Habitually Bad at Habits

My brother’s best friend during childhood ate dinner every night at 5:00pm. Every night. Weekdays and weekends. School days and summer break. Every single night. In contrast, my family lived by a kind of vagabond flexibility. True, some days the five of us gathered together around the table at 6:00pm but others we were fending for ourselves and eating at the picnic table at 8:00pm. We were as likely to go out for a linner (late lunch / early dinner) with the senior crowd at 3:00pm as we were to eat brunch at 11:00am and then gorge on snacks watching Love Boat.

As a child I remember being incredulous of his family’s consistency; as an adult, I am in awe.

I suck at building habits. My life is a cautionary tale of one failed attempt after another to build routine and standardization into my life. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the power of positive habits, so much so that I’ve invested in more than a few models and techniques for building them. Here’s just a short list of things I’ve tried to build habits around that have been massive failures:

  • Going to bed and waking up at the same time every day
  • Doing 15 minutes of daily planning
  • Exercising 3-4 days per week
  • Reading every evening before bed
  • Taking maintenance medication
  • Blogging 2x per week
  • Creating an evening facial routine
  • Prepping meals for the following week
  • Writing regular correspondence
  • Keeping a journal

You get the idea. The failures range from work to personal and from things that will benefit me to things that benefit others. It doesn’t matter which aspect of my life it falls into, even when I want to build the consistency of structure, sooner or later it falls under its own weight because I just can’t hold it up.

Lately, I reassessed my Strengths Finder results and found that I was fairly consistent from the last time I took it about six years ago. My five dominant strengths are Strategic, Achiever, Input, Learner and Communicator. I’m willing to bet that Discipline — the strength of routine and structure — is non-existent in my pattern. And I can tell you this, it is truly annoying to know the power of positive habits (Strategic, Input, Learner), to be singly focused on leveraging those benefits (Achiever) and to still be unable to get it done.

Today, I listened to a TED Radio Hour podcast called A Better You that included a segment by Matt Cutts around the power of changing habits in 30 days. He argued that doing one thing every day for 30 days is long enough to build a new habit. After listening I was excited about the possibility of real change — imagine building TWELVE new habits in a year. My brain quickly identified not one but a handful of things I needed to conquer and (in typical Mel fashion) I decided I would do them all in the first month. If one is good than five is better, right? Right?

[Cue Mel’s inner voice: “Wrong you idiot, it’s one thing for a reason. One thing. One.”]

By the time I had walked from my car to my desk I had backed myself off fixing everything that is wrong with me and I had picked one thing. I won’t tell you what the thing is, but I will tell you that today I did it and I marked a big black X on my calendar to show that I had done it. Tomorrow I’ll do it. And Thursday. And Friday. And if I can do it for 26 days after that I’ll pat myself on the back and go onto the next thing and do THAT for 30 days.

So, how long do you suppose it takes to build a habit for building habits?

 A Driving Love Story

When I started driving I realized something — I was too small to be comfortable in most cars. People would comment that they thought they saw me driving down the street, but they weren’t sure; my head wasn’t visible over the seat back. I would have to adjust the seat to its farthest front position just to reach the pedals, and after air bags were invented I wondered what would happen if one deployed. But, I adapted and moved on. Years later I came home from work and told my husband about a car that had been mocked up to show a six foot tall man the experience of a short woman. I shared how funny it had been been that my male colleagues had been shocked to be unable to see the front of the car, a daily experience for me.

“Wait,” he said, “You can’t see the front of the car?”

Maybe that’s why I fell in love with the first Mazda MX-5 Miata when it was released. Sixteen years old and desperate for the freedom that comes with a set of car keys, the two door roadster immediately caused my heart to go pitter patter. I started telling my parents that it was the only car designed to fit me and ribbing my dad that if he truly loved me he would buy me one. It became a repeating gimmick — me making demands that were so outrageous that I knew they would never be met and my parents handing me keys to their practical sedans and hand-me-downs.

 By the time I returned from a study abroad experience in Australia and saracastically asked my then boyfriend (now husband) if my dad had finally gotten around to buying me a Miata it was a well-practiced schtick. He laughed. “Why do you keep saying that? Who would possibility do that?”

Turns out, my parents.

