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Last week I made plans to have dinner with my friend Kim. Dinner and drinks with her are always a power catch up,  and so incredibly fun! Our conversations range from religion, love, work, mediation, our favorite crock pot recipes to where to find the best Bloody Mary’s in the City. The topics always vary, but the tone of the conversation is always the same – complimentary and kind. We’re usually only about half a glass into whatever we’re drinking before I find myself not being able to hold myself back from telling Kim how wonderful I think she is. That’s why when I saw the meeting invite that Kim sent over for our hang I couldn’t help but giggle to myself, it read: “Kim + Katie Compliment Party.”

Kim and I went to a small liberal arts school in Ohio, called Denison University, which isa really special place. The people that I spent my 4 years of school with were hilarious, extroverted, fun loving and so good to one another! The way that Kim and I hang out is the way that all of us hang out. I get texts from Denison friends I haven’t seen in years not just saying hi, but saying things like – “Quick reminder: You’re awesome, and I love you.” To have friends like that is an incredible gift.

While at dinner we started to talk to our waitress, asked her questions about her work, about this restaurant about her interests (we are kind of the Katie Couric’s of restaurant diners) as the conversation progressed, she told us she was a little nervous about how her skills in service would transfer into the next phase of her career. Would she be successful in other fields? Would she be behind the 8 ball because she’d been waitressing? Suddenly Kim and I started to talk over each other, telling her all of the ways in which this current job will be a great springboard, and that she doesn’t need to worry, that her people skills are wonderful, and that she will be successful! We just knew it!

To witness the change in her face, from concerned, to comforted to confident was like watching a flower unfold in bright sunlight.  She was like, “Man, I need more friends like you guys.” We looked at each other and laughed, and I said, “We’re just telling the truth! Also, welcome – you’re now a part of our compliment party.”

In speaking to her I realized that, we all need to have a compliment party with friends every once in a while.  To be surrounded by people who make us feel heard, supported, loved and like we’re the best! I’ve found the most effective way to find friends like that, is to start by being that friend to the people that you love.

It has been challenging to be hopeful these days. There’s a lot of hurt, anger, injustice and pain in the world, and it can feel overwhelming and so, so sad. What I’ve found is that telling a stranger that I love her jacket, or telling my physical therapist that she’s exceptional at her job, and seeing how happy it makes that other person makes gives me hope. Hope that by being intentionally kind to one another, the world can be better – that we can be better.  So, If you can throw a compliment party, invite your best friends, or that girl who takes your order at the bagel place – she’ll be so happy that you did it, and so will you! 

I, like most people, love to be included. It doesn’t really matter what it is, I just know that I want in! I am sure that this is a product of being one of four kids, and always wanting to make sure that I didn’t get left out.  When my older brother joined the swim team, I threw on my water wings and paddled around the shallow end while he practiced, when my little brother and sister had a lemonade stand, I gave them all my coins so that they would have change (I was also a very shrewd investor at a young age), when my dad was splitting wood in the backyard for a fire, I would pick up sticks for kindling. When my mom was making cookies, I would steal as many chocolate chips as I could without being detected. I might not be able to do exactly what they were doing – but I wanted to mirror them in some way.

The fear of being left out hit me hard when my boyfriend began training for the New York City and the Brooklyn half marathons. I need to say that his running these half marathon was my idea.  He had recently quit smoking (AMAZING!) and had always loved running – this was the perfect way to celebrate his new lung capacity. During the months of training he was so excited about all of his workouts, the fantastic people that he had met in the various running clubs he had joined, and that incredible feeling that comes from pushing your body further than you thought it could possibly go. We talked about the process of running, about how strong he felt, and that running had given him a whole new perspective on life. It was beautiful and inspiring, and I was soooooo jealous!

I wanted to be inspired and driven towards a goal, I wanted to start thinking about food as fuel, and to crave the taste of gu (just kidding you guys, I never want that to happen.  Gu is terrifying and gross – it tastes like robtussin flavored fish paste to me), but I couldn’t – I was afraid that walking a half marathon would be pushing my body too hard.  But, I had an ephiphany one snowy morning in the gym – I couldn’t granny-walk a half marathon, but I could awkwardly ellipitcal a half marathon! It would be so weird, but it would be so awesome.

