smallbitesandlittlevictories

Be the Brooklyn you Want to See

The other morning on my power walk, I veered off of the loop that I do most of the time, because I had that itch – you know the one – where you need to see something different and beautiful. Something that reminds you that the world is full of treasures that are hiding in plain sight – all that you have to do is to make a left turn where you’d usually make a right and BOOM! Beauty.

My eyes were peeled for some cool street art, or an interaction between two people that I didn’t know, doing something interesting, that was none of my freaking business. I turned a corner, and there it was – under a sky full of cotton candy clouds flecked with the gold of the rising sun, a tag that said Brooklyn. It was exactly the kind of loveliness I was hoping to catch this morning – then something interesting happened: I exhaled and whispered the word home.

When I first moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn from Long Island (a whole 15 miles away, mind you) a little over 10 years ago, I never thought that Brooklyn would be my home. I wasn’t cool enough for Brooklyn. I knew that, the girls that I moved in with from Craigslist knew that, and I am pretty sure that if the Bandit wine from a box could have spoken it would have told me that too. But, I didn’t move – I had friends here, I loved the neighborhood, and my rent was $600 a month – I couldn’t leave!

As time went on, I moved in with the women who would become my best friends, ate so much pizza, changed apartments, got run over by a truck (natch – it was all of the rage in the mid-2000’s), broke someones heart, started drinking wine out of bottles, changed jobs, fell in love, moved into my own place, got my heart broken, kissed a ton of strangers (including enough people in the service industry that I had to find all new bars and restaurants in the neighborhood), wrote a book and yet, even after all of that, I still didn’t feel like Brooklyn was my home. In my mind, home was still in that house on a quiet street in Manhasset where I learned to ride my bike, took my prom pictures in front of the fireplace and played running bases in the backyard.

Then, my parents, in their infinite selfishness, decided that they wanted to take care of themselves for the first time in about 35 years, and sell the house that was always home to me, and retire in Vermont. I am going to be totally transparent with you all, I did not handle it well. (My mom is reading this section right now and nodding her head vigorously) There was an ungodly amount of crying, and if I remember correctly a little bit of dry heaving. I am a very rational and reasonable person when it comes to change. (Again, my mom is reading this, and shaking her head vigorously – but in the NO direction).

I had one of these emotional outbursts while out for drinks with my best friend (and former roommate) Leah, and she was understanding and comforting but also gifted me with some advice: Why don’t you see this as an opportunity? This is the chance to make Brooklyn your home. Like really your home. Build a community, make it yours.” Sure easy for her to say with her adorable blonde pixie cut, and cool kid cred (former actor, director, knower of all bartenders and restaurant owners in a 5 mile radius) But I took what she said to heart. I didn’t pick my Manhasset home, but I did pick Williamsburg – why didn’t I start becoming a real part of the community? Give back, put down roots, be intentional about the way that I interacted with my neighbors – be the Brooklyn I wanted to see.

I stopped worrying about whether or not I was cool enough for my neighborhood, and just started being myself. I smiled at everyone I met on the street, I made cookies for my neighbors during Christmas, I shopped locally, asked people their names, drank and read books by myself at bars, I over tipped. I delighted in the silvers of beauty that were presented to me if I looked hard enough. I fell in love with a boy, and we moved in together, I helped to carry strollers up and down the subway stairs, I shoveled sidewalks, learned how to speak conversational Italian so I could say hello to my old school neighbors on their stoops in the summer while I ate my rainbow ice, and in the midst of doing all of these things, I found myself. This little community I built was the home I had I never knew I wanted. I was the Brooklynite I had always hoped to be.

I was home.

Accepting the Good, the Bad and the Impossible to Control

I like control. I’m in pretty sure I’m not at all unique in that feeling. I like knowing where my keys are, that my toothbrush will be where I left it, I love when google maps is honest with me and I get to my destination in the amount of time that it promised me. These are the small things that quiet my anxiety and make me feel like I’m not struggling to breathe. If I’m having an internal flip out, I can focus on the fact that my phone is in the correct pocket in my purse and then I’m back at center.

So I try really bonkerface hard to find that control anywhere I can! I mean ANY WHERE. If that means getting up at 4:45 to work out before a crazy day juuuust so I can cross that shit off my list – I’ll do it. Or folding my underoos the way that The KoMari method told me to, thats how I’ll spend a Friday night, or if it means getting to the airport 4 hours early because JFK is always crazy to get to, and I have to check a bag and who the fuck knows what might happen on the way there #zombieapocolypse – you bet your ass I’m in the airport at 4 pm for an 8 pm flight. Like a psycho.

That’s what I did last Friday on my way to my dear friend Kim’s wedding in Santa Fe. I sat in the airport waiting for my boyfriend to arrive at a reasonable time and felt excited about the trip, and super proud of how prepared I had been – I was in totally control.