It’s been nearly 24 years but I still remember the feeling of pulling into the driveway. I had been traveling for 36 hours straight and all thoughts of exhaustion were sucked away by the sight of that shiny red convertible with its top down on a sunny June day. The pictures show me bedraggled with a 1,000 watt smile, my bemused husband looking on stunned. My parents hadn’t told him of my plan — somehow they knew enough about the two of us that they thought I might ask and they knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the secret.

And guess what, I loved being behind the wheel of that car every bit as much as I thought I would.

I drove that car the day I got engaged, getting a horrible sunburn on every spot not covered by clothes or the seat belt. I drove it throughout my senior year in college, including a trip down the highway with an 8′ rug rolled up and sticking out the open top. I drove it with a 3′ tall stuffed Buster Bunny that I won at Cedar Point strapped into the passenger seat. That silly car could only fit one pathetic milk crate in the trunk, but I didn’t care — I was in love and everything else was just details.

We carried on that way, blissfully in love, until I ran into a freak snowstorm in upstate New York hit on my drive back to college over Thanksgiving break. I drove white-knuckled for the better part of seven hours and then spun out on a off ramp. With my headlights pointed toward oncoming traffic I got turned around by sliding back and forth into guardrails. I finally made it back to my dorm, parked illegally and collapsed on my bed. I don’t know whether I was more distraught by the accident or the fact that I realized that my car wasn’t perfect. All I know is that I started to wonder whether a 20-something who lived in the midwest could really own a Miata. Maybe our relationship couldn’t survive winter. Maybe the honeymoon was over. I agonized and then finally confessed to my parents.

Always pragmatic, they offered a solution. Mom had a practical, front-wheeled drive hatchback. We could swap cars and titles; I could have her car and she could take over the Miata. She didn’t have to drive when the weather was bad, and if she did, she could borrow any one of a number of other cars available to her. I felt the sadness of a break-up, but squared my shoulders and went to the Secretary of State office to process the paperwork. I had given up my perfect car for practicality, choosing dependable and reliable over fun. And for fifteen years I played the dutiful adult driving that car and then a series of sedans and sport utility vehicles, one right after another.

And then, I got a call. My mom had kept the Miata all those years eventually buying a second winter car. Now they had decided to upgrade and they wondered if I wanted to buy my car. I hemmed and hawed. By this time I had been married for fifteen years; I had two children and my driving life was designed for carpools and car seats, not convertibles. And yet my parents knew me, knew what I had given up those many years ago in a necessary moment of adulthood. They listened to my many practical reasons to say no and then paused a moment. “Ok, well what if we just gave it to you?”

Thankfully, I said yes.

No, it is not practical to own a 23-year old car. No, it is not practical to take up garage space for a car that only comes out six months a year. No, it is not practical to invest in a new top or tires or speakers. No, it is not practical to drive a car without modern safety features at 70 miles per hour down the freeway singing like a freak to 80’s rock and modern dance hits. But, I haven’t faced a moment yet that is so hard or so demoralizing that it can’t be made better by dropping the top, climbing behind the wheel and driving my little red convertible for 30 minutes. When I drive my Miata I feel like the sexiest woman in the world even though I passed into middle-aged frumpy years ago. No, it’s not practical, but I’ll tell you what — I plan to hold onto that steering wheel so hard that someone will have to pull it out of my cold dead fingers.

It may be impractical, but that’s love.

What Theatre Taught Me about Leadership

There were three moments during our wooing phase when I seriously wondered whether my husband and I were compatible. The first happened during a vocal and agitated debate about the role of violence in movies (plot device or merely gratuitious?) after we saw Demolition Man. The second time occurred as I was falling and fuming after he abandoned me on our first (and last) cross-country skiing outing. But the most serious time was in the audience of a production while I was taking a master’s lighting design class my junior year. After a lengthy description of the complexity of lighting design — equipment, hang position, intensity, timing, gels and gobos — and the important role of the stage manager to call the cues he looked at me perplexed. “What? Don’t they just hang a few bulbs from the ceiling and flip a switch?”

Only the strength of my love kept me from walking away after that.

Sure, I’m a boring corporate suit now, but during my first two years in college, theatre was my life. As a new first year student I went to the theatre orientation and quickly volunteered to be the assistant stage manager on the big fall production. After that I went from one show to another taking on any back stage role that needed to be done. I did stage management, lighting design, flies, set builds, props — literally anything. I took every design class except costumes and I would have gotten a theatre minor if only I had gotten the nerve to take acting. I was working a full-time job for which I got no pay, until the fates shined on me and I got hired as a lighting technician. I loved the feel of an adjustable wrench in my hand as much as I loved sitting in the booth and calling the perfect show.

