Not So Random Acts

I'm taking a new round of leadership assessments. In the past four years, I've taken three versions of similar tests, each one promising a more acute outcome, deeper self-awareness, and more targeted professional development plans. Ok. Let's go.  

I'm through 4 of 5 tests - the only remaining is an advanced matrix test. It's the one I know I will bomb. The first time I took this type of test I pretended I was in a Beautiful Mind and could see all the patterns, lighting up the room, my brilliance shining forth. I imagined wrong. And I'm pretty sure I didn't get the majority of it right. So, in fear of retribution, I will postpone that test until the morning.  

The other ones were easy. You just have to select your preferences, default leadership style, values and motives in random order over and over and over again. To the point where you start to question, am I really that competitive. Yes, yes, I am. 

But one series of question that kept coming up in test v4, had me pondering how anyone could answer anything but yes. The queries were around optimism and with it, your view of humanity. In essence, do you have a rosy outlook on the world and do you believe that the people in it are good? 

I answered yes. Over and over and over again. 

Yesterday evening, as I was checking into my hotel in Chicago, I confirmed that my answers to optimism and altruism were correct. 

I had gotten out of an Uber and walked into my hotel. I suddenly realized I didn't have my phone - it wasn't in my purse or backpack or my pockets. It was ... oh no ... oh no no no no no no ... gone. I have never lost a phone. It's gone. The Uber was gone. My iWatch wasn't connected. I can't get in touch with my Uber or my phone. My phone is silent, even if I had the hotel call Peter to call my phone, it won't ring. Oh no no no no. Answer #110 to my leadership questionnaire, am I calm? Yes. Yes, I am. So I proceeded. Willing myself to figure it out. I went to the front desk, started to check in. And then walked over to the window, as the Hyatt host typed in my name. I couldn't see anything on the street. I didn't drop it. But wait, the Uber was still there. Oh thank God. I needed to run down to ask him. I told the Hyatt host that I'd be right back, I needed to find my phone. 

She said, is this yours? 

Oh my gosh ... yes ... yes, it is. 

This guy brought it in ... the guy that rode up on the elevator with you. 

What? Oh my gosh ... I turned to the guy, thank you ...... no, THANK YOU! 

The guy looked disheveled. He smelled like marijuana. He might have been a homeless person. I didn't care, I walked up to him and gave him a big hug. He hugged me in return. It was the smelliest, but most satisfying hug. Embracing a complete stranger, who had done a not so random act of kindness was perhaps the most impactful gesture of appreciation and care I have felt in a while. 

In retrospect, I probably should have given him $20, but the thought didn't cross my mind at the time. Only the hug. 

The Hyatt host looked on almost lovingly. She said, we don't always see these kinds of kindness, but man, that was great. It was like she was watching a movie in slow mo. Leadership assessment questions #25. Did I ever want to be an actress? Yes, yes I did. 

So with that, and just about every person that I look a little deeper at in life, I see it. I do believe that our outlook is bright. I do believe that people are good. And I do believe if we all practice not so random acts of kindness, we have the power to make other people answer yes on their leadership assessments. To be the type of leaders that favor the collective over the individual. 

Lo.  

Let Me Look Up

I was recently introduced to best-selling author, podcaster, and hero to the mental fragility of America, Mel Robbins. But one person's protagonist is another's antagonist. Namely, mine. Within the first five pages of the book, I was an immediate skeptic. 

Here's why. 

A woman with no business credentials, without a degree in psychology or social science, without even a compelling survival story reached the bestseller list because one day while in bed, depressed because her husband's business was failing, she told herself to act like a rocket ship, and count down ... 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 ... to launch out of bed. She did just that. Count and launch. And with it, she launched a multimillion-dollar brand. Americans and likely some sad Europeans found it so simple, so compelling that she gave herself license to create another theory. This one was called Let Them. 

In this self-proclaimed theory (in the most butchered, layman’s explanation) if someone or something is bothering you, you should say ‘Let them …’ Because you can’t control it. And you should say ‘Let me …’ because the only thing you can really control are your emotions and reactions.

She goes on to explain it further in 300 pages of examples ... about her neighbor's social media account, about Thanksgiving dinners, about prom plans, about the friends you can make at the mid-point of your life. It took me about ten pages to think of my own personal example. 

Exhibit 1: My neighbor installed a sports bar in his yard. A two TV, massive hot tub, enough seating for 30 guests sports bar. After getting so frustrated and stressed out by this neighbor's intrusion into our pastoral Pittsburgh setting, Peter and I have learned to say Let Him. And Let Us move our furniture to the front porch where he is out of site and out of mind. I didn't have to read all 300 pages to arrive at this conclusion, but I did.   

It was in the middle of the book, when I had reached the highest level of cynicism, that I had my own eureka moment. When my own two-word theory came shining down on me. Look. Up. Two words. Each worth a million perhaps. Yes, that's it. LOOK UP! 

I thought about it because the dogwood outside of my window was blooming and the massive Oak Trees were budding. And I looked up, instead of down at the neighbor that bugs me. Wow, Look Up. Remarkable.   

I will spare researching it, labeling it a theory, or writing a book where I repeat it over and over and over again. But there is something there for me ... and as I've learned, for my team at work as well. And it extends well beyond foliage and bad neighbors. 

It showed up in the Easter Mass readings. "Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on Earth." 

I wrote my team a message about my 'Look Up' theory - to put aside how hard the past 16 months have been, how many headwinds exist in our industry, but instead to lead with optimism. To look up because our baseline was moving in the right direction, our stakeholders were leading with an offensive, growth mindset, and our team was on the move, getting promoted right and left. 

At Margaret's First Communion last week, I cried as I slowed down, breathed deep and looked up at her walking down the aisle that I had walked down to meet Peter almost fourteen years ago.

Yesterday, running the Pittsburgh half marathon with my 6'3 friend JP, who I literally have to look up to, he made me look up at the signs, look up at the views, look ahead at the runners to beat, and laugh on and off the whole time, instead of looking down at my feet pounding the pavement and how hard it felt at times.  

And at Mass, once again today, I was reminded of my post-Easter message, to look upward, and to get out and tell the Gospel. Because ... you might be the only Gospel that someone hears in a day. Man, I loved that one. 