Fast forward 5 hours, and the plane that we were on had to kick turn right over Ohio because there was a bad smell near the toilet. My first thought was, ‘duh – of course there is! It’s an airplane bathroom – that’s kind of it’s jam.’ But, I luckily thought better of voicing my opinion.

I am very fortunate to date a super calm person. He didn’t freak out, we just held hands and made a plan to beeline to the bar as soon as we deplaned.

Another hour or two goes by, and we are let back on the plane full of rose and ready to PTFO, we buckle up, get ready for take off, and then taxi and taxi and taxi until we come back to the gate. I went from ready to PTFO to ready to FTFO, but before I could get myself to that place the man sitting in front of me and the woman sitting to the right of me start SCREAMING at the flat attendants and at the airline on their cell phones at the same time. It was intense!

They were saying shit to these people that I couldn’t have come up with if I had tried! I was confused. I was wondering if maybe they had a history with these people – like one of them had actually kicked their puppy when they were kids, and this was them unleashing all of those pent up feelings. It was that kind of hate.

In that moment, I thought about what I had learned about in my meditation that morning (that’s right sweethearts, I meditate! On an app! Like a fancy ass human)

The mediation that morning was about acceptance, and Andy Puddicomb (my bestie) asked what was I resisting in my life. In that moment on the plane I was resisting losing control. I had done all of the right things, I had been on time, I had planned ahead, all of my liquids were under 3oz – I felt like I deserved control! But I didn’t. I wasn’t in control then, and fuck if I was in control now. Resistance wasn’t going to help me, but acceptance was. I untensed my shoulder and neck muscles, I breathed deeply and I accepted the situation I was currently in.

Letting go of the neatly orchestrated plan i had for this trip in my head gave me so much relief. I didn’t have to wish so hard with fingers and toes crossed that this situation was different. I needed to choose to be ok with the fact that I was freaked out and overwhelmed and I wanted a another drink and that they weren’t letting me get up to pee. This was my reality, and that was ok.

Accepting that sometimes life is shitty, understanding that at some point it’ll pass and that in the meantime there isn’t a ton we we can do to control it, is the greatest gift I’ve ever given myself. On top of that little personal present, I also got triple snacks from the flight attendant because I didn’t scream. Which felt like the universe telling me that accepting your situation can mean snacks in the long run – so I think this is something I could get really into.

I’m on a Diet, but I had Rose and a Cheese Plate for Dinner…

I decided a few months ago that June 1st was going to be my official start to summer. Not just because I could, without judgement, start wearing my white jeans, but because June 1st was when I told myself I would start the season of being kinder to my body.

I am not as nice to my body as I could be. Honestly, sometimes I’m downright mean. I say unkind things about it in my head (and sometimes out loud to my boyfriend who I am sure REALLY appreciates it!), I don’t feed it the right food, I eat for comfort, I drink to giggle, I don’t do the exercises I should do in order to make myself into the strong badass human that I want to be. I don’t give my body and mind quiet time to rest and meditate, and Lord knows my body and mind could use a goddamned break.

My body does SO many nice things for me! It keeps me healthy, lets me move around in the world, keeps all of my systems going. It takes care of all of that stuff so I can focus on, taking subways, working, being a good friend, writing, making phone calls, laughing – all of the stuff that I love the most. I thought that summer could be a time that I dig deep and instead of just focusing on the stuff that I love doing – I could think a little more about how to keep my body as healthy and strong as possible.

This summer my hope is to start treating my body like a gift that I really cherish, that is deserving of excellent care and nourishment – instead of as being an afterthought. I mean, I am really careful with all of the fancy things that I own, why can’t I be just as nice to the body that I own. Also, I am going to try SUPER hard to stop talking shit about this body that has been run over by a truck and still does most of the stuff it has been build to do.

Now, that being said, yesterday was Day 1, and I KILLED it during the day – I ate tons of delightful, nutritious things that were what I chose to eat vs. my normal penchant for easy complex carbs. I felt very, very proud of myself, until about 5:00. Then the weather was so stinking lovely, and it basically screamed “its rose weather!!!” at me. And when the rose calls, I feel that it is my duty, as a lover of joyful things, to answer. Sooooo, I ate cheese and drank rose and laughed and felt really lucky to be a person alive in the world in that very moment – most importantly – I didn’t get mad at myself. Instead, I went to bed, set my alarm for 6 am, and on day 2 of this little plan, I did an hour and a half of cardio, and then ate some organic fruit like a hero.

I’m far from perfect, but for the first time – I am not going to tell my body that, and I am going to treat it like it is.