Recently, a fellow thespian asked me for a favor. She IM’d me and asked, “Could Too Much Mel talk about comfort with ambiguity? You are a management guru and I would love to hear how you talk about this with people.” And it struck me that, ironically enough, I learned more about dealing with the unexpected and unpredictable challenges of leadership during my time in theatre than anywhere else.

In theatre, you learn that you cannot anticipate every crazy circumstance that might happen so you either get very comfortable responding to it or you leave. It’s a common occurrence for a director to change an actor’s mark during the final dress rehearsal or for a prop or set piece to break during a production. It sucks and it can be really hard to deal with, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone on stage and backstage knows that their only real responsibility is to give the audience a great experience. I still remember the night when our lead actor was picked up on a bench warrant driving to the show. Every person who could furiously scribbled script cues on scraps of paper. We taped them to various props and the director went on stage and winged it without batting an eyelash. 

After all, the show must go on.

In business, I see people struggle with ambiguity. When faced with a new situation or an unclear assignment, some people look for an easy answer to make it go away or an excuse for why it is unfair or inappropriate. My job description doesn’t list it. My manager doesn’t have a clear vision. My company ownership is uncertain. My predecessor didn’t keep good documentation. My position is different than it used to be. Yes, those are all real circumstances that can make it difficult to feel grounded and to deliver your best work. Fortunately for me, my time in theatre gave me three ways to deal with it.

Start with a Shared Goal

In theatre, there is crystal clarity on the goal: a great performance. And everyone, from the person organizing the prop table to the lead actor, to the director, to the person responsible for operating the sound board, gets it. If you are lucky enough to have theatre friends, ask them. They will have story after story of drama, intrigues, characters and close shaves, but I’m willing to bet that they will share that everyone understood the importance of what happened between curtain rise and final applause. When you have that, everything that pops up that will harm that goal has to be deal with, quickly and without complaint. Sometimes you get a chance to get a team together and plan your action, but most times you don’t. 

In business, not all teams achieve clarity in goals. We let the details overwhelm the overall direction and once that happens ambiguity is devastating. When I took over my latest team I came up with a simple, repeatable vision statement. I say it a lot. A whole lot. So much so that I was talking to someone outside of my team about it and mentioned how glad I was that my team was getting comfortable with it, knew why it was important and could state it he smiled, “Mel, I bet I can say it.” That may seem like overkill, but when faced with a new situation, the odds are my team will have a structure under which to act.

Talk about What’s Not Working

After every rehearsal and performance the cast and crew get and give notes. Notes are all about tightening the performance or responding to things that didn’t work great. In the real world someone might call that criticism, but in the world of theatre — where everything is focused on a great performance — notes are how you get better. It could be simple (someone missed their mark) or complicated (the lighting effect in that scene still isn’t right) but each one needs to be listened to and dealt with. Sometimes notes result in a lot of dialogue or give and take, sometimes they are quickly acknowledged and responded to. And sometimes notes have to be given multiple times. But through it all, everyone knows that theatre is hard and it’s never perfect. That’s ok, you just give a note and ask for what you need.

In business, there can be a reluctance to talk about where we’re not perfect and that is too bad. No one is perfect, especially not in times of great change. In my job right now we’re introducing a complex new technology platform that we’ve never done before — and at the same time we’ve had some personnel changes on the team. I have stepped down into some working meetings and I can tell the group is uncertain. Should they be open about the challenges they are facing: what they don’t know and where they are stuck? If they knew my background I think they would be more confident in being honest in giving notes to me and to each other and we could all help each other find a path to success.

Celebrate with Vigor

My friends in theatre know how to celebrate a successful show. After we’ve struck the stage (i.e. taken the set down, cleared the lighting and made a blank canvas for the next production) the cast and crew will head off to a party. Depending on the group, it can be a low key event at someone’s house or a blow out in a bar, but the amenities are not the point. What is important is that no matter what the challenges, there is a recognition that the group came together to provide a great experience for the audience. Sometimes you have packed houses and everything works exactly as planned, sometimes you have crickets and it feels like everything that can go wrong does. But, there’s an amazing amount of comfort in coming together after you’ve survived together; that you’ve taken words on a page and turned them into a human experience not once but many times. That feeling of success has given me the strength to step into new ambiguious situations, not without fear but without paralysis.