While my aha! moment isn't theory, or Gospel, or worth putting in print, it's been helpful to reflect on. Because in a world that can look so backward right now, that can make you feel so down, the best thing I can to do, the best thing we all can do, is to Look Up. Because there's a lot of beauty and lot of goodness up there.  

Lo. 

Ski Instructor

I was an enterprising youth. Before I was gainfully employed, I found other ways to make money: I made greeting cards, filed documents for the most disorganized secretary at my mom's law firm, set up a carnival in my backyard where I charged kids to ride the runaway wagon down our street or swing from a laundry basket attached to a tree, and I babysat. Not the kids whose parents expressed uncontrolled danger in my carnival's thrill ride assortment.  

But when I turned 16, I officially went to work. In the summer as a Prosciutto slicer, chicken salad distributor, cheese wrapper and certified cashier at La Charcuterie. And in the winter, as a Hidden Valley Ski Instructor. 

The former I consider the sourcing of my career in hospitality and food service. The latter, felt like a true calling. Skiing, education, fashion in the form of a coveted teal jacket worn by only the coolest people on the slopes, and of course, cute boys.  

Being a ski instructor in my teens was an assertion that I had reached peak maturity. I had a job earning about $200-$300 every weekend. With the instruction of Eric and Karen Cabe, successors to the ski resort dynasty, I had become a better skier. And in the proximity of people way cooler than me, I assumed I was that cool too.

Above all, there was something immensely gratifying about teaching people to ski. Getting a four-year old to balance, snowplow and then turn down a hill with their mother looking on with pride got me glowing. (And a pretty hefty tip.) Getting a group of 10-year olds who came up every Friday evening to go from awkward, wobbly skiers, to smooth swishers of the mountain, felt like I had given them status and confidence for their bus ride back to the South Hills. And one day helping a fuller middle-aged woman up after she'd fallen, a couple tears in her eyes, and convincing her that she could indeed do this felt like outsized impact for my 16-year old self. That woman did do it - and then was able to ski with her kids throughout the season.

I hung up my jacket when I graduated from high school. Like when I moved on from the ad hoc odd jobs of my youth, I knew it was time to reach higher. 

As perhaps fate would have it, I married someone who could have been the cutest ski instructor in the group. And five kids later, no jacket or re-certification included, we have taught all of them to ski. During Spring Break this year, we broke through in a big way. All seven of us were skiing together from the top to the bottom of the mountain, and it was so fun.      

It's been a lot of work for almost a decade teaching them to ski, and each year better and better. It also now takes 13 checked bags and 2 rental cars for us to get to our house in Pennsylvania to our rental out west to ski. But it's so worth it. Spring Break in Breckenridge brought five days of great skiing and snow, where Bobby and Mary (and Peter and I) conquered the highest chairlift in North America and the Imperial Bowl. Where Margaret found her confidence and stamina to ski the blacks off of Falcon Super Chair. And where the twins started stopping, turning, and then fearlessly skiing through the trees and down blue squares. The apres ski moments and the hot tub that turned a little green toward the end of the trip never felt so rewarding.

As an ex-pro, current improviser, I've collected some tips that tend to lead to success. At least, if you don't get too frustrated or tired 6 or 7 steps in. Take 'em or leave 'em ... but they worked for me. 

1- Add another layer. The last thing you want is to work incredibly hard to get them dressed, put their boots on, get them up on their skis, watch them inevitably fall down and then say they are too cold, they need to go inside. Hell no.  

2- Take breaks. Lots of them. Like all the time. But on the boots and skis, and then just have them sit down and play in the snow with you. Then get them up, scoot them to the magic carpet, get to the top and take a break again. The more you can make this about just being together and having fun, the better. 

3- French fries to go, pizza to stop, hands on your knees for extra balance. In honesty, the pizza is the hardest part for little legs to figure out. PUSH OUT YOUR HEELS!!! But once they get it, you are golden. 

4- Push them just until you and the kid reach your mutual limit. At the beginning of this ski season, one of my friends heard me screaming at Caroline or Jacqueline to try harder. I've done it to all of them - I can remember pushing 6-year old Mary to the brink in Park City. The same for Margaret a couple years later. Come to think of it though, I never had to push Bobby - the kid is fearless. 

5- 'Drive your little car down the hill' - I've had no luck teaching kids or adults the mechanics of turning, so instead I tell them to pretend they are steering a little race car. It literally gets them turning in no time. 

6- Treats pay dividends. Self-explanatory.  

7- Over celebrate the small wins. I have also been heard on the slopes cheering and praising my kids for a job well done, however big or small. Especially after pushing them to dig deeper. It's the instant acknowledgement that they are on the right track, that keeps them on it. 

8- Booking a house with a hot tub cements the concept that skiing is the best thing to do.  

9- Train. Prior to ski season and your first time teaching a small one, you need to get your quads in shape. The leg work necessary to push your french-frying tot on the flat parts of the mountain and ski with them between your legs when it gets too hard, is not for the weak of heart, mind or thigh. 

10- If all of this fails, put them in ski school.

Until next season ...  

Lo.  

The First 45 Days

It's been 45 days in the year 2025. And in many ways, it feels like an eternity. Even the past seven days feels like a year. I looked back this morning at the events of January and February trying to recall, what exactly just happened? 

Here goes ... 

Day 1. Made the New Years Pretzel. Must have burned the yeast because it didn't rise properly. Played tennis badly. Went to the Oyster Bar. Drank my last glass of wine for a while. 

Day 2-4. Relished time with the kids. Skied with them. Played tennis better. Really wanted a glass of wine but stuck to my word. 

Days 5-17. After making a New Years resolution to travel less, I went to Chicago, Knoxville and Greenville TN, Cincinatti and Columbus, OH and Orlando in the period of 12 days.  

Day 10 - 21. A slow roll of norovirus descended upon our house. Peter moved garbage cans around and around and washed sheets over and over again until the Norovirus finally caught him. Because of my aforementioned travel schedule, I avoided the January cleanse. 