Later that morning, I found a half marathon training plan online, and I taped it to my fridge. Suddenly my boyfriend and I were both talking about our workouts, and I felt proud and excited about working this workaround. I was trying something that I hadn’t ever thought possible before, and it felt great! I followed the training schedule, and on Saturdays while my boyfriend met up with his running group, I strapped on my sneakers and power walked the “long run” distance all over Brooklyn, Manhattan, Hoboken and Jersey City – I would giggle at myself after these long walks, delighted and amazed that I had gone so far without stopping, blown away by how much I had seen in one morning and happy that my body had let me do it.

My boyfriend ran the two half marathons and he was incredible – strong, smart, and just a total badass. Watching him run in both of those races was so fantastic, he had worked so hard and was seeing all of that hard work come to fruition.

A few weeks later, a package came in the mail from an unknown address. Inside was a half marathon medal, engraved with my name and my time – it was from my boyfriend. When I called him, sobbing, to thank him he said ‘You deserved a medal as much as everyone else – just because you did it differently doesn’t mean that you should be left out! You need to be celebrated.’  That gesture made me feel even more included than paddling in the shallow end, and somehow, even happier than eating all of those chocolate chips.

Please note the calories I burned: I ate those back in Cadbury eggs about 1 hour later. It was the best.

I like being grateful, it makes me feel good. I love that telling people why you’re thankful for them can make them smile, or if I’m lucky there is hugging and to be honest, I love a good hug! But, being thankful doesn’t always come easily to me. Sometimes I’m too wrapped up in my own sad, stressed, anxiety filled biz to take a minute to express to others what a bunch of amazing humans they are. I find myself in this stress/anxiety/sad place every October 2nd (the anniversary of my accident) so I created a ritual-arty (its a ritual party hybrid) so I wouldn’t forget.

The ritual that I have with family and a few friends is that we meet at 6:30 am at the corner where the accident happened. My mom passes out red solo cups, and like magic bottles of champagne appear (by magic, I mean the cooler my dad has been hauling with him – but it always feels like magic).  My dad opens up a bottle, and we huddle around each other in a circle as he pours.  We look at each one another, usually with tears in our eyes and smiles on our faces, and we cheers. To life, to love and to the second chance I wasn’t sure I was going to get. It is beautiful, and it is sad, and it is a morning I look forward to and dread in equal measure.

So, real talk – I haven’t been feeling like myself lately. I’ve been feeling down, insecure and just kind of sad.   On top of that my back plate has been acting like kind of a jerk.  When the weather fluctuates and there is even a little bit of moisture in the air, I feel like this plate is expanding and the screws that keep said plate in place dig themselves into all of the nerve endings in my lower back. I try hard not to get too worked up about it.  This pain is not a surprise. It is my body now, and I really can’t do anything about it except allow myself an extra glass or two of malbec that night (who am I kidding, its three you guys – I give myself an extra three glasses. I got run over by a truck for God’s sake, a gal deserves a drink!)

A few nights ago, I was in such a bad place that I indulged in feeling sorry for myself. Like super sorry for myself.  So much so that I didn’t go straight home and instead I just wandered around my neighborhood like a creeper, mumbling about back pain and adopting puppies and that I just need to lose 10 pounds to be happy (which is my mantra when I am feeling all of my sad face feelings.)

I kept my head down for most of my amble around my hood, but suddenly something across the street caught my eye. I looked up and saw a man wedged between the door and the stairs on his front stoop. It looked like he was struggling to get himself out of the door by scooting himself across the ground without the use of his legs, and it wasn’t going well.  I could hear his exasperated sighs from where I stood.  I felt embarrassed for catching this middle aged man struggling, but before I could register the embarrassment I was crossing the street to his front door.

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you – but can I help you in any way?”

He looked at me through thick black framed glasses and sized me up.  I am about 5’4 on my best day, and didn’t look capable of giving him the help that he needed.  Reluctantly, he told me that he needed to be lifted from the doorway to the bottom of the stairs.

Now, once upon a time, I lifted 250 pound men off the ground as a party trick (its all in the legs you guys) so I felt unnecessarily confident that getting this slight man down the stairs would be something I could handle.  I was also conscious that there was a good possibility that I would hurt us both, but I knew that I had to try.  He had been put him into my life for a reason, and there was no way I was going to walk away.