In business we don’t always have those seminal moments when something is done. And sometimes, especially when the moments are painful, we don’t feel like celebration is appropriate. But, there is something in the human condition that needs to feel rewarded and capable after getting through a challenging situation. Taking a moment to celebrate in a way that is authentic to the person and the team can build up the experiences to make someone more capable in the next moment. It will only help the person and your team if you take a moment and say, “I know that was an unclear task outside of your normal responsibilities and I really appreciate the fact that you did it. Next time you’ll do it even better.”

I haven’t been a part of the theatre community for a long time; my last real show was in my early 20’s as a lighting designer for a high school production in which my brother acted. In fact very few people in my professional circles even know that it is part of my experience, much less what it meant to me. But, they benefit from the lessons it taught me in very real ways every time I focus on a shared goal, openly give and take notes, or celebrate our wins. I am thankful that I learned that the show must go on, no matter what crazy stuff happens.

Learning from Failure

As we ended 2016, a 29-year old woman went to work and had a really bad night. A lot of people have bad shifts, but I’m willing to bet she was probably the only one that night who did it in front of more than 18,500 people with millions more watching live at home or bars. Traditional and social media covered it within minutes showing pictures and videos of her beaten face, describing her 48-second destruction and calling for her immediate retirement. Articles noted her previous suicide attempt and hoped that she would pull through the devastating loss.

I’m not a fan of mixed martial arts, but at the time my heart went out to Ronda Rousey.

At the time I started and abandoned a blog post. For more than a month she was silent in social media as everyone sat on the sidelines of her life and speculated about her next steps. Tonight I sat down to write and thought, hmmm, I wonder whether she has found her way out yet? A quick Google search revealed that just yesterday she emerged with a single quote on her Instagram account.

screen-shot-2017-02-11-at-10-06-00-pm

I hope the post means that she’s finding a way to pull herself back up, to recognize that her worth as a human being will not be defined by a single night. I hope so.

Our culture is framed in a ridiculous binary where the people either win and get everything or lose and have nothing. I cringe every time I hear phrases like “second place is first loser” or “to the victor go the spoils” because they reinforce the idea that if you can’t win you shouldn’t play. It’s like every dystopian novel, filled with triumphant winners and cringing losers.

That’s a load of crap.

It’s not that I’m against winning. Everyone who knows me knows that I am a feisty competitor and I like a medal or an “A” as much as the next guy. It’s just that I haven’t learned a damn thing about living from my wins. Every single worthwhile story in my life is built around a loss. The time when I fell just yards from the line at states. The time when I swung for the fences applying to graduate school and got rejected. The time when I tried to do a no-win job and failed. Losing has helped me recognize the value of a life well-lived, relish my diversity of experiences and create a community of support. Winning I was a cocky entitled pain in the ass. Losing taught me grace.

We don’t celebrate failure (or more importantly the growth that comes from failure) often enough. Look, I get it. Success is sexy and failure is messy. Failure requires a good hard look inside yourself to ask painful questions. Did I try as hard as I could? Was I as prepared as I could have been? Was I in over my head? Who did I harm? Can I try again? Should I?

Some days I think it’s easier to just win, but easier isn’t better.

So, I’m pulling for Ms. Rousey. I hope that she’s finding a way to look inside herself and find a woman that she respects and loves. I hope she recognizes that whether she continues to fight or never steps into the arena again she has value and can contribute to the world. Sure, I’m an out of shape middle-aged desk jockey, but if I could I would sit down with her and assure her that nothing about her life is predetermined at 29. I would look into her eyes, thankful to be sitting with her and not the winner, and I would ask her one question.

What did you learn?

Lucky

More than a year ago I walked into a colleague’s office to talk about work and ended up talking about life. I told him that I was lucky, that my unique combination of circumstances had given me the opportunity to have a fulfilling career, a loving family and a happy life. I contemplated out loud the thousands of other women just like me who were born in the early 70’s and who hadn’t had my lucky breaks. We talked for a long time and he rejected my entire premise, telling me time and time again that luck had nothing to do with it. He assured me that my capabilities alone had led to my success.