Day 11. I made a nice dinner. Nice dinners are situated in the dining room. The kids finished and went upstairs with explicit instructions to stay away from the kid du jour with the virus. With relative silence at our nice dinner table, Peter's ears perked up and he asked me what that sound was? The fire crackling, I don't know, I responded. Oh, there's no fire going. I get up and start walking into the living room. Sounds like a drip, said Peter. Oh ... oh .... no .... it is a drip. Lots of drips, Peter! Cue the ceiling to start raining and then pouring water into the living room. Fear, unrest, and Caroline in panic mode commences. We find the culprit - a broken toilet, running and running without the ability to drain. Broken by a twin who must have been frustrated flushing her norovirus. Peter turns off the water and fixes it. He explains to me how to do it in the future. I don't recall what he's said because I'm calculating what fixing the living room will cost.  

Dawn of Day 12. Peter falls asleep in the living room still cleaning up the mess. 

Day 13. Peter gets bids on fixing everything. 

Day 20. Notre Dame plays Ohio State in the National Championship. I cheer. The kids cheer. A fly buzzes around the screen, then another one. The flies are cheering for the Irish too, huh? I go to the bathroom and there are one, no two, no three more flies. Or maybe the ones from the office followed me into the bathroom. Bobby says, nope there are flies in my bathroom too. What? Were you going to tell anyone that? I run upstairs and see more flies. I nudge Peter, halfway through getting the twins to sleep. We have a problem. Third floor bathroom. His ears perk up. What, you're kidding me ... another bathroom issue? Not the same as the last one - this one is flies. Flies? Yes, flies. He investigates after another nudge. I close the door to the office and resume watching the Irish, while swatting flies. Peter comes back down. I got him. What ... Got the flies? No, the flying squirrel. What? Yes, critter control couldn't get it. But I did. He's dead. The flies were attracted to the smell. It smelled awful. He's gone now. Flies will follow. 

Day 21. Kill flies. Trump takes office. Caroline won't go to sleep.   

Day 22. Kill less flies. Trump. Caroline won't go to sleep again. 

Day 23. Kill the last fly. Already too much Trump. Bobby's birthday. Kind of feels like an afterthought and I feel bad about that.  

Day 24. Bobby's National Parks Play at school. I cried. It was perfect.  

Day 25- 45. Deep Trump anxiety sets in, set off by a bad habit of bathing myself in NPR and the Daily every morning. 

Day 28. Peter decides to add a lighting renovation to the scope of the living room reconstruction. 

Day 30 - 37. Back to Chicago. Back and forth. Back and forth.   

Day 32. Construction starts on living room. Wine. Yum. 

Day 34. RSV hits home. 

Day 37. I get home, Jacqueline has a high fever. 

Day 38. RSV complications for Jacqueline. Peter and I don't sleep. 

Day 39. No sleep again. 

Day 40. RSV complications get even more complicated. Peter takes Jacqueline to the Children's Hospital clinic. I fill in for Peter as the kids' squash coach, telling Bobby to focus mid match. Post match, I get a call from Peter saying Jacqueline was sent to the emergency room. I'm crying. Our friends keep the kids and feed them at the club. I run home and pack stuff for Peter and Jacqueline. I run to the hospital. And start crying. But Dr. Cramer is there. Dr. Cramer from Canada is amazing. Like seriously amazing. He rescues Jacqueline with oxygen, an IV, antibiotics and her pneumonia diagnosis. I breathe easier too. Peter stays the night and I go home to provide normalcy to the kids. I make myself a homemade Egg McMuffin for dinner. It's as good as the ones my restaurants make. 

Day 41. Healthy kids go to school. I relieve Peter from the hospital to stay with Jacqueline. She is doing much better and by midday is stable, without oxygen. That evening we go home. 

Day 42. Caroline gets RSV. Margaret gets an ear infection. No sleep again. 

Day 43. Caroline is better from RSV. She's always been the bulkier one. Paid off for her. 

Day 44. I get 8 hours of sleep and wake up a new woman. 

Day 45. Still Trump. And my period. 

It was on Day 39 though, where time stood still. Further drawing out just how long the past 45 days has felt. I was in the emergency room looking at Peter, Jacqueline on his lap, saying goodbye for the night, not totally sure if she would be okay. And I said to Peter, 'thank you for being such a good dad.' We both teared up. Maybe because of how painful it was to see Jacqueline in such torment. But maybe more because it took me 39 days of crazy to say that. 

Peter and I run a unique operation. It's a lot. And during flu season, it can become too much. So much, that I reached a breaking point this week. I told the President of my business that I couldn't be there for his visit to my region. Instead, he was in good hands with my team. And he was. My team killed it. And with it, I showed up as a leader who has her priorities straight, who has a well-trained team, and who has confidence in her people. It was the most leaderly decision I've made in this position. 

On Day 44 we celebrated Valentine's Day. I got Peter some really good shoes. Because sometimes, I'm sure he gets tired of walking in the shoes of a stay-at-home Dad. But my man, there is no one that can clean up puke, swat flies, fix plumbing, trap critters, find the best workman for the job, pack lunches and snacks, administer antibiotics, ease my Trump anxiety, read bedtime stories, navigate a hospital system and drive a minivan like you. 

I'll say it again, thank you for being such a good Dad, Peter. 

Lo. 

Art Therapy

In a well-timed, therapy-like conversation last week, an executive coach asked me to rank the most important things in my life. I hardly hesitated. 

- My faith 

- My family 

- My work 

- Athletics (which is very different from exercise)

I don't think I got to the fifth one before the coach jumped in with a damning question, 'so, which one are serving most right now?' 

I hardly hesitated. 

#3. 

Work. 

Hmm. 

That, right there, has been the pull on my heart and mind for months. The conflict between ambition and everything else I hold dear. But the more I have these conversations, the more I can verbalize not only the imbalance but how to right the ship.

After therapy (coaching) and equipped with my 2025 resolutions to do and be better, I felt like my compass was heading in the right direction. Every month I would mature into a different, more emboldening leader, who was able to keep her world order in order. Maybe I'd even be on time.  

Although ... I kept thinking about #5. 

What was my #5? 

This morning, while running in the dark, while staring at the start of a pink morning, it came to me. 

#5 is Art. 

I snapped a photo of the color in the sky and sent it to my brother in law, knowing he would be photographing the light in all its glory. I see you, I said. 

#5 is Art! 