It was so pretty, and I didn’t want to hurt its feelings by not drinking it ❤

Scar Tissue That I Wish I Saw

I am not embarrassed to admit it, I am obsessed with my physical therapist. Its true. She knows it, I know it, and now you know it. I have seen a series of physical therapists since I was run over by a truck, but I have never had one as wonderful as Alicia. She is the gem of all gems.

What makes her so incredible, is not only that she is charming, kind and hilarious, but also that she has shown me how all of the different injuries in the various parts of my body (because there are a lot you guys!) impact each other. She was the first person to talk to me about how my scar tissue, is responsible for pains and strains in other places. To help mobilize the fascia (which, is a thin sheath of fibrous tissue enclosing a muscle or other organ. If you don’t think that I looked that definition up on Google, you are dead wrong) she does something that I hadn’t ever had done before – which is scar therapy. She massages my scars to help to break up the tissue, so that there can be more movement, and in turn less pain.

The other day I was on the PT table, and she was kind enough to be going to town on the scar on my right side, where my bikes gear shift took a chunk out of my side during my accident. This is the scar that I am the most self conscious about, because the skin doesn’t look or feel like the rest of my skin. It is a little bumpy, discolored and very taught.

I feel shame whenever anyone sees it, that shame becomes even worse when anyone touches it. But with Alicia I know that this therapy is important and its helpful, so I do what I always do when I think about my scars – I tell myself that these scars are a part of who I am, that I love them just like I love myself. All of these pieces make me into a whole.

Even though I was telling myself that over and over again, an emotion swept over me that I couldn’t identify or manage. The tears came fast and hot falling from my right eye over the bridge of my nose right onto the PT table. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I sputtered to Alicia, “I don’t know what’s going on.”

She patted my shoulder and told me that its ok, that this happens a lot. She said that we hold a lot of feelings in our fascia. And that when this layer of our skin gets worked on sometimes those feelings come to the surface. Mine were coming to the surface like gangbusters, and those feelings included some unstoppable tears.

After I took enough deep breaths to stop my mini-sobs, I wiped my face with the back of my hands and hugged Alicia and thanked her for her understanding of my random outburst. I stepped out of the office and walked to the subway, and thought about her explanation. This idea that our feelings can get trapped in our scars was fascinating to me, and it made complete sense.

I thought about all of the hurt I had been holding on to in the bumpy grafted skin on my side. The feelings that had been wrapped in the layers of skin covering those parts of my body, trying to protect it from the harshness of the outside world. The shame that I felt in my vulnerability, in the proof that I had been hurt, was so great that I didn’t want for it to be seen. That shame stopped me from truly seeing myself, and working through the scars that were left in that pain’s wake.

I realize that there shouldn’t be shame in scars, only joy in survival – but sometimes that’s really hard. So until I get there, I am going to try to see myself fully, to not be afraid of the pain in my past, and to keep working on that scar tissue until all of that hurt is finally healed.

This is me taking a picture of myself crying on the L train, to distract myself and others from the fact that I was crying on the L train. It didn’t work, they totally saw me, but A for effort!

When You’re Scared it Just Means You’re About to Do Something Really Brave

Today, I feel super weird. I am closing out my first week of not having a full time job in quite a long time. Truthfully, this is my first full week of not having a full time job in tandem with a side hustle. So, I feel intensely odd.

This weirdness is a funny mix of being confused about how to measure myself when I don’t have something to point to and say: I accomplished this thing this week. I was paid for it. I have worth! And wondering what I am going to do now that my life feels like it is truly in my hands. I can choose what I want to be when I grow up! I can be responsible for my own happiness! I am not going to lie to you, it is awesome, but is also TERRIFYING.

These anxious thoughts keep running through my brain: what if I waste my time? What if I make the wrong decision? What if I squander this opportunity, what if I can’t make money doing what I want to do? What if I end up broke and have to move out of my lovely Brooklyn apartment into my parents house in Vermont…wait actually that doesn’t sound too terrible…I could become a maple syrup farmer, and live off the land (just kidding, I am going to eat the food in my parents pantry) I would totally crush it there – I look excellent in plaid!

My biggest anxiety is that I am going to let the fear paralyze me. That I’ll lean into the worry that I’m not smart enough, capable enough, driven enough or good enough to create a new beautiful phase of my life. I know that I’m not the only one who feels this way. I’ve heard it from countless friends when they are about to embark on something new, different or outside of their comfort zone.

That feeling that we aren’t “enough” is a really hard one to knock out of our minds. It haunted me when I started writing this blog, when I worked to get my book published and when I started to speak professionally – who was I to try? How dare I say that I am enough?

I am trying to remind myself that even though I heard all of those negative voices shouting at me, I did all of that shit anyway. Mostly because of some amazing advice from my best friend Leah Bonvissuto told me, “When you’re scared, it just means that you’re about to do something really brave.”

