though married, an independent woman. To shift into being a mother was, to me, a departure almost unfathomable. At 38, I didn’t want to have someone dependent on me, and I certainly didn’t want to give up my athletic and independent identity to be a mom. I didn’t know how to be a mom.

But, something had been happening. From the early days of my pregnancy, what I felt for this being inside me was growing along with her. The visceral love and literal connection I experienced was profound - the “not knowing how to be a mom” was no match for that. My resistance, and my old identity, subsided as I found myself completely immersed in mama-hood.

Parenting is hard. From sleepless nights to figuring out needs without words to saying “NO!” and the response is to look you in the eye and do it anyway. From being right where you laid them down to crawling across the house in three seconds flat to scampering out of reach with a delighted giggle. From looooong, even boring, days at the park to being awakened at 2am to continue an argument over the pajamas to full-on meltdowns. And as your child moves from little one to teen and beyond, you exchange one set of difficulties for another, again and again. 

But here’s the thing - you have a clear purpose. You know your place as a parent, however imperfectly. 

As a parent I had (and still have) two unequivocal goals. To see my daughter, truly and deeply, for the person she is. To learn about her, and myself - the dynamic between us, and how I could become a better person and thus a better mother. These aims were challenges that I was not always equal to, and at times I failed badly. But the goals were my guiding principles, and no matter how low or exhausted I felt, I always knew my purpose. 

Today, those goals are still guiding me, but feel less immediate. My tasks as a parent - chauffeuring, planning, baking, medical/dental appointments, etc., etc. were often the structure by which I could focus on my parenting goals, and thus feel my purpose in real time. But those tasks, which have been waning for years, are done now, and this graduation feels like the true take-off. She stands fully in her own life, which is amazing and exactly right - and yet I feel disoriented.

It isn’t like I can go back and pick up where I left off twenty years ago. I certainly am not the same body and mind I was at 38. I am grappling with being the parent of an adult, and how to dip my toe into what’s next, and I feel somewhat lost because for 20 years - I was “Charlotte’s mom.” 

I have written about the idea of looking forward with my current running abilities rather than comparing them to my past. But this shifting of identity is different. This is about bringing forward the mom parts of me and the me parts of me, so that I’m a melding of pre-mom and mom, and maybe something altogether new.

There’s a story that Clarissa Pinkola Estés shares about her Uncle Zovár, a Hungarian WWII refugee that her father helped bring to their tiny farming village in northern Michigan. When Estés was very young the U.S. government seized land from their town to put in a highway. The construction work destroyed the nearby wood that was precious to the townspeople, and Uncle Zovár was devastated, as this triggered memories of all that was taken from him during the war as a peasant farmer in “the old country.” When the construction was finished, the highway was at some distance from the town and so the destruction of the wood was unnecessary after all. Uncle Zovár headed out one morning with a hoe, and began to dig a deep trench on one side of the now flattened wood - more a field at this point. Neighbors, many of whom also had roots in the old country, joined him in the trench digging, until the field was a giant rectangle framed by the deep trench. Uncle Zovár then set fire to the field and the once living things that had been laid to waste, the trench containing the flames. He sat watch over the fire all night long, Estés at his side. 

The next day, the field was flat, blackened, and lay open to the sky. Estés asked if they should plant seed. But Uncle Zovár explained to her that their work had been to prepare the soil. The field was now fertile ground, and they would leave it be - to let grow what would grow. The breeze would blow in what it would. Birds flying overhead would drop what they would. Critters large and small would track into the field what they would. New life would come. 

Time passed, and the field did become a wood. Full of new plants, trees, and wildlife.
​Full of new life. 

​Have you ever been so stressed out that you can’t think straight? How helpful is the advice to “just breathe” from some well-meaning person? Or you do a quick Google search for taking that high anxiety down a notch, and your result is a picture of a perfect-appearing human in a perfect lotus pose, perfectly blissed out. Not real, not helpful, and, for my money, anxiety-promoting.

A useful strategy for pulling back from the stress-cliff is taking a peek around and becoming aware. If I’m outside, tuning in to the melodic birdsong from the branches overhead, breathing in the sharp evergreen scent, and gazing into the distance - at the Flat Tops or Emerald Mountain - is a sure way to pull me out of my head spin. Inside, I can feel the texture of the floor or the socks under my feet, and listen to the sounds around me - the blowing of the fireplace heat, the hum of the refrigerator.

This awareness, also called mindfulness, is one method of focusing the mind on something other than the stress/anxiety and instead bringing attention to what is actually happening around you in the moment. 