It's creativity and creation in all of its unique forms. Visual, written, dramatic, melodic, culinary, performing and expressive art. I was getting more and more excited. My pace was picking up. 

That's why I majored in art history. It wasn't a degree without worth - one that I should belittle as I tell my leadership story to mentees. It was a degree baked in passion. MY passion. For years, Art was my work. Art was my #3. 

As I turned the corner to head home, this aha! explained something that's been happening over the past couple months. Art has quite literally been making me cry. Examples: 

- In the theater watching Wicked with my kids, I bawled. (Come to think of it, I cried watching it on Broadway with my girls last year as well.) 

- Meandering through the Carnegie Museum of Art to show my kids the Principio after Christmas, my eyes started tearing. 

- Bobby's curiosity lighting up in the Hall of Architecture, prompted a couple more tears. 

- Exposing the kids to With One Look from Sunset Boulevard as we made the quick drive home, many more tears. 

'You're crying Mom,' they say. They stare because it never. ever. happens. 

It's as if my brain is deprived of artistry, so anything - any little glimmer of beauty upsets my emotional stability. One prompt, and I'm mush.  

A couple weeks ago, after three weeks of travel around the country, colds and flus and norovirus, a flying squirrel dying in our house, the fly fiasco that followed, the toilet that overflowed on the second floor into the first floor, the corresponding construction, and a bout of 4-year old constipation, I found myself sitting in an auditorium where I grew up. This was the space where I discovered my love of the performing arts. Center stage was my home. But on this day, it was Bobby's and his fourth grade classmates.  

Together, they read poetry and sang songs that begged the audience / me and the other parents to get outdoors and visit our National Parks. 'We're going to the park to the park to the park,' they sang as Bobby held up a big sign for Yellowstone. 

About mid-way through the production, Bobby introduced the song Fireless with composure and confidence. He talked about a sense of optimism and stress release and how the song invited you to look deeper at the magic around us. As he finished up, the lights went down and the kids popped out and sparked up their glow sticks. The boys ran up the aisles, and into the audience so the auditorium was blanketed in light. They swung their glow sticks in the air, danced, sang, and yes, made me cry. It was the music - the musical effect that lightened the burden of one thing after the next at the start of the year. It was the perspective of magic making right here at school. It was the simplicity of all of these wonderful kids carefreely belting their hearts out. It was beautiful. 

It was a textbook example of why I needed more Art in my life. Doing #1-#4 on my priority list demands a ton of focus. Onlookers might argue, there isn't a second of downtime in my day. But when I let my mind go, escape, and empathize, I find a release that's clearly need. 

Bobby turned 10 the week of his play. Ten means he's bigger, stronger, tougher, more calculated in how he presents himself. But he is absolutely an artist. He is always looking deeper under the surface. He spends hours sketching at his desk, trying to represent how he experiences the world. He's watched old black and white movies with me, debating who is the better dancer - Fred or Gene? And when I write, he listens to the words I choose, storing them for a time he might need to pen them himself. 

Seeing Bobby mature into a well-rounded young man is a good reflection for me. I've gotten too pragmatic in my priorities, and I'm not making time or finding the channels to honor something that was always at my core. Studying the ways of a fourth grader is a lesson in how to infuse creativity into my faith, family, and work life. With Art, Faith becomes less of a routine, family becomes less of a schedule, work becomes less of a chore. And each priority can embody more beauty, joy and emotion (which I will always argue is just fine to show at work.) 

So coach, Art is #5. And I wish more of it on myself. And more of it on a nation that could use a little softening. 

Lo. 

Christmas Momories

Yesterday afternoon, I said goodbye to the kids, and then to Peter reminding myself that I love my job. Most of it at least. 

After a year where I put 19,000 miles on my car and nearly flew to the heights of 1K status with United, I was home and off for two and a half weeks. Sure, I answered some emails, made a couple calls, visited a few restaurants, and stressed about daily sales. But mostly, in a quite undiluted way, I made all my time, family time. 

And in the weeks off, I feel like I reestablished the rhythms of my motherhood while building new dimensions to my relationships with the kids. 

With Mary, it was about absorbing how she is processing life as a young leading lady. The week before their winter break, she found out she would playing the part of Nemo in their spring school musical, Finding Nemo. Script in hand, smiling ear to ear, she proudly showed me her heft of lines and solos, then immediately went to work rehearsing in her room. Mary has confidence, grace, a quick wit and the cutest crinkled nose laugh. She can also have a temper, particularly when it comes to her brother. She loves card games and board games and loves beating her opponents even more. She craves adult conversation, always listening and observing intently, figuring things out faster than I can at times. It's a miraculous and beautiful stage of life to watch, but I also recognize she needs my help processing when things get confusing. Just a phone call or a text to her iWatch can help when I'm traveling this year, and I reinforced that I would connect more in 2025. 

Bobby. Oh Bobby. He is always moving, always tinkering, always finding humor and joy in the mundane. And if he’s not, he’s bottling up potential energy - energy that will explode as soon as his mind and body are a bit bored. We are kindred spirits. He has my enthusiasm and zest for life, all my need to go until I can't go anymore, all my curiosity and desire for human connection. I can tell my presence at home helps Peter manage him because I can match Bobby, satisfying his need for movement, while coaching him to stay focused when he needs to, to be sportsmanlike when competition gets the best of him, and to avoid conflict when it starts brewing. 

Margaret is just a sweetheart. It's the best way to describe her. She is so good. When there is fighting and screaming and twins crying around her, she just stays silent. She is an ever-calming presence, just like her namesake, right in the middle of our family. And she takes every opportunity she can to just be with me. Sit by me, cuddle with me, listen to books that I read to her, pray with me, even fall asleep next to me. The more I can sit still and allow it, the better. 

Jacqueline and Caroline are becoming part of the big kid gang. They have found the words and voices to push back, negotiate, claim their rights and stake in the family. Toward the end of break, there were hours when all the kids were playing together: playing hotel, family, sandwich shop, the world of make believe with a wide open aperture. The twins still need plenty of help, getting dressed and undressed, collecting hugs, lifted up and carried place to place if their legs are too tired. And they will blindly follow me to do things that maybe the others would bulk about. They want to sing and dance and act, and they want me to be a part of it, lifting them, twirling them, applauding their movements. 