Believing that at some point I would look back at this moment not as one where I was scared, but as one where I acted brave, where I made the choice that was hard and scary not the one that was safe and easy, reminds me that I am stronger than I think. That there is more courage inside of me than fear. That I am enough.

So today, and every day forward, I am going to do my best to acknowledge that I am scared (and to be cool with it) and I am going to really, really push myself to be brave.

There is No Good Instagram Filter for Crying in the Shower

I was at a party a few weeks ago talking to a friend that I hadn’t seen in a while. We were catching up and she said – I feel like I don’t even need to ask you how you are doing because according to social media things seem to be going awesome! You have the book, you’re going on all of these pretty walks, you are smiling in all of your photos, you’re doing these talks!! Everything looks so awesome, so just tell me how fabulous you are doing!” I looked at this sweet friend and I blinked, hard.

Is that how people think my life is going? Jesus, I am really not telling the full story – at all.

“Oh, love bug, the only reason why my life looks so good on social media, is because there is no good Instagram filter for crying in the shower.

She laughed, but then saw that I was serious, and I started to explain to her what had been actually happening over the last few weeks. My position at the non-profit where I had worked for over 5 years had just been eliminated, so I found myself staring down the barrel of not having a job for the first time in years. What’s worse is that I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. Or maybe I was totally sure of what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I was so terrified of failing that I felt paralyzed and I couldn’t make a decision about how to move forward.

Also, I was feeling sorry for myself for getting let go, so I was eating complex carbs for comfort, I was using the bad weather as an excuse for not working out, I felt frustrated and out of control, so I was fighting with my boyfriend, isolating myself from friends and family and generally being a version of myself that I had trouble having a crush on.

But, apparently, my Instagram game was on point.

I hadn’t been purposefully trying to make it seem as if my life was going well on social media, but what I had been trying to do was to find small moments of beauty and happiness in days that felt overwhelming and sad.

Part of the reason why I post joyful and beautiful things is that I often times have trouble focusing on the right things. Too often I put all of my attention on the things that can bring me down. I push on the bruise of that sadness thinking it will make me tougher, that somehow if I think about it enough I will create a callous – and in doing that I forget to look closely the lovely parts of my life: the strikingly gorgeous sunrise, the perfectly poured latte, the laughter with friends. I use social media as a record of those joys for me to review when I am about to push on that bruise. But in talking to my friend, I realized I was the only one who knew that.

To other people my highlight reel, was perceived as my everyday – and my darling friends – it isn’t. It is ABSOLUTELY my highlight reel. Because I will tell you, right here and right now, one Saturday a few weeks ago, I took three showers in one day so that I could cry in there and not feel weird about it. Please don’t question my logic about why I was only ok with crying in the shower, because I have no good answer other than I like steam, the water doesn’t make it as obvious that I had been crying and that my body wash is a goddamned delight!

I am telling you this because I want you to know that:
1. I think that you are awesome
2. Crying in the shower is totally acceptable
3. Nothing looks as good in real life as it does on Instagram
4. I am going to try to be even more honest – in my real life and online.

I am going to try be more honest about what I want from my life, the person I want be, and more open about the person that I currently am. I’m going to try to write more, post more, speak more – and I want to thank you for being a part of the things that give me joy and hope and also for being one of the things I focus on, when I don’t want to push the bruise.

Its a new dawn, its a new day – and even if I was weeping tears of pure joy while taking this photo – I’m feeling good

Mismatched Moments

Last week I was invited to speak to my friends mom’s Book Club in West Hartford, Connecticut. There are barely words for how excited I was about it! First of all, I loved that they had read my book, I love moms, I love the suburbs, and I was pretty confident that there was going to be wine and cheese plate at this event and I LOVE wine and cheese.

I am really lucky because I work virtually, so I can work from anywhere, so I planned to work from a coffee shop in Hartford for the day. The most important thing to me was that I wanted to be set up and totally ready to work at 9:00 am. So I got up at 5 so I could take the earliest train into Hartford. I showered, straightened my hair, put on my “I’m an Author” outfit, and did some basic eyeliner and mascara so I wouldn’t creep onto the Amtrak train looking like a sleepy zombie. In the half dark, I rooted around in my sock drawer to find a pair of socks that I could wear under my black boots, and for the life of me I couldn’t find a matching pair.

I did, however, find two that were approximately the same. I didn’t think that it would be a big deal, who sees socks anyway? I am a busy lady – I had a train to catch, and if I am going to be honest, I was way more concerned about getting to Penn Station in time to get a buttered flagel (that’s a flat bagel, its amazing) from Zaro’s ,then my socks.

When I arrived in Hartford, a light snow flurry started to fall, and I was so charmed as I drank my fancy coffee and used the free wifi that came with it. As the day continued, the snow kept falling, and falling until it turned into a full on blizzard. The cute little black booties I had put on happily that morning now seemed really inappropriate.