To deepen that, and apply not only to reducing anxiety and stress but reduce the monotony of the daily grind, you have something called “psychological richness.” Philosopher Lorraine Besser and psychologist Shigehiro Oishi have researched and defined the term to mean cognitive engagement. They found that for some, a psychologically rich life surpasses a meaningful or happy life.

The components of psychological richness:

1. Mindfulness 2.0. Paying attention with neutrality - noticing without judgment. That could mean taking in the details of a tree: the roughness and color of the bark, the length of the needles, any bird nests built in its branches. By focusing on the details, you stimulate the mind. 
2. Curiosity. Ask questions to take the mindful details a step further. How does the bark get its different shades of brown? How long did it take the birds to build that nest, and where did they gather those nest-construction materials? These simple questions help expand your perspective.
3. Creativity. Doing something new or differently generates novelty, another way to stimulate the mind. This could be something as simple as taking that walk with the trees and the birds at a different time of day than usual, or reversing the direction of your habitual route. It could mean stopping where you would not typically stop to take a look around and notice something in your surroundings you haven’t before. Breaking monotony, doing something a bit different, are ways to stimulate cognitive engagement.

Psychological richness is an individual concept in that each person will find engagement in their own way. The key is to start simple with using mindfulness 2.0, curiosity, and creativity. You can develop the capacity for psychological richness on a daily basis with small things like the examples above, and it can then be a tool at your fingertips for those stress-filled moments when you need an uncomplicated way to side-step the anxiety and focus on the here and now.

Source/Learn More

• Optimist Daily article: Transform your daily grind with 3 simple strategies for a more engaging life 

Originally published March, 2025

Imagine that you are preparing for bed. You’re in your softest PJs, you’ve brushed your teeth and washed your face, and your water glass is on the bedside table. There is only one lamp giving out a warm light. You spritz your pillow with a light mist of lavender, chamomile, rose or jasmine to promote sleep. Using a massage tool, a tennis ball, or a small foam roller, you knead the tension in your shoulders and neck, breathing in easily as the tight muscles let go. Your head hits the pillow and you sleep like a baby until morning. 

A bedtime routine, aromatherapy, and massage can all contribute significantly to quality shuteye. As a massage therapist, clients have shared that they sleep better after having a massage - even with an afternoon appointment, the effects carry through to good sleep that night. Massage can release those helpful feel-good hormones like serotonin, oxytocin and dopamine, while decreasing cortisol. And massage eases pain, decreases stress and reduces anxiety, all of which can lead to improved sleep. 

I’ve also encouraged clients to pay attention to the sensations they feel during a massage - the feel of the sheets, the smell of the aromatherapy, the sound of the music - so that they can remember those sensations at bedtime to again feel the relaxation of their body and mind. This is a great way to extend the benefits of massage.

The research I’ve seen is mostly subjective when measuring for relaxation and sleep quality, although some objective data can be gathered, such as salivary cortisol to determine stress before and after intervention. But a massage’s easefulness is subjective.

And in my experience, not all massage sessions are created equal. I used to get bodywork from a therapist whose touch and vibe were so calming and safe that I fell into a zone - not quite sleep but not exactly in the here and now. These sessions left me deeply relaxed - so good for my head and body. 

Recently I had a somewhat different experience. As soon as I walked in the door it seemed as if we had a schedule to adhere to and we were falling behind. The session was a cookie cutter routine, and the therapist’s forearm on my upper back felt like a Ford F-350 ripping across the speedbumps in a parking lot at full speed. It wasn’t until after the session, when I walked out of the building and sat in my car, soaking in the sunshiney warmth, that I actually relaxed. I had just paid a lot of money to be tense, stressed, and feel like an asphalt parking lot. What would that massage have been like if the therapist had really felt the tissue under her hands, and worked with the tight areas in my body to bring some movement, ease, and blood flow? 

This makes me think of the how-to-give-a-massage-during-Covid video. The various methods for delivery like “tribute hands,” “swiffer aromatherapy” and “light saber reflexology” are spot-on and hilarious. Why did my less than relaxing recent massage experience make me think of this video? Because there was no real connection between therapist and client - everything was scripted and generalized. 

To be fair, this is the level at which some people prefer to receive massage - kind of like small talk at a party. You end up not learning much and with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. But there are ways to have even light conversation where you still learn what the person’s work is, what interested them in that work, and how they like it. You might learn something new about that field of work, you might feel you understand this new person a little bit, the conversation might even shed some light on your own work. Connection below the superficial surface.