What I learned in studying all of them, is that they all want more of my participation. So, on break, I attempted to give everyone as much of me as possible.

I returned to the kitchen to make spaghetti and meatballs, chicken pot pie, and Christmas Eve dinner.

We went skiing five times, including a night ski, a spring ski, and a blizzard ski.

I took the kids sledding and yelled at them to run to the car as fast as possible when they complained of frost bite.

With a little trepidation, I took all five to see Wicked, which ran 2 hours and 40 minutes, requiring much coaxing for Caroline not to ruin the finale.

I went to weekday Masses, sometimes solo, several times with a kid or two. And we lit candles. Candles for Mimi, candles for Brian, candles for world peace.

I read by the beautiful fires that Peter created. And beside me, under the tree, the living room would come to life every evening with piano playing, dancing in the hallway, and all sorts of interruptions to my concentration.

I played a lot of tennis and made sure the kids did as well. I ordered Shirley Temples for them afterward, and we listened to Christmas Carols driving down Forbes Avenue.

I ran and walked blocks with kids biking and scooting beside me.

We shopped in Shadyside and grabbed coffee and cake pops.

We organized closets, cleaned up drawers, gave a mountain of clothes and shoes to goodwill, and the kids listened to my lectures on tidiness and organization, assuring me they would do better.

We hiked, swam, played board games, and walked back and forth across the hallways of the hotel in Bedford Springs.

We did hair and makeup before parties and events.

I was a mom and I was a wife, and I loved every minute of it.

Yesterday, I drove to the airport, cut the security line, boarded my flight and said goodbye to Christmas break. Laundry was finished, folded and put away. Clothes were laid out for school. Grocery shopping was taken care of. It was back to normalcy, and a familiar questioning of whether or not I liked it. 

At the final Chapel service of last year, the principal of the kids’ school asked the assembly if they still had projects due, test and quizzes to take, homework to complete? They whole school raised their hands. He responded that they should finish the year strong, because the harder you work, the sweeter the break feels.

And perhaps that's why I loved this beautiful break so much. 

So, I will keep working hard, because there is dignity in that. But when it comes time for a break, whether it’s in the evening, at school drop off, on the weekends, or on vacation, I will take that break, live it up, and cherish it, just like we did at Christmas this year.

Lo.

Smalltown USA

Every Christmas, I create a photo book for my parents to capture the images and narrative of our year. It's a labor I love, but it takes time, particularly scrolling through and making selections from the thousands of photos I take in a year. The ones chosen are mostly of the kids, of our vacations, and of time spent with the extended family. The majority of the unselected photos are from my job. And this year, as I moved past reams of work-related content, I was a little stunned to see just how much I traveled this year. Sure, I knew the numbers. I almost reached 1K status on United. I put 18,000 miles on my car. I have more Marriott points than ever. But seeing the images made an impression. 

In 2024, I went to Nashville and Napa, Denver and Breckenridge, Charleston SC and Charleston WV, Vegas once and Dallas twice, Chicago about 10 times, Barcelona through New York, Boston and the Vineyard, Montreal, Columbus, Cincinatti, Cleveland, Dayton, Louisville, Lexington, and Knoxville. Those were the major cities. But across my region of 7 states and 1,200 restaurants, I also went to dozens of towns barely on the map. In 2024, I was a collector of unique smalltown experiences, becoming an explorer of them and advocate for what they represent.

I showed off the growing community of Elizabethtown, Kentucky to our CEO at the start of our year.  

I toured two of my highest volume stores in Lancaster, Ohio and Circleville, Ohio - restaurants where my brand is nearly the community focal point.  

I met an up-and-coming people director in Hurricane, West Virginia. 

I assured that an acquisition was going well in Winchester, Kentucky. 

I toured a food bank supported by my franchisee in Washington Courthouse, Ohio, and met the local press writing a story on his contributions to the community. 

I cheered for the football team in Wheelersburg, Ohio.  

I opened a new restaurant in Meyersdale, Pennsylvania. And I saw a much-needed rebuilt restaurant in Toronto, Ohio. 

I met an award-winning general manager in Hazard, Kentucky.  

I ate the best cinnamon roll ever in Bristol, Virginia. 

I drove from Greenbrier County, West Virginia through snowy mountains, stopping for French Fries in Flatwoods, West Virginia. 

I slept under a giant cross in Richmond, Indiana.   

And on Sunday, I prayed in Bedford, Pennsylvania. 

After living in Chicago and Pittsburgh and working in other major cities, it's easy to forget about small towns. To dismiss them as quaint and irrelevant. But after spending time in many of them, they are speaking to me. It was the simplicity, the possibility of silence, and the chance to slow down that did just that in Bedford over the weekend. 

Bedford is lovely. It's filled with history, and geographically, it's nestled in the mountains east of Pittsburgh. As you travel the Pennsylvania turnpike, there are several billboards luring you to stop by, to see a pinnacle of smalltown America. And with a series of covered bridges, a fort, an old-time tavern, and a luxury resort, the marketing delivers. Bedford has figured out how to churn the economy despite its petite stature. 

On Sunday morning, I sat amongst the congregation of St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church in the center of town. Built in 1868, the Church boasts ornate woodwork imported from Europe: altar carvings, angels flying from the buttresses, Chapels to Mary and Joseph, even the pews seem handed down from antiquity. The people there were prayerful and carried a natural peace. A stark and embarrassing contrast to my twins chatting and pretending they were cats throughout the service.  

As if on cue, knowing how hard I was listening and trying to discern what I wanted out of 2025, Bedford through the words of Father Rich spoke to me. It was the Feast of the Holy Family and in his sermon, the priest talked about ways to follow better: prayer, family life, and hard work. 

The homily was long, and I was caught between listening intently and telling Caroline over and over again that she couldn't talk in church as she fought with her twin over rights to my lap. I captured the themes though. 

First, he defined prayer as practicing holy silence. To put the word holy on top of silence wowed me. It made the art of sitting still with your thoughts not just time well spent, but revered. And I thought to myself, I need to do more of it. Add it to the resolutions.  