When I arrived at my friends mom’s Book Club meeting, another thing became very clear – those snow soaked black booties were absolutely not going to be be worn into this lovely persons home. I was going to have to take off those boots, and expose my shame – that even though I wrote a book, pay my taxes and work full time, I am not capable of putting together two matching socks.

This is something that I do often, I don’t match my socks. In the grand scheme of things, it never seemed that important to me to have something match that no one could see. I was always paying attention to different things. This oversight is something that I get teased about. And it gives me this feeling that my not wearing matched socks, or needing someone to call my phone just to confirm it’s in my shit show of a purse makes me a scatterbrain, and kind of childish.

In that moment where I was standing in my mismatched socks in a strangers living room, I don’t think about the many, many times that I have absolutely had my shit together. Because even though the mean voice in my head would like to tell you different, I keep it together a lot. I pay all of my bills on time, I have travelled around the world by myself, I know how to rent a car, I’ve been gainfully employed for 12 years, I remember to tell my parents I love them before I hang up the phone, I can tell from the tone of a text if a friend is having a bad day – and I know that they need a call, I try my best to be a good person, who is loving, and kind – and sometimes when I am focused on those things, making sure the striped sock and the polka dot sock match under my boots just doesn’t seem that important.

The reason why these mismatched moments feel so intense is they are an external reflection that there are parts of my life that aren’t perfect. But to be honest, even though its not a perfect life, it is usually pretty seamless. But, I don’t congratulate myself when I move through life like a hot knife through butter, instead I assume that this level of ease is normal. It isn’t. Life is messy, and as my mismatched socks will tell you, so am I.

So, as I slipped off my boots and left them by the door, I exhaled and said what I have said to myself before every challenge in my life ‘all I can do is my best’, and I walked into the kitchen with a huge smile on my face started to hug strangers – which felt amazing.

Then I sat in a circle in the living room and talked with his wonderful group of women about the worst thing that ever happened to me, and I had the joy of listening to their lives, and what was happening in their hearts, and I cried and hugged people so hard I could feel their heartbeats.

With tears in my eyes, cheese in my belly and a glass of wine in my hand I wasn’t thinking about my mismatched socks. I got the feeling that the people that were there weren’t thinking about it either. The focus was on something bigger, brighter and more important than the difference between polka dots and stripes.

Mismatched socks and broken daffodils are picture perfect to me.

Getting Schooled by Middle Schoolers

In the last few months, I have had the honor of getting to talk about myself in front of groups of other people. It is terrifying and amazing and wonderful all at the same time. In the moments before these talks I feel like I am going to either giggle out of pure joy or throw-up in front of a bunch of strangers. It is awesome!
The most recent talk that I gave was for a group of middle schoolers in Vermont. Their guidance counselor had read my book, and had invited me to come and speak to the kids. I was the most nervous I had ever been – 7th and 8th and graders are terrifying! I know they scared the crap out of me when I was one of them. But this seemed like an amazing opportunity to share a part of my life with them, and maybe be helpful in some way. The talk wound up being really lovely, and the kids were absolute gems. They asked some hilarious, thoughtful and intense questions – and I did my best to answer them honestly, without fear and and with intentionality – it felt meaningful, overwhelming and so, so real.

I left there feeling hopeful and positive about these kids, the future of our country and how important it is to be kind, open and vulnerable to each other. I thought that some of you might be interested in it – so I’m sharing it below! Just imagine that you’re sitting on the carpeted floor of a library while you’re reading it to get the full effect 🙂

Hi, I am Katie McKenna, and I wanted to thank you so much for having me here! Your guidance counselor was kind enough to invite me to come and speak to you all because I just published a book, entitled “How to Get Run Over by a Truck” I have to tell you that this isn’t just an INCREDIBLY clever title – I was run over by an 18 wheel truck while riding my bike in my neighborhood in Brooklyn. I KNOW! It’s totally bonkers. Even though it happened to me, I sometimes have trouble believing that is something that someone could go through and survive.

This is also really hard to believe because now I look pretty normal, you would never know that I broke all of my ribs, punctured my lungs, ripped a hole in a few of my organs, and fractured my pelvis in 5 places. You wouldn’t notice that I have a plate in my back, or that I’m in pain all of the time – which to be totally honest is kind of a bonus!