At the time I was surprised how forcefully he rejected the entire conversation, but I’m not anymore. This week I’ve been listening to a five part podcast called Busted: America’s Poverty Myths. I’ve enjoyed the thoughtful discussion, the interviews and the facts, but what struck me most was a quote by author E.B. White embedded within the third episode:

“Luck is not something you can mention in the presence of self-made men.”

It seems to me that The American Dream requires an unwavering belief in the equal possibility of meritorious success regardless of circumstances. If you reject that idea and accept instead that two equally intelligent, hard-working and virtuous individuals may not achieve success simply because of the fickle finger of fate where does that leave you? Are you a defeatist? A whiner? A ne’er do well who expects life handed to you on a platter?

I don’t think so.

We have all met individuals who have had every lucky break fortune can provide and somehow failed to build a life they consider successful. We have also met individuals who seem to be stalked by a dark storm cloud and yet fight through it to achieve greatness. After all, if you spend enough time keeping your eyes open you’ll see examples of just about every possible experience. But the data is pretty compelling — most people, including me, need a combination of good fortune and skill to achieve their potential. In most cases you need to be both lucky and good.

I tend to focus a lot on the lucky half of my success; I look back at circumstances not of my own making and attribute my outcomes to that. I downplay my own hard work, commitment and perseverance because I tend to see those attributes as table stakes, just the things that need to be done and done well. When I think about being “self-made” I choke on the very premise. I recall instead:

  • My luck at being born to two college-educated parents who relished the idea of a smart and driven daughter.
  • My luck at finding friends who supported me for the person I was.
  • My luck at emerging from my teenage years without an unplanned pregnancy or tragic accident.
  • My luck at having a father who said, “we’ll make sure you can go to whatever college you can get into” and meant it.
  • My luck at finding a man who understands me, my potential and what we can be as a team.
  • My luck at choosing a graduate program that put me in the path of a mentor who has supported me professionally ever since.
  • My luck at giving birth to two healthy kids at a time in human history when medical intervention meant I could survive the experience.

Yes, I like to think that I have made the most of the luck that I have been given, but to suggest that those moments didn’t impact my current happiness and situation is patently false. Erase any of those moments — not one of which has anything to do with my character or capabilities — and I would not be the person I am today, living the life I am living. I am lucky, very lucky.

My grandfather liked to say that the secret to life was a thankful heart. Like many self-made men he could point to the many instances of hard-work, risk-taking and perseverance that helped him throughout his life. But unlike many self-made men he also freely acknowledged the many people and twists of fate that helped him along the way. He was quick to point to them in his life and his stories and I am convinced it was one of the reasons that he was so well-liked. His friends knew that he was remarkable and they knew that they were part of the reason why. He passed a simple truth onto me that has framed my entire life view.

There is no such thing as a self-made man — none of us that find happiness and success truly find it alone.

Humble and Kind

Last spring I took over a new work team. A virtual team, they came together in real-life to integrate the systems of a newly acquired company. I had been connecting them into our team meetings using technology, but I worried that it would be hard to meet them face-to-face. So, I was ecstatic when I learned that the next site they would be integrating was only an hour and a half away from my home. I made plans to meet them for lunch and then work with them for the afternoon.

When the day came I jumped in my car and headed off. I got turned around once or twice in construction, but still managed to pull into the parking lot just as everyone was arriving. Popping out of my car, I caught the confused looks in their eyes. “What,” I asked, “you didn’t expect me to drive a Ford Focus?” The group chuckled and then someone explained that there had been active speculation about which luxury sedan or SUV I would pull up in. No one had guessed the corporate executive would drive a car loved by college students.

Walking toward the restaurant I shared my story. I told them that after working for seven years at Ford I didn’t know how to buy another brand of car. I told them that my husband and I had been nervous moving to Chicago because of the higher cost of living and I wanted to keep our expenses low. I told them that I like small cars and high fuel economy. It’s hard to say how they felt hearing me prattle on but in that moment I didn’t feel like an executive, I just felt like a person.

I’ve had a hard time articulating my desire to stay true to my roots as I’ve progressed through my career. There is this balancing act to appreciate what you’ve earned while pushing back against unnecessary trappings and unearned privileges. I worry incessantly that I’ll start to feel entitled to special check-in lines or upgrades or perks. I don’t want to forget the little girl who was happy trudging barefoot through a woodland path to swim in a community pool or sleeping on ratting couch in someone’s basement. The young woman that was happy in a crappy one bedroom apartment eating Hamburger Helper and seeing second run movies at the dollar theater.