Second, he talked about dedication to family life. My mind went straight to how much I was away in 2024. Questioning if I had the balance of the holy family in check. Father pulled me in a slightly different direction though, asking if the family life I practiced nurtured the church at home. I thought about my CCD post, being more intentional with prayers at mealtime and bedtime, and in general bringing our shared faith into ordinary conversation. I nodded, okay, maybe I'm not so far off ... but then he specifically called out saying the rosary as a family. Noted, also a resolution.   

And finally, after settling the debate of which twin would get to rest on which leg, my ears perked up when Father mentioned the dignity of work. For as much as I've been grappling with the balance of family life, I've been questioning the role of work more. Dignity was the word that rang in my ears though - it seemed brilliant. Work ... in and of itself as dignified. Now he cautioned, don't be a workaholic, and don't do sinful work, he joked like prostitutes or some politicians. (While I chuckled about a quarter of the right leaning congregation smiled at that one.) But work with intention and with care - that's our calling. 

Toward the end of a very challenging 2024, where as an executive of the company, I fought economic headwinds, politicization of my brand, a food safety incident, system alignment, crisis after crisis at the restaurant level, and too many tough conversations to count, I've been reflecting a lot, challenging my definition of the work I do and the dignity in it. I can't discount how much I've learned and grown in this chapter of my career. I also continue to impress that people are the brand's key currency, and the impact I've made on those that work directly for me and those that I touch as I travel to small town after small town, celebrating the people on the front lines, is very real. However, I'm sensing 2025 will be a year of what comes next. And that what comes next for me and my family needs to be a little more holy.  

The Bedford homily gave me added dimension to the discernment I'm seeking. And with it, some gentle resolutions to start the year ... clay that I will mold in the coming days before sharing with my team. 

1. First, I'm doing dry January. If I put it in writing, it might actually happen. 

2. I will put talent first - if Father Rick described work as co-creating God's kingdom - taking care of my people, guiding them in their careers, showing my care will be my number one priority. 

3. I will step back this year and let the team lead - I will champion them so they can be the leaders of tomorrow. 

4. I will find time to pause and reflect every week and encourage my team to do the same, building reflection time it into team meetings.  

5. I will aim for a career path and eventual title that keeps balance and holiness in check.  

6. Finally, I will fully appreciate and celebrate the dignity of everyone's work at the company. From the big jobs in the big city to the smaller ones in our smallest towns. 

I have a couple days left of my time off - time well spent with my family. On the 5th, my travels will begin again. And no surprise, the first trip of the year will take me to the smalltown of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Let's go. 

Lo.  

Oral History

On Tuesday, Peter and I sat down for lunch with a table of lawyers. One worked for Tucker, another for Jones Day, still another that worked for a less familiar grouping of men's names, and finally a more jovial one who was in house at an e-discovery company. There was near table wide recognition of the company and product. Those unfamiliar with it, Peter and I, went back to eating our lunch. 

Besides a robust set of legal language, words that brought me back to dinnertime conversation growing up where I would quickly drift off to a world with more artistic thoughts, there was something else that these lawyers had in common. They had at one point, all clerked for my mother. They were all at lunch, and then at the following event, to celebrate my mother's career as a leading lawyer and then Federal Judge in Pittsburgh. 

To return to a conversation that I could follow, I asked them what it was like working for my mom. 

It was the best job I ever had, said the lawyer from Wheeling. 

She lets you do everything - criminal and civil cases. That's rare. She exposes you to as much as possible in your time as a clerk. 

She taught me so much. 

After lunch, the group of dark suited lawyers and my extended family made our way to the U.S. Courthouse, into my mom's chambers for her Oral History ceremony. I had never heard of such a thing before. All I knew is that it didn't have to do with dentistry, which an outsider might assume. 

The courtroom was filled, every seat taken, with maybe only a quarter of the people that my mom had touched in her storied career. All present carried at least two titles. Fellow judge and friend. Former law partner and friend. Boss and friend. Wife, Sister, Mother, Aunt and friend.  

Across two hours, the chief justice of the 3rd circuit federal court, two of her former legal partners, the former president of the Academy of Trial Lawyers of Allegheny County, her deputy clerk, and my mother all shared their versions of my mom's career history. Their speeches spanned her roots as a girl growing up in the steel town of Homestead, the values of hard work, academics and discipline instilled by her parents, her education at St. Mary's and Notre Dame, meeting the love of her life, her first job as a legal editor, the pristine academic record that got her hired as the first female attorney and equity partner at a law firm in Pittsburgh, balancing a newly minted motherhood and income generation before the concept of paid maternity leaves, the one time and person that made her lose her temper at work, her impact on the American Academy of Trial Lawyers, and all her judicial statistics: leadership of more than 65 law clerks and 150 interns, rulings on hundreds of civil and criminal cases, thousands of written opinions, and reaching a billion dollar verdict on a Carnegie Mellon computer chip case, the largest patent case in computer engineering. 

There was high esteem and warm emotion in the room. A couple tears, laughter, and my unfortunate cough. It was incredible to listen to the role model my mom has been to countless people, outside of our home. While I always knew it was case, hearing about it, in their words was something special, giving absolute validity to the fact that she was the original super mom. 

A couple days later, sitting by the fire at our house, my Uncle Jim, visiting from Florida started telling me and Peter about my Aunt Barb's career. 

She was so incredible, he began. She could have been the superintendent for the Boston school system. She was going to go down that path you know, but your grandma said she would have worked herself to death. Hmm, she could have done it. But she loved her school so much. Her kids and families loved her so much. She was the enviable principle. No one could do what she did. She had Barbara Bush reading stories to the kids. The number of children and parents that have written to her over the years about the impact she had in their lives is immense. She had, no has a way of listening, connecting, knowing what a kid needs before they can express it. He got emotional talking about her. The same way I could see my dad tear up during my Mom's Oral History. It was pride, love, and mutual understanding of just how hard it was to achieve what they did and just how much they supported each other throughout.  

On Thanksgiving Day, as we assembled around our traditional dinner, my Dad shared the history of the Thanksgiving meal he prepares. It was written to him in a letter, dated November 1982. It included instructions for dressing, stuffing and roasting the turkey, making the gravy, and molding the cranberries. The steps are now timed and choreographed down to the minute. While it's in my dad's head and heart, bringing out the letter again, provides companionship and comfort. My Dad has added to it over the years with some supplemental side dishes. But the heart of the meal: the turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing and cranberries have remained intact for decades. The legacy of my grandma's culinary prowess lives on.   