It’s a pretty awkward conversation starter, and if I can avoid it, I absolutely will! I realized every single day that I am so lucky that my injuries weren’t worse, and that I have the ability to walk, talk and look like any other person on the street. When my crash happened, I was conscious – so I remember every moment of the experience and what happened after. I remember hearing the crack of my bones under the weight of the truck, I remember asking the EMT’s to please take me to a good hospital, and I remember a perfect stranger stopping his car on the side of the road, coming to my spot on the asphalt and praying the Our Father with me,

The EMT’s did take me to the best hospital in the area, which was more than a few miles away. Because they didn’t usually go there (they weren’t used to people with tire track on their stomach making requests) they got lost on the way there! They actually had to stop and ask someone on the street directions. I knew that it wasn’t funny, but in the back of the ambulance I started to laugh – which I am sure was VERY unnerving for these EMT’s!

When we did get to the hospital, they sped me through the emergency room and the doctors and nurses were running next to my gurney – and I have to tell you it is JUST like on TV. I didn’t think that it would be, but it totally was. If I hadn’t been really concerned about whether or not I was going to die, I am sure that I would have thought it was really cool!

As they were preparing to put me under for surgery, I asked the doctor who was the closest to me if I was going to live, and she looked me in the eyes very hard, and told me that I was probably going to die – which was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.

Even after I was run over, I still had hope that I was going to live. I had thought that if I was awake and didn’t have brain damage that meant that there was some way that I would make it out of this ok. But hearing the doctor say that I was probably not going to make it almost extinguished that hope. Luckily for me, I am VERY stubborn, and as they put the mask with the anesthesia on my face, I thought to myself: don’t stop fighting just because of what she said Katie. She doesn’t know you. You just got run over by a truck and stayed conscious – that’s gotta count for something!

After that, I went into 10 hours of emergency surgery, where 4 hours in, the doctors came out and told my parents that I was internally bleeding, and that I had an hour to start clotting or I was going to die. With just 15 minutes left until they were going to let me go, I miraculously started clotting. My family was like, thanks a lot Katie, really had to make us sweat there! I said, I just wanted for you to get the full – I would really really miss her effect! It was incredibly successful! When I came out of surgery the doctors told my family that it was truly a miracle that I had made it out alive. If I am going to be honest with you, in that moment, I didn’t feel miraculous – it felt like the opposite of a miracle. It felt TERRIBLE! It was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

I woke up in the ICU, hooked up to a million machines, incredibly confused, sad and also shocked that I couldn’t feel my body from the ribcage down. I laid there and willed my legs to move, but they wouldn’t. For the first time in my adult life, I didn’t have control over my body – and that was so scary! The main reason for my confusion was because I thought this kind of stuff didn’t happen to good people. I felt that this is the kind of stuff that happens to bad guys in action movies – and don’t get me wrong I wasn’t perfect, but mean I wasn’t a Russian spy in a James Bond movie so I was pretty sure I didn’t deserve this! I did volunteer work in my spare time, I recycled, I was nice to puppies and babies – I felt like I had checked all of the boxes!

I was in the hospital for over 2 months, and when you are just hanging out in a hospital bed by yourself, you have time to think about these big questions – so I thought about this A LOT. I wondered why the universe would let this happen to me – what I had I done? I kept thinking and thinking about it, and I finally came up with the answer – nothing.

I hadn’t done anything to deserve this – but being a good person didn’t keep me safe from terrible things happening. It wasn’t going to serve me to worry and try to figure ou the why- I just had to accept that it had happened, to see what I could learn from it, and do everything in my power to move forward.

I’ve lived a lot of life, and from my experience I can candidly say that these things can comes at you so so fast. I think this is part of the reason why Linda asked me to come to talk with you guys today – not just to make sure that you’re mindful of trucks when you’re riding your bikes, but also because all of us get run over by a truck at some point in our lives, right? We have this one pivotal moment that takes our vertical world and turns it horizontal, and we have a choice in the moments after that trauma – we can give up, or we can try to get back to our vertical world degree by degree. I chose the latter. The reason why I share my story is because when I was trying to rebuild my life, I couldn’t find a story that spoke to me – that made me feel hopeful that things could and would get better. My goal is that my story can be one you can think about when you’re feeling hopeless.

My first step to building a new life, was to stop feeling sorry for myself, and the next step was to figure out what I could do to find my way back to happy. Looking back there were 5 things that made it possible for me to get through this challenging time: they were humor, controlling what I could control, goal setting, forgiveness, and to keep punching.

I did stand up comedy in New York City for a few years before this crash, and as hard as I tried it was almost impossible for me to find something funny about getting run over by a truck. But I kept trying! Making other people laugh has been one of the greatest joys of my life, and I took it as a challenge to find whatever humor I could in this situation:

For example the first night the friends who I grew up with were able to come to see me in the hospital I was still very weak – and I am sure that they were scared to death. I still had gravel from the road in my hair, I am wearing a hospital gown and for the first time in my life I felt awkward in front of the people I’ve known since I was your age. To break the silence, my friend Kerrin, says, “Katie, you look so good!” I stared at her, and I said “Kerr – do I look good good? Or I do I look got run over by a truck good?” Suddenly, all of us are laughing, and in this completely uncontrollable situation – I found somewhere that I could feel in control. I felt like myself. It was magical.