With massage, you can have that same kind of connection. Mostly it is the awareness (of both therapist and client) of what’s moving, what’s not moving as well, and soreness or even pain. But it isn’t only muscle and connective tissue and fascia on the massage table. There is the understanding of parts of the client’s life - are they out for hours running or cycling, have they been in front of the computer for a stressful season of work, or looking after an ailing family member? There is so much more than the surface muscle tension to be addressed and acknowledged. 

Clients sometimes rib me for being a little generous with the massage time. And I think a part of this is allowing for connection. A listening to the body and its rhythm. Some tightnesses can’t be rushed along. They require patience and kindness - and perhaps persistence. 

If there were more of this space for considered connection, in conversation, in massage - in day to day interactions, perhaps we would all be learning a bit more, be more attuned to one another, and certainly much more relaxed. And maybe we’d all be sleeping better too. 


Source
AMTA: Massage Therapy’s Effect On Sleep

​(Read Salida Trail Marathon Part I: One Step At A Time
and Salida Trail Marathon Part II: The Best Day )


I look at the rush of water that is Fish Creek, in such a hurry to get to the Yampa River and then the Colorado. I just want to say to it, slow down and stay awhile. You won’t make it to the Sea of Cortez anyway, you’ll just peter out in the Sonoran Desert. I wish I could hold the flow here longer.

Despite the un-winter with little snow and plenty of unseasonably warm temps, the spring melt still manages to make a low roar, filling my head, and I smile. It is a treat to trot alongside this waterway as it splashes up against and pours over the many rocks along the way.

Happy to be running on a trail, I climb the half-mile of switchbacks and head back down, then turn around and do it again. It is quiet, there’s no one around this morning, for which I am grateful. I can enjoy the peace and don’t have the worry that I’ll encounter someone who will silently agree with me that I’m moving very slowly. Not that, in reality, they’d even notice.

But I notice. I think back to my Run Through Time finish just a few weeks ago, on March 14th, the completion of my first trail marathon, and it isn’t exactly pride that I feel. When I think of my daughter running it - and running it well - I feel a swelling in my chest that is pride and love and even joy. But my own run? That feels…complicated. There’s the finish time difference - Charlotte’s 4:35 to my 7:06. And there’s the age difference - her 19 to my 58. But the numbers don’t tell the whole story. 

It took everything I had to get through that day. Mentally and physically I started with what felt like nothing, and yet somehow ran up and down hills for 26 miles. While on the four-mile trudge up bleak road, I was so sure I wouldn’t make the time cut-off at the top it seemed pointless to continue. Yet somehow I kept pushing myself to keep going, striving for what speed I could muster, the stress of not being fast enough driving me forward. When I made the time cut-off, relief or elation weren’t on the table, because I still felt the pressure to make the second cut-off. In the last few miles the warmth and fatigue were really taking hold, and yet somehow my brain and body maintained - and summoned a sprint (for me) to the finish. It did feel terrific to be done and to be with my daughter and friend. Re-reading this paragraph, I feel gratitude and a bit of awe for how my body and mind performed on that day. But that’s still not the whole story.

I also have questions. Why was I so low energy, why was there so little in my muscles that I was doing the death-shuffle right off the start line? Why did my legs feel like concrete the entire day? Why, with all the hill climbing and heavy lifting I did in my training, did that not play out in increased power - even slightly? Why did I used to be capable of decent running speed but now my 30-second sprint pace is the pace I used to run an entire road marathon in? 

Last summer when I was toiling up the Colorado Trail for the fourth day in a row alongside Charlotte, who was not toiling, I said “I can do anything if it is just for one day.” This was the phrase that resulted in us signing up for the Salida trail marathon. I believed that with dedicated training - running and lifting - I’d improve my speed and power. But speed and power have not shown up. I’m not talking about huge improvements in my paces so much as the sensation of speed and power. A sensation I took for granted until it disappeared a year or two ago. 

It is so easy (and disheartening) to look back over the decades of rowing, running,
​triathlon-ing, backpacking and cycling and remember how fit and capable I felt doing those things. When I trained, I got stronger. A logical equation with mental and physical results. But right now, that equation is broken. I train, but sometimes the results are diminishing returns - low energy, weakness, mental exhaustion. This is not easy to accept. 