These three connected yet independent oral histories, made me think about how powerful this exercise is. It made me think about how many careers have come and gone with only words written at the end of them in a eulogy. This notion of a living oral history should be scaled I thought. It also forces reflection on what you want people to say after a career serving an industry, brand, or cause. 

I remember an executive of my company who had reached 50 years of service, who had an impact on so many across the U.S. business. There was a whole celebration webcast: remarks, videos of his goodbye tour, tears and hugs, cake and cocktails. He never reached the level of CEO or even U.S. President. But in his leadership role, he had an indelible impact on the brand, on talent throughout the system, and on company culture. He was a legend, deserving of an oral history.  

As I debate next steps in my career, in a somewhat perplexing chapter of decision making ahead, a Thanksgiving where oral history became a centerpiece made me think about what I'm aiming for. The obvious answer is the top. But I don't know if that's the right answer for me. Should it be about the title or rather the work, the people, and the impact I can have at any level of the organization? 

As I boasted about my mother on Instagram, one of my friends responded in all seriousness, 'Judge for President!' I snipped the conversation and sent it to my mom. She responded, 'thank you! but being a wife, mom, a nana and a semi-retired judge is more than rewarding.'

That sounded right. Too right. While discernment will come, for now I love the north star that Thanksgiving gave me. To have a career or rather a life deserving of an oral history as rich as my mother's. 

Lo. 

An Education

Growing up, there was one part of the week created unequal. It would prompt groans of ennui and reflections on the whereabouts of normal, non-Catholic kids on Sunday mornings. After Father dismissed us, my siblings and I would begrudgingly trudge from the Church to the Parish School for CCD. CCDumb as we inconsiderately called it. It was the worst part of the week.   

When we moved back to Pittsburgh a couple years ago, we sent the kids to a non-Catholic school during the week, and on Sundays, we enrolled them in CCD. As a parent, $50 for a kids' Catholic education and peace and quiet for an hour and half after Mass for mom and dad seemed fantastic. How as a child I could have seen such misery in this charming activity, I couldn't understand. 

It took about two lessons for the kids to start complaining about what Catholic kids have hated for decades. Two years later, Mary, Bobby and Margaret were still crying out that CCDumb was the bane of their Sunday existence.

'NOOOO ... not CCD. CCD is the worst. I don't even learn anything!' A typical apres Mass rant. 

This year, I decided it was up to me to fix this. I was tired of hearing their complaints, especially that they weren't learning anything. So, when Mr. Mike asked for volunteers last spring, I felt called. I raised my hand, volunteered as tribute, and felt God's light shine upon me. This was my chance to turn dumb into delightful.  

Besides going through background checks and hours of preventing child abuse training, there was no formal training to be a Catholic educator. You got a wink and a prayer and a copy of the teacher's book versus the student version. So, much is left open to interpretation or the specific volunteer's leadership style. 

Mr, Mike said don't sweat it, just roll with it. Great coaching. My kids said past teachers were boring and too serious. Good to know, easy to fix. 

In this first year of my volunteer post, I was assigned 3rd, 4th and 5th grades. All of them. And by chance, Bobby's cohort. The general shortage of volunteers prompted a consolidation of classes, thus the turn of the century all-inclusive learning environment. I have roughly 15 kids each week with varying attention spans, underlying knowledge and motivation for being there. And one co-teacher who shows up roughly half the time and has a much quieter voice than mine.

Of all the kids, Bobby might hate CCD the most. This felt like the perfect experiment. 

In the 8 weeks that I have been doing this, and in the 8 Chapters that I have taught, we have walked in the footsteps of the cross as we talked about the Paschal Mystery. I made them role play as we talked about the sacrament of baptism, leveraging one of Margaret's baby dolls. I had them make an illustrated pathway of the Beatitudes and walk down it blindfolded with their classmates helping them find the way. We learned the Our Father in sign language and continue to practice it at the end of each class. We played 10 commandments charades. And I quiz them every week to make sure there is recall. See, not dumb. Delightful. 

Last week, we learned about Justice with a capital J in god's kingdom. It was an ironically timely topic on the heels of the U.S. election. And I embraced it as an opportunity to teach on both. 

We reflected on the parable (new fun Catholic word so remember it for the quiz next week) about the master who had hired laborers at different increments of the day. Those hired at 6:00 AM worked a full day, those hired at 5:00 PM only worked an hour. At the end of the day, the master paid them all the same amount of money. Jesus finished the parable by describing that in his kingdom, 'the last shall be first, and the first shall be last' 

What? That's not fair. There was a general state of paralysis and confusion across the classroom. The kids had just described what justice means to them, in this world. Right and wrong. Good and bad. And the bad ones being held accountable. Jesus' description did not compute. 

My co-teacher tried to explain using the textbook, but I intervened. It's like this, guys. God loves us all equally. Even if YOU take the pencil out of that kid's desk, or YOU continue to interrupt me, or YOU make distracting jokes instead of answered my questions seriously, even if you do all of that, God forgives you and loves you. And God wants us to live that away, accepting and loving everyone equally. Got it? 

So, let's think about it ... let's pretend you were the king or queen of Sacred Heart Land. What would the rules of justice be in your kingdom. How would you bring God's kingdom to life? 

I made them reflect and write down a couple sentences that described the rules of their kingdom. Then asked for three volunteers to debate why they should be king or queen based on their principles of justice. We would then vote for the best ruler. 

First, Senator Susan - in her kingdom, the classroom would live by the ten commandments and the beatitudes. We would love neighbor as self. And that's why you should vote me for. 

Second, Congressman Fred - in his kingdom, very similar. Commandments, beatitudes, and the rules would be God's rules. Won't you join my kingdom.  

Finally, Businessman Bobby took the floor. He would lower taxes, improve the roads, oh yeah, we'd be kind to each other, and, and, and ... we'd have a great time. So that's why you should pick me.  

I asked the audience of this legendary CCDebate to go stand by the ruler they wanted to live by. 64% of the young ladies in the class stood by Susan. The rest, including Congressman Fred, stood by Bobby. Jesus' parable turned into a social experiment was slightly unnerving. 

