Last week, I spoke at “F-Up Night,” a gathering at my school where grad students and faculty share personal stories about mistakes they have made and how they eventually overcame them. The point of this event is to nurture a mindset of resilience on campus, particularly as we approach final exams and the shorter days of winter.
This event was my idea and I’ve been working for months to bring it to my school. I am proud of how the night turned out. But with all the planning, I had no time to prepare a story of my own to tell. When my name was called, I just had to improvise. This is what I said:
“Well, good evening, everyone. So, I have not prepared a story for this, to be honest. ‘Not preparing’ is a new thing for me, something I’ve been experimenting with in the MBA program. But anyone who knows me well knows that I love to tell stories, so maybe this won’t be so bad…
My favorite stories are those that take the shape of a ‘Cinderella story.’ You know, where the main character starts out down here, in a bad place. Then things begin to improve a little, and then a fairy godmother comes along and they really improve. It starts to look like things are going to work out when suddenly, everything falls apart again. The character is back in a bad place, down low. And just when all hope seems to be lost, some last-minute moment of magic occurs, some kind of breakthrough. When the story ends, things are better than they’ve ever been and the main character is happy… or happily ever after in the Disney version.
Well, that is basically the shape of the story of my MBA internship. And that’s the story I’d like to share with you tonight. Continue reading
When I started this blog a couple years ago, I told myself I was going to fill it with first drafts. Just write and publish, a little bit every day, until I could get comfortable with shitty first drafts being a thing.
No matter how mundane or how personal, I would just write and publish and not look back. That was the plan.
But that plan lasted all of a few days, max. I did write pretty consistently at first, but as soon as my parents started reading, my need to please had overpowered my desire to create anything worth reading. Now, I rarely write because I can’t stop censoring myself.
And if it ain’t real, why bother writing about it? The good stuff goes in a journal now, and then it gets recycled.
This morning is different, though. Something has happened and I am compelled to try to put it into words.
It’s 3 a.m. and I have been tossing and turning for 3 hours, unable to sleep. Maybe it’s time to try something else.
So, fuck it. Here we go. One shitty first draft, coming right up.
Here’s what happened:
Recently, I’ve been posting transcripts of the speeches I’ve been giving in a public speaking class. Today, I gave a speech I can’t post, but it meant so much that I still want to tell you about it.
The assignment was to deliver a persuasive speech that would convince a business to make a change. I pretended the class was the Executive Committee at a firm where I used to work and I tried to persuade them to fire my boss. Continue reading
I have always had a problem with metaphors. I think in metaphors as if they’re my first language.
Sometimes I say unusual things, because I’m speaking metaphorically. And then I get weird looks and I have to translate what I meant. But it’s hard to find other words.
I always want to say, “Well, that metaphor really was what I meant. I don’t know how you say it in plain language.”
I sound like a foreigner.
Since I’ve been in grad school, I haven’t had much time for blogging. Okay, I haven’t touched my blog.
But this quarter, I’m taking a class called Finding Your Voice. It’s about becoming a better speaker by being more authentic. Rather than writing blog posts, I’m sharing the speeches I give in class. Today in class, we were asked to give speeches about what we would change about the world and how we would deal with it. This is a transcript of my speech in response to that prompt.
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I’m going to show you two photos today.
This first one is an image of a single mom and her daughter. I share it because I want you to think for a moment about what associations come to mind when I say, “single mother.”
And I’ll tell you what comes to mind for me: Continue reading
We took a walk to explore a nearby park. I say “park” because that’s what the city calls it, but it turned out to be more like a rain forest, right in the middle of a residential neighborhood. The trees form a lush canopy and many of them are covered in moss. A creek winds through the park and there are a few places where you have to walk through the water to follow the main trail.
I must have said, at least five times, how beautiful the place was. I said it would be nice to come back and run the trail sometime. I said all of that because I was trying to suppress a steady stream of terrifying thoughts. Continue reading
When I first met Josie, I asked if her name was short for “Josephine.” It reminded me of The Wallflowers’ song by the same name, which came out when I was in high school. I’d see Josie around and in my head, I’d hear the chorus:
You’re so good to me
And I know it ain’t easy Continue reading
“I could be Native American,” she said. “I mean, I like turquoise.”
It was Saturday morning and I was seated outside on the patio, at a small table in front of my favorite bagel shop, just down the road from my house. I had gone there to spend the morning writing in my journal, which was lying on the table in front of me, open to a blank page. I had just begun to spread low-fat cream cheese onto my lightly toasted onion bagel—that sweet, cherished indulgence I only allow myself on Saturday mornings after yoga—when I heard the voice of the woman next to me. I froze.
I must have heard that wrong, I thought.
I grabbed my felt-tip pen and began writing in my journal, shaking off whatever it was I thought I’d heard. She wouldn’t have said that out loud in public, I assured myself. Not in Arizona.
But the woman kept talking and I couldn’t tune her out. Journaling was going to be difficult. Continue reading
Should I do it? I should, shouldn’t I?
I really should. Frankly, everyone says I should. He said I should, and she said I should, and they never agree about anything. That should tell you everything.
Today is a big day, and it’s been killing me. I have been counting down to this day for months.
In January, I applied to graduate programs at five different schools and today is the day that one of those schools promised to announce its final admissions decisions. I realize that this might not seem like a big deal. And in fact, writing it now–that one out of five decisions is coming out today–really makes it sound like today shouldn’t be a big deal. But my ego disagrees.
This isn’t just any school. This is the school where one of the professors wrote one of my favorite books, and it was a book that was hugely influential in my decision to go back to school and change careers. Continue reading