In the hospital I had no use of my legs, and I had gotten moved by other a lot, and I knew the way that I liked to be handled, and I took my hospital knowledge and I lifted him the way that I had liked to be lifted.  One arm looped under his arms and an arm around his lower back to support him.  Before I made any movements, I asked him if this was was ok, and if he felt comfortable.  He said that it was ok.  I was suddenly terrified, but I’d come this far – so, together we moved from the ground to an almost standing position, and he leaned into me.  He smelled like cigarettes and Old Spice aftershave, his lime striped shirt was starched and ironed and in that moment I felt needed, and I felt strong.

As we moved my lower back started to burn with the added weight of his body, and the pain seeped into my hip joints and spine. and we carefully went down the four steps down to the pavement. He asked me to seat him on the bottom stair, he was waiting for someone to pick him up, I went up and fetched his canes and placed them next to him.

He put out his hand for me to shake and asked me my name, and if I lived in the neighborhood.  For some reason that brought tears to my eyes. He was real, I was real, this just happened. I helped my neighbor. I blinked back the tears and told him my name, and that I lived around the corner.

“Thanks for your help Katie; I’m Sal. I hope I see you again.”

I told him that I was happy to help, and that I hoped I would see him again soon too.  I kept my shit together for the 40 feet that it took for me to get to the corner, and I turned right and I felt like something inside of me became unmoored.  I couldn’t stop moving, and I cried like I had invented crying.

I knew that 7 years ago I probably wouldn’t have stopped for Sal.  Not to say that I wouldn’t have wanted to, but I think that his need would have never caught my eye.  I would’ve been too focused on my own pain, on my own problems to even be aware of another person.  Since getting run over, I feel like the world and I have an understanding – whenever I start to feel really sorry for myself for small things, I get reminded about how beautiful life it is, and I’m given the opportunity to be the girl that I promised myself that I would be. A person who makes the world slightly better for having me in it.

That night I walked into my kitchen, pulled out the bottle of champagne I always have chilling in my fridge and poured myself a pint glass of my favorite beverage.  I watched as the bubbles rose to the top and then exploded into nothingness in a steady stream. I tipped my glass to Sal, to the world that gave me another shot, and to trying, everyday, to be the girl I promised I’d be.

It’s happening. You know it’s happening. I know it’s happening. And no ones happy about it. Summer is coming to a close. I don’t know what your thoughts are, but I feel like this is super rude.

I had always thought that going away to camp would be the most amazing experience. I mean, if all of the movies I saw were true, it was the place where you got to make life long friends, make s’mores and kiss boys, and I loved all of those things!! I never went because I had FOMO before I even knew what FOMO was.  There would be so many things that could happen in my neighborhood that I would miss! Running bases in the street, swimming at the pool, the chance that the ice cream man would stop right in front of my house!! But, in the summer of my 32nd year, FOMO be dammed, I finally signed up for camp: boot camp. And just like I would have been at 8 years old, I was excited for 5 minutes, and then totally terrified. 

I entertained an endless stream of anxieties: “What was it going to be like?  Were the other people going to be nice? Was the coach going to yell? Will we have to do gun drills?!” (Wrong boot camp, but a lot of things were running through my head, it was hard to focus!)  The worry that trumped all worries was that I was going to make a fool of myself.  I was scared that I was going to be slower than everyone else, and that I wouldn’t be able to do all of the excercises that the other ‘campers’ were doing. I know that every instructor says that they can do modifications, but the very idea of being singled out made me feel so awkward!

The night before Boot Camp, I laid out my first day of camp clothes, my yoga mat and my water and I had a conversation with the incredibly nervous little camper who was freaking out inside of me:

No matter what happens tomorrow – signing up for this Boot Camp is a victory.  You’re trying something new and intimidating and outside of your comfort zone. That’s a huge win! If you like it, AWESOME! If you don’t like it, you’re a grown ass woman you can get up and go home! 

Running was my response to every single emotion that I had.  If I was stressed out: run until all of those knots you’ve tied up in yourself have loosened.  If I was sad: run until the tears mingle with the sweat running down your face and you can’t tell the difference between the two. If I was in a good mood: put on your favorite album and run your smiling face up and down every street in your neighborhood. Running made every bad feeling dissipate, and amplified  every good feeling. It was a fast forward button I could push to immediately feel confident and strong.  Even though I was sweaty and exhausted, I never felt more beautiful than I did when I was running.  Felt is the operative word here, kids. Felt.