As I’m sure that you can imagine, the pain that I was in was pretty unbearable. I was given a morphine pump to manage it – but it felt like the pain was never getting better, and I didn’t want to be a person who had to cart a morphine pump around for the rest of her life, so I started to create small goals for myself – I tried to press the pump fewer and fewer times per hour. It didn’t have to be much. Only once and I was so proud of myself! I lived for those little victories. When I was going to physical therapy I had low expectations for myself, but it was really important to me that every day I tried to push myself a little further than I had the day before
I think that’s something that I learned while I was recovering too – how to be excited and proud of those little wins. We put so much pressure on ourselves go bigger, get the A+, join all of the clubs, get into the best college – we only feel successful when these big wins happen, that these tiny wins get lost. They don’t feel like a big deal, but I am here to tell you, as a person who has built her life back by stringing together these tiny little victories – they are a big deal, and you owe it yourself to celebrate them. For example, I took the train to come up here from New York, and I was actually early, so I bought myself a fancy coffee, and then high fived myself when I got on the train, which was kind of awkward for the other people who were on the train because it just looked like I was sitting there doing one single clap to myself.

Something that people often ask me about is forgiveness. They wondered if I ever met the truck driver who ran me over. I actually never have. He tried to see me to apologize but I was still in the ICU and wasn’t allowed to have visitors. While I was in the hospital recovering I tried not to think about him too much – giving a face or a feeling to the pain and the challenges that I was going through seemed like it would be really toxic for me. I kept with this mindset until Christmas time. I had been released from the hospital, but I was still unable to walk and was confined to a wheelchair. During that holiday I watched how my family had to change their whole life around for me. I saw it in small things, my little brother and sister came home from college and they didn’t get spoiled by my parents, and have their favorite meals made, have their friends come over. We didn’t get to do all of the traditional things that we had done together, because it was too difficult with me in a wheelchair, and everyone was too busy making sure I was ok.

It was in those moments that I felt the angriest. I wasn’t mad for myself (ok, I’m not a saint I was a LITTLE mad for myself) I was mad that my family who had done nothing wrong, had to suffer because of what this driver had recklessly done. When I finally let myself get worked up, really mad and allowed myself to blame him for all that he had done to me, my family and my life – I found that I didn’t feel better – I just felt hateful. I realized that holding onto that anger wasn’t going to punish this person who doesn’t even know what my face looks like. It was only going to hurt me. So, in order to heal myself, I knew that I had to forgive him. So I did, and I felt a million times lighter. Which was an incredible lesson to learn.

I think that my biggest takeaway from my entire experience, other than being more careful when biking, is that there is a strength inside of all of us that cannot be quantified, explained or taken for granted until we are put into truly challenging situations.

Since my accident, I haven’t forgotten how challenging my life had been while I was recovering in the hospital, but I had lost sight of how incredibly hopeless and helpless I was. As I had mentioned, even before I went into surgery I had been told that I wasn’t going to make it. Then as I was recovering I was told I was never going to walk again. Later during my rehabilitation a doctor told me that I shouldn’t expect to live anything resembling a normal life, that what I had hoped my life would look like, was no longer a tangible possibility.

All of these men and women telling me “no” were all medical professionals. They were leaders in their fields. They thought they knew what was going to happen to me and my crushed little body — because they understood the facts, and the science. But they underestimated one thing: me. They underestimated what “no” would mean to me. They couldn’t quantify the passion, anger, power, and resilience that was ignited in my body when they told me that I couldn’t. So, I made it my mission to show them what they couldn’t see. I have never known purpose that was bigger than that.The driving force behind that resistance was one phrase: Keep Punching.

When I was in the hospital, every night when visiting hours were over my parents would come over to my bed where I was hooked up to about a million machines and kiss me goodnight. My dad would linger for an extra moment, and would whisper in my ear “Katie, you have to promise me one thing before I go. Will you keep punching? I know you’re in the corner, in the fight of your life and you’re getting the tar kicked out of you — but will you keep punching? Don’t give up. Keep swinging, OK?”That was enough to help me to fall asleep with hope in my heart, and a willingness to wake up and fight for one more day.

For a lot of people in our world, they are in the corner in the fight of their lives too. There is darkness right now, there is no denying that. Every single person is going through their own personal challenge that no one else can see. What I want to make sure that you all know is that there is more strength in you than you have ever imagined. Sometimes it takes being run over to truly find it. Keep punching, you guys. As long as we all do that, we will be able to find that light, and it will be beautiful.

The light comes to greet us every single day, we just have to be strong enough to let it in.