After all, she’s the one that got me here.

Recently, I heard Humble and Kind for the first time. Tim McGraw identified my struggles so well that I found myself singing along and remembering the lyrics, especially the chorus.

Hold the door, say please, say thank you
Don’t steal, don’t cheat, and don’t lie
I know you got mountains to climb but
Always stay humble and kind
When the dreams you’re dreamin’ come to you
When the work you put in is realized
Let yourself feel the pride but
Always stay humble and kind

Of course that is easier sung than done. Our culture is ready and willing to put people who have climbed mountains upon a pedestal, telling them they are more deserving of respect and admiration. In the face of messages that equate financial success with goodness, I remind myself that humility and kindness are the currency of a well-functioning society. I remember that I drive a Focus.

Or at least I used to drive a Focus. 

Last weekend my teenage daughter got her driver’s license and the Focus passed to her. For two months I have been trying to find a new car, oscillating between feeling like I deserve a really nice car and feeling like it is a wonton luxury. The night after we bought the most expensive car we have ever owned I lay in bed worried about what I had done. Was this the tipping point? What if it changed me? And then I realized something.

As long as I am worrying about it I am probably going to be ok — no matter which car I drive.

Thinking Critically Is Hard

There has been a lot of writing about the downside of the digital echo chamber, the tendency for the Internet (social media, search engines, etc.) to feed us information that reinforces our natural views. I’ve tried to fight it by staying connected with individuals from across as many spectrums as I can think of: politics, economic status, geography, race and religious practice. It may not be a perfect solution, but it’s my small attempt to pop my own bubble — to remind myself that my lived experiences are unique and have created a belief structure that is all my own.

An individualized world of what’s right, just like everyone else.

But lately I have felt that passive awareness is just not enough. I’ve been compelled and challenged to try to push beyond uncomfortable statements and assertions to try to understand where the thinking is coming from and to find the grain of truth that lives inside it. Not necessary an objective truth, like gravity, but the subjective truth of a lived perspective.

It hasn’t been easy.

The hardest article I have read in a long time is How to Make Women Happy: Uninvent the Washing Machine and the Pill. Written by a young man named Milo Yiannopoulos the central argument is that women were happier before technical innovation offered choices that inherently made women less happy. He concludes that when women had to focus on homemaking and childrearing they were able to do those things well and that the simplicity in goals led them to be more content. Hearing another person systematically invalidate my life and each of my carefully considered choices was painful and as I read his treatise I wondered aloud how he could possibly write such wide and sweeping statements with so little life experience and none of it as a woman.

I could lay out those points and counter points in an attempt to try convince you that I am right, but that is not the point of this post.

The point of this post is reinforce the idea that it is is possible to hear ideas that are personally repugnant, to push beyond the visceral feeling and to think critically about them. And putting myself in that frame I took a deep breath and thought about it again. I considered the basic tenant of the argument that he was making — namely that fewer choices and a simpler definition of good would lead women to be happier — and asked two questions: Would I be happier if my life choices had been constrained? Would other women?

I am a naturally optimistic person and if I am honest with myself I have to agreed that there are a great many circumstances in which I could be happy. However, my greatest moments of joy have come from weighing the opportunities and options available to me and making the choice best matched to my capabilities. Pursuing my academic goals, marrying my husband, having my children and choosing the various steps on my career path have each brought struggles, but in every struggle I have been reminded of the choice that got me there. I hear the voice in my head say, “this is what you signed up for” and I have the strength to persevere or in some cases to make a new choice.

No, I don’t think that I would be happier in a world of constrained choices.

 

But the harder question is what about other women? Some people of both genders believe that supporting women with career aspirations means rejecting women who want to focus on family. In that framework it is possible that some women feel that there is no real choice to forgo a career — that they feel forced to do it all? And faced with that pressure would some women long for a simpler time when there was only one path for women to take? Yes, I have to admit that is possible.

 

 

That’s the hard thing, isn’t it? Change and choice bring opportunity to some and loss to others. Considering that, the choice I make is to continue to reinforce the right for everyone to make the choices most likely to lead to their own happiness. I have and will continue to support women who choose to focus on creating a comfortable home and raising well-adjusted children.

And, just for the record, I support the men who choose to do it, too.