Cry Baby Cry
But before I go any further, let me briefly -- or not -- explain my seemingly irrational fear of tears.
Four years ago I went through a big personal and professional transition, leaving a good job that fueled my ego (and my wallet) but left me with little to share with my family, especially my 1YO and 3YO daughters. During that time I found support with a group of women who also sought balance and joy in their lives. We were part of a group coaching program called a Personal Renewal Group or "PRG."
Our PRG met monthly for six months. Every month we were given activities and homework designed to help us reconnect with ourselves and our priorities. Goals, dreams, ambitions. That easy stuff.
One of those months, we each brought an object representing an important activity that we did to take care of ourselves. I do not remember what I brought. (If I could have put my wonderful massage therapist in my pocket, I might have taken her!) But I do remember what my PRG classmate, T., brought.
T. sat to my left, and she pulled out a pair of character shoes with tele-tone taps. As she began talking about how much joy she reaped in her dance classes, I burst into tears.
BURST. INTO. TEARS.
What the hell. I wasn't sure whether to apologize or run away. I couldn't explain it.
Sure, I'd missed dancing, I'd thought about taking classes. But tears, really? From where? For what, for whom?
Our group leader gently commented, "I think you two need to get together and take a dance class." Yes, yes, I thought, I'll get right on that.
So 3o -- THIRTY -- months later, I did.
Four years ago I went through a big personal and professional transition, leaving a good job that fueled my ego (and my wallet) but left me with little to share with my family, especially my 1YO and 3YO daughters. During that time I found support with a group of women who also sought balance and joy in their lives. We were part of a group coaching program called a Personal Renewal Group or "PRG."
Our PRG met monthly for six months. Every month we were given activities and homework designed to help us reconnect with ourselves and our priorities. Goals, dreams, ambitions. That easy stuff.
One of those months, we each brought an object representing an important activity that we did to take care of ourselves. I do not remember what I brought. (If I could have put my wonderful massage therapist in my pocket, I might have taken her!) But I do remember what my PRG classmate, T., brought.
T. sat to my left, and she pulled out a pair of character shoes with tele-tone taps. As she began talking about how much joy she reaped in her dance classes, I burst into tears.
BURST. INTO. TEARS.
What the hell. I wasn't sure whether to apologize or run away. I couldn't explain it.
Sure, I'd missed dancing, I'd thought about taking classes. But tears, really? From where? For what, for whom?
Our group leader gently commented, "I think you two need to get together and take a dance class." Yes, yes, I thought, I'll get right on that.
So 3o -- THIRTY -- months later, I did.
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