The official name of the race is the Run Through Time Trail Marathon. The name refers to the course which travels through old mining territory. I love the name of the race - in fact it is one of the reasons we signed up for the Salida trail half-marathon last year. Now that name resonates in a more profound way: a run through times past.

Times past - 58 years of experiences crammed into the nooks and crannies of my mind. Because these times are past - long gone. There is a sense of loss, and of longing. For older family members, my daughter’s childhood, for the days when you didn’t have to wait in a lift line on a powder day. The loss of how I thought my life would look from the perspective of my twenties and thirties. The loss of a myriad of moments: sitting on the floor between shelves reading a mystery book in the single-room library (the Graham Annex) I rode my bike to; backyard crab feasts thick with Baltimore accents in the humid air, game contests, beers in hand, piles of steamed crabs and wooden mallets and so much laughter; my young and tough Charlotte, running up the hill after me in her pink Boggs snow boots, determined to go where I went. 

But isn’t that simply life? We all have the losses, the longings, for the experiences that fill up our senses and brains until there’s hardly room to squeeze in one more. This really is the stuff of life, and it’s so good, but it can also be so heavy when the loss outweighs the freshness of new experience. Running through time, just as running through historic mining areas, is about perspective. We see the times past from here because we are no longer there - but dang isn’t it awesome that we had those times at all? 

The thing is, and maybe this is the key thing: I’m still running. It might not look like I think it should look. And some days it definitely does not feel like I’d like it to feel. But I am running. It is a powerful connection I share with my daughter. Sometimes I even get to run with Charlotte and we talk. Well, she talks, I pant.  There are days on the trail where I feel incredibly, gloriously alive, surrounded by all that sumptuous nature. I am very very lucky.

So, complicated feelings about my Run Through Time experience and all, what is next? 

I think next is about looking forward. About my new starting line being from age 58. About where I can go from here. The possibilities ahead rather than pining for the past that is behind. About running with the wind in my hair, and not worrying about time at all.
​

​There’s a photograph near my dining table. My dad snapped this pic on a summer day, in a lush green city park. There are four behatted subjects: my grandmother, my mom, my one-year-old daughter, and me. My two favorite things about this picture are the suspicious glare with which my daughter is regarding her grandfather, and that we are four generations and the span of time that represents.

The photo is like a time-traveling window. I look through it and am in that day. I feel the hot July air on my skin, playground sand rough on my ankles, the slide scorching fingers and bum. I hear the high-pitched squeak of the swing chains being pushed to the max, the squeals of children playing tag. I see squirrels racing around and up the trunks of huge shade trees, bees buzzing amongst the red and pink blooms of roses a short distance away. 
* * * * *
The above photo of Dali’s bronze sculpture La Noblesse du temps (Nobility of time) was placed in its current location in Andorra in 2010. The soft clock face is draped over a sturdy tree. Dali used the crown on the top edge of the clock to signify time’s dominion over humans. I am resistant to this idea of time lording it over us. 

We can’t stop time, can’t stop the aging of our bodies and faculties. But stepping deeply into our recollections allows us to play with time. In that action of engaging with memories, we are time travelers. 

Most of us can choose a snapshot from our childhood - a physical picture or a picture held in our mind’s eye. We can focus on the details of that memory and allow the sensations of that day to burst into our mind like popcorn popping. The smell of the wet earth after a hard rain. The feel of a cold dog nose pushing into the palm of your hand. The sound of a train horn moving down the track slicing through the still night. The taste of your favorite cookie, hot out of the oven, melting across your tongue. Each sensation gives way to others, a long hallway of memory doors opening one after another, until you are right back in that space and time. You have traveled there. 
* * * * *
On the day of that four-generation picture of my family, I am a mom still new to her job. Slathering sunblock on little pudgy arms, tying the sunhat back on for the 81st time. In the picture, my hand is holding my daughter’s chest - holding her heart. A couple years later, we’d use our hands over our hearts at morning preschool drop-off. She’d be at the goodbye window (the crying window), and as she watched me walk to my car, we both knew I was in her heart and she was in mine all day long. 

My daughter is now 17. Today we are adventuring - exploring colleges on a 3000-mile road trip.  We are many many days down the line from that July park outing almost 16 years ago. I would not agree that the “time has flown,” or that “it goes so fast.” More than a few days of those growing up years were mighty long ones. I am blessed to have clarity of detail and feeling in myriad moments with my daughter. The more I recall, the more memories come in. The way you look at the night sky, and the longer you gaze, the more bright stars show themselves - until there are so many stars the sky is filled with light.

Originally published June, 2023