Subway Stories

A week or so ago I got a photo from a woman who I hadn’t seen since college (but who I followed like whoa on social media – her life is bonkers beautiful!) it was a picture of a woman on the subway reading my memoir!

My book. In the hands of a stranger. On a New York City subway. I let out an audible gasp of joy! I’m not sure if this is true for every author in New York, or for any author anywhere, but a small part of my dream has always been to see a stranger holding my book on subway. It felt like a huge compliment that they would take me with them as they went about their commute. That my little voice was taking them into my life: they were with me at the hospital at Elmhurst, into the physical therapy room at Glen Cove, to the family room in the house I grew up in, to that same subway where I covered my tears with think tortoise shell sunglasses. It was incredible!

I stared at that picture and another thought creeped into my head – holy shit. This stranger knows a lot about me. Like not 3rd date a lot, but like more than my family knew about me until about 2 months ago. She is basically 325 pages of my inner most thoughts. I purposely took everything that I was feeling for months, and put it on display for someone else to consume on their trip home. It was amazing that anyone would be interested in what I was thinking while I was laid up in the hospital and also made me feel so transparent.

Since I was a little girl I have put an immense amount of pressure on myself to say and do the right things, to not let friends or my family down, to follow the rules. I wanted for others to feel like I had it together – even if I was falling apart on the inside.

When I looked at that photo I thought to myself, ‘Well sweetheart – whatever you’ve been trying to project is not a concern anymore! Everyone who’s read your book has seen behind the curtain. It isn’t just your friends, family, ex-boyfriends, former managers and old crushes who might have read about the times when you were selfish, insecure, totally broken and did I mention a bitch (because lets get real, you were also kind of a bitch) but now total strangers know that about the time you removed your own catheter. You don’t have anything left to hide!’ I had never felt so liberated, and so vulnerable, at the same time. It felt terrifying, but it also felt really right.

What I want to say to you sweethearts, is try to be your true self, to tell your story – honestly, openly and without fear. I promise that there so many people who will accept you, delight in you and happily keep reading.

May I also add that this lovely woman’s nail polish is on POINT ❤ Thanks so much to the lovely Cary Neer for the photo!

Lazy is not a Four Letter Word, but $%&* is

I have been working pretty hard on my hustle lately. Like yesterday, I woke up at 5 am, wrote for an hour, sent some sales ideas and edits for a friend, wrote an article about what you should and shouldn’t say to someone who has been through a trauma, drafted emails to a bunch of different physical therapy schools to see if they might want someone who has been a patient to talk about their experience to give a different perspective to students, I followed up on all of my personal emails. After I closed my computer, I strapped on my sneakers and power walked 4 miles as I watched the sun rise over my sleeping Brooklyn neighborhood.

I got home and showered, made myself some coffee and then sat down at my computer to start my work day, and the first thought that came into my mind as I opened my laptop for the second time that morning was Jesus Christ Katie. You are so lazy

Let me repeat myself for clarity: Jesus Christ Katie. You are so lazy.

Soooooo, that was awkward.

From a young age I had been taught that in order to be successful not only do you need grit, but you also have to hustle harder than everyone else. I believed that pathway to success is built by working hard, by being intensely determined and not giving up until you have won. This frame of mind has been so incredibly helpful to me in almost every aspect of my life, but sometimes it can backfire.

I felt it backfiring yesterday morning at my desk. My frustration and anger at myself expressed itself as tears stinging my eyes. I went down the rabbit hole I dug for myself, and I started to think about the fact that I am still not as thin as I wish I was, that the apartment isn’t immaculate, that if I had been better, faster, stronger I would be more successful. That maybe if I hadn’t taken those extra 2 minutes in the shower that I would come one step closer to winning – but instead there I was, in front of this computer feeling like a failure.

I let the tears come, I took a deep breath, and I walked around the block until I couldn’t see any commuters walking to the L train, and then – out loud – I told that voice that has just made me cry, to go fuck itself. I continued to tell that voice that I was doing everything that I can, and if that shit wasn’t good enough then too fucking bad. And by the way, I truly needed those extra 2 minutes in the shower (I like to leave some conditioner on the end of my hair for a few minutes at the end of my shower, it feels luxurious and I FUCKING DESERVE IT!)

I continued in that vein, until I started to repeat myself and ran out of curse words. Then I stopped. and I exhaled. I shut my eyes, breathed in, and headed back down the blocks I had just walked down mumbling curse words to the mean voice in my mind, and I felt lighter.

I felt like I was walking back towards reason. As if with each step I was learning how to respect how hard I’ve been working. Although I’m not seeing the full results now, I do know that I am trying my fucking best – and today that’s going have to be enough.

Take those extra two minutes to do whatever you want to. You deserve it, I promise.