One of my lovely power walk sunrises 

I usually don’t have a problem with Monday’s – we get along pretty well actually! I try to respect the least loved day of the week for what it brings to the table: it’s the first day of a fresh work week, it’s a clean slate and I think that it is the perfect day to treat myself to a fancy coffee. I thought that Monday and I were on the level. 

This past Monday, we were not on the level. I had too many bags with me on the subway and was in everyone’s way, the fancy coffee that I got for myself added to my awkwardness, on my way out of the subway I realized that I had probably left my work ID at home, and spent 15 minutes on a bench outside of Rockefeller Center taking everything of alllllll of my bags. By the end of my search I had most of my worldly possessions strewn out in front of me, but no ID.  

I finally made it to my office, set myself up with my open laptop and a glass of water and within 30 minutes I had spilled the contents of said glass all over my keyboard. It immediately shut itself off, my computer was also totally over this Monday. Then, like a responsible, professional, woman – I began to cry.  I rushed out of the office to the Apple store in Grand Central, and waited on the gorgeous staircase in the station for one of the Genius’ to be available to help me. I cried there too. I’m pretty sure that in some tourists photos of their trip to New York City there is a photo of me, red faced, cheeks slicked with tears, clutching my laptop to my chest. Nothing says “I HAD A GREAT TRIP!!” like being photo bombed by a public crier – you’re welcome tourist!

The computer was so fried that not even the Genius’ could help me.  So I dusted myself off, wiped off my face and started to think about workarounds.  I found another computer store that could try to save my computer, I called a friend in a nearby office to see if I could use one of her desktops and tried to get over this yucky hopeless feeling.

That night when I got home, I sat down on my couch and I forced myself to think about the things that had happened today that I was grateful for, here’s the list I came up with:

– When I was struggling with my bags a young woman offered me her seat, and said “I know how hard it is when you have so much stuff on the subway.”

– A friend was kind enough to let me use a desktop in their office, and I was able to do most of the work I needed to do that day. 

– When I was sobbing in front of all of Manhattan I called my boyfriend, and he was so kind, understanding and patient with me during my histrionics. 

– I met up with my friend Kim after work and had a glass of rose with her and got to commiserate, laugh and be reminded about how lucky I am to have a friend like her. 

– I was buying a reusable water bottle at a store (a little pressie because I was feeling bad for myself), and there wasn’t a price tag on it. The cashier gave it to me for a dollar because she said I had a joyful smile. 

– I had a Diet Coke, and it was fizzy and cold and amazing. 

When I focused on the good things that had happened that day, I was able to change the narrative of the whole day.  The day was far from ideal, but even when things go off the rails, there’s still so much to be grateful for.    

Small bites and little victories is the way that I like to live my life.  It makes me feel like everything is not only manageable, but reminds me that those small wins deserve to be celebrated! Your boss told you that you kicked ass in a meeting – go get yourself a glass of champagne, you star! You deserve it. (Seriously though, go pour yourself some – its good for you!!)

I adopted this mindset about seven years ago, when, after a wide right turn on a morning bike ride, I found myself on the business end of an 18 wheel truck.  I woke up in the ICU after 10 hours of emergency surgery without feeling in my legs, my pelvis fractured in 5 places, all of my ribs broken, a punctured lung, and intense internal injuries.  In a few seconds I went from being an incredibly athletic and active twenty five year old brooklynite, to a broken little human who the doctors told probably wouldn’t walk again.

All of us have been in a position where we feel like our vertical world has gone horizontal.  That feeling that the rest of your life is going to be spent trying to readjust to this new angle, one degree at a time.  That was when small bites and little victories became my mantra.  The idea of tackling the big worries (Will I ever walk again? Will I be able to live independently? Do wheelchairs work on the beach?!) was too much. I had to set little goals and then celebrate the shit out of them!

After a lot of hard work, love and crazy pants support from almost every person in my lovely life, I have been able to build a life that looks very similar to the one that I lived before I was run over by an 18 wheel truck. I am no longer able to do a lot of the athletic activities that I loved in my old life, but I’ve built work arounds to create a life I want to live.

I wanted to start this blog because I know how hard it is to stay motivated, and to be proud of yourself when your successes don’t feel like other people’s successes.  My hope is that this will be a small sliver of life where one can talk about those tiny miracles, surprising moments of awesomeness, and celebrating all of it!

Here’s to you!