As always, we ended the class saying the Our Father in sign language, and with Mary peaking in requesting that she get to be part of my classroom next week. 

As I prepare to teach about the Holy Spirit tomorrow, I can't help but pray that the Holy Spirit be with America right now as we brace for several years of probable chaos. I pray that we are a land of just and free. And I pray, like we do in class, Thy Kingdom Come. While I'm an eternal optimist, always seeking to understand the other side of my perspective more completely, I don't have a lot of hope that America will be improved by our soon to be ruler. All I can do is start at home ... by making CCD great again. 

Lo.  

My Mid-Life Calf Crisis

It's an early Monday morning in seat 8B. The middle seat. The seat that signifies that my admin didn't put proper effort into making my reservation. At least it's in the front of the plane, easy on and off. 

If only.

That was simply a hopeful vision of what could have been. Where I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be doing, if only I could get off the couch. But I can't. 8B is empty right now. Waiting for its owner, being celebrated as an empty middle seat for other groggy eyed Chicago bound 8th row passengers. United just called wondering my whereabouts. Will you be making it, Miss? No, no, I say with tears in my eyes, I won't. And let me tell you why ...  

This weekend, while playing in the semi-finals of the club championships, I pulled my calf. This match was my entrance into a rematch the whole club had been waiting for. I had spent a year training, seeking additional strength and accuracy in my forehand, a consistent first serve, an approach to net game that could carve out clean winners, and the mental fortitude to beat the fiercest competitor in club history. I was almost there. I had won the first set 6-3, I was up in the second 5-4. I just needed to finish. I ran left to grab a ball, then was running to the right side of the court when out of nowhere it felt like someone sniped me in the back of the leg. 

I was down after a yelp heard round the club. 

I looked up at one of the houses behind the courts, at the guy who had been hacking and coughing all afternoon, wondering if he had indeed shot me, a lifetime of frustration with PGC tennis finally getting the best of him. And then I looked at court 2. The ethereal reigning club champion was warming up. Could she have slammed a ball at me? A rehashed Harding / Kerrigan incident that would go down as country club sabotage? As I tried to piece together what had happened while scanning the court for my assailant, people started coming over, denying there was any wrongdoing. BS. What, I had done this to myself? No. Not possible. Scratch that, IMPOSSIBLE.  

I looked around again for probable cause. Or was it possible? And if so, this couldn't be good. I tried to get up. Nope, this is really bad. 

I called for a medical time out because that's what you do when you're playing tennis in the most competitive event of your adult life. Maybe it's just a cramp. Get me some ice, a stretch, I'm good. I had just finished reading Andre Agassi's memoir in prep for this weekend of matches. He worked through cramps, he played through back pain, I could too. I tried to move my leg again. Ouuuuuuuuuuch. Five minutes later, there was no sign of better, only worser, so I forfeited, crushing my spirit as hard as I had crushed my calf.  

I was friend assisted off the court. And then most humiliating of all, men's tennis team carried to my car and driven home where Peter scooped me up and carried me into the house, to the couch, his 13-year bride, dirty with court sand and sweat, too shaken up to thank him for bearing my weight on his bad knee. 

The texts started streaming in. The whole club offering advice, well wishes, referrals, one of my besties even dropping off her compression socks to suction my pain and strain. I debated the advice to seek medical care, but ultimately decided to go. Peter deposited me at the ER 30 minutes later. 

There, I waited in a wheelchair with Pittsburgh's most infirmed. Someone who looked like he had sawed off his toes, a child who looked to be suffering from day 4 of really bad Covid, and a guy who probably stumbled in from the homeless camp downtown too high to understand where he was.  

I was admitted and told my story at registration, then to Seth the nurse, then to Dr. So and So. No one cared about how close I was to the championship this year. That it was my chance to win it all. Quite frankly, they didn't even really care about my injury. I was there for an hour and half in total, in the trenches of Pittsburgh's hospital system. They took my blood pressure, laid me in a bed in the hallway, I watched medical people milling about talking about what snacks they brought today, I heard beeping that sounded like someone was about to die, I stared into a bed wheeling by that appeared to be hosting a war casualty, nurse Seth felt my calf, so did Dr. So and So. I peed in a cup because they wanted to know if I was pregnant only to make me hold said cup for a while, not test it, and discard it. Finally, after ruling out pregnancy and insanity, Dr. So and So told me it was a gastrocnemius strain, and said I could go. After reminding Nurse Seth that I couldn't walk, I got some crutches, a few remedial recommendations on stretching, and paperwork. I immediately leveraged connections to get an actual orthopedic appointment on Wednesday.  

Sunday was a day of rest, compression, icing, boredom, and unnerved reflections on how crazy I might turn in this period of recovery. I sat in bed on Sunday evening, tears pooling in my PJs, wondering why this was so hard to process. Every existential exercise thought went running through my head. I was asking for this - this was God's way to make me demonstrate vulnerability and humility. I was never going to be able to run or play sports the way I wanted. I couldn't do my job to its fullest - how would I run through airports and onto the stage at my summit? I have no time to fit in a dentist appointment let alone the doctor's appointments I might need. My energy and enthusiasm for life would be left to fizzle and die. I would never be the same. I went back to what I told nurse Seth. 'This must be the most inconvenient thing that could have happened to me.' 

And then I paused to think about his response, 'I don't know ... could be worse.' 

At first, I brushed his remark aside. But after over processing the emotions that come from mixing motrin with a glass of wine, the comment settled. I pulled myself together. Composure. Maybe a little more compression. 

Yesterday I finished the day less depressed, filled instead with a little more wonder. What will come of this forced expression of sedentary behavior? What will I find in myself, in others, in my routines that could and must shift? What will get better, not worse? Will I come back stronger in mind and in body? Or not caring that my body needs to do what it once did? I'm now in a mindset where I'm imagining alternate endings, and I like them.  

As ridiculous as this all might seem, this injury is weighty for me. And I know my fellow athletes who still dream of physical triumph, of a life steeped in and strengthened by play, understand it. At this point though, I'm choosing to turn my mid-life calf crisis into a positive. 

Lo.