Small Bites and Little Victories

I got up this morning at 5 am to workout. As I dressed in the gray morning light, it reminded me of the years that I would force myself to get up at 5 am and drag myself to my computer to bang out bits and pieces of my memoir for the 2 hours I had before commuting into work. It was the quietest that my Brooklyn neighborhood was all day. It felt like I was the only person awake in the world. It was lonely, but it felt right.

During the course of my short little life, I’ve forced myself to do a lot things that have scared the crap out of me.  I have done stand up comedy even when I was pretty sure I was going to bomb. I started a job in finance even though I could barely do basic math, and didn’t reallllly understand what the stock market was (up good? down bad?)  I put all of my innermost thoughts and feelings about the worst experience of my life into a book for errrrrybody to read (My former boss bought a copy…*meep*).  I try to face my fears with the aggressiveness of a 7 year old running after the ice cream man with two dollars in her fist and a serious jonesing for a Choco Taco. C’mon we’ve all been there…if I’m going to be honest, I’m there right now!  I’d run an obstacle course for a SnoCone every.damn.day.

This way of living usually works for me: I see a fear and I fight to overcome it. I use the weapons at my disposal: positive attitude, a good worth ethic and a complete and total lack of shame.  The problem is that when these things do not work, I feel like a total and utter failure.  Why wasn’t I good enough/smart enough/capable enough to fix this on my own. Saying that I can’t handle something scares me, and it makes me feel weak.

What I’ve realized over time is that it isn’t weakness that drives someone to be truthful about challenges that they can’t overcome by themselves, it is bravery. Saying that something isn’t working the way that you’ve been doing it isn’t failure, it is the first step towards the solution.  I have found so much freedom in calling a friend and saying, “I am feeling like a hot mess, insert issue here has been happening and everything that I’ve tried to do to fix it hasn’t made it better. I want to crawl up into a little ball, burrow down deep into the ground and never come out again.  What do I do?”

Amazingly, the person that I am talking to usually has a solution that I would have NEVER come up with by myself. and suddenly I don’t feel as lost.  An added bonus is that the person that you talked to was able to be helpful, and that makes them feel good about themselves.

Currently, I have all of the galleys (this is the early edition of How to Get Run Over by a Truck) that I am supposed to be handing off to bookstore owners, and book buyers in bookstores around the City and asking them to consider carrying it (so exciting!) This is something that I had assumed I was BORN to do.  I love talking to strangers, I love books, I love sales – all signs point to easy peasy lemon squeezy.  At least that’s what I thought the signs would point to – until I walked into a bookstore and got so scared that I panic bought a book and walked out without even talking to the cashier! For the first time in my life I was speechless.  I felt embarrassed. I felt like a failure.

I immediately called my best friend Leah, and with shame in my voice told her what happened.  I didn’t know how to fix it, what did she think I should do? She gave me some really wonderful advice and techniques for how I could approach it next time. She made me feel like I shouldn’t be ashamed of myself and reminded me that this kind of stuff is hard! I felt so much better about myself, and also a lot braver because I had her words of confidence ringing in my ears, that I went back into that book store and SUPER awkwardly pitched my book to the cashier.  Mind you, the cashier was the wrong person for me to talk to, and my knees were shaking, but I did it! And I know that I wouldn’t have been able to do it unless I had asked Leah for help.

The only way that broken things get fixed is if we acknowledge that something is wrong, and then do the scariest thing of all – ask for help.

I know, being vulnerable is hard. I’m with you. 

My body and I have been in a little fight of late.  Nothing huge mind you, we’re still on speaking terms.  I’m just a little colder to the ol’ bod than I usually am. I’ve found I’m quicker to anger and not as patient with it as I’d like to be. It may be because its creeping up on spring (even though it doesn’t feel like it in Brooklyn today – brr you guys, BRRRR!), and my body is still holding fast to my sweater bod (Rude! Doesn’t it know that its almost sundress time?!)  Or, it could be because I’ve been having some additional health challenges of late that have made me feel like my body has turned on me. Like we’re just not on the same page.  Which feels sad, and kind of confusing.

When I woke up this morning to go work out, I was still feeling my feelings about my body and I made a decision that something needed to change.  I needed to do something to feel like my body was my own, that it was strong and capable and that I loved the shit out of it.  I walked to the gym in the half drizzle and thought about what would make me feel like we accomplished something meaningful – like we were a team again.

By the time I scanned my card at the gym I knew what had to happen, my body and I were going to race. When I ran track in high school I felt the most comfortable in my own skin when I was racing.  My muscles were working, my mind was clear and for that period of time I felt whole.

I decided that I would try to run 3 miles as fast as I possibly could.  I was racing against the dark feeling of distrust I had of my body, and I knew that today of all days, I needed a win.  I got on the elliptical machine (my fave!) put on the most inspirational, badass music I could find – and made a promise to myself that I was going to push beyond what my mind and body thought I was capable of to get to that 3 mile mark.  And then, I let go.

I stopped worrying about what the medical test results were, I didn’t think about how I looked in my yoga pants, all that I thought about was how fast I could get those little numbers to tick up to 3.00.  At around 1.3 miles I started to smile to myself, giddy at the way every part of  me was working together to be successful, delighted by how fast I was making my legs move.

When I got to the 3 mile mark I got the feeling I was hoping for: clarity, joy, oneness. I hopped off the elliptical with wobbly legs, and a renewed love for my imperfect body.  I ellipticalled that 3 miles in 20 minutes.  The fastest I’ve gone in a long time. Fast enough to outrun my anger, and just fast enough to catch up with myself.

It has been a long while since I’ve written on this blog, and for that I absolutely apologize! To make up for being MIA – I wrote an incredibly long post.  If you need to get a snack, or maybe go to the bathroom before you read – go for it.  I’ll wait.

The reason why I haven’t been writing on this blog as much as I’d like, is actually because of writing this blog (full circle you guys! Full. Circle)  Let me begin at the beginning:

While I was in the hospital after my accident I started writing as form of catharsis. It was a way for me to take all of the memories that kept rushing around my head and put them in one place.  As I wrote, I found that not only did I feel better, but I also felt like I had a better understanding of myself and my situation.

I continued to write about my recovery and my life post accident after I got out of the hospital.  When I was well enough to go back to work, I made writing my second job.  I would wake up early in the morning to write before I commuted into the city, and after work I stayed up late at my keyboard, struggling to get everything that I had been feeling out onto the computer screen.

Once the book was finished, I thought I would try to get it published.  I sent out book proposals to tons of agents, I reached out to everyone who I knew who was involved in the publishing world, and in every instance I heard the same things: you aren’t a known writer. Your writing isn’t good enough. The story just isn’t compelling enough. This book will never get published.

I’ve gotta tell you, rejection is bad in general, but when the rejection is combined with someone telling you that the story of you almost dying “just isn’t interesting enough” it really stings.  It felt like they were saying that not only was I not good enough, but everything about my life wasn’t good enough.  Needless to say, after years of trying and failing, I decided I couldn’t take the rejection any more.  So, I indulged in some serious fetal position crying, drank a lot of red wine right out of the bottle and I put all of my dreams of being an author on hold.

Then, on a whim I started to write this blog, and something changed.

While writing this blog I remembered how much I loved to write! It made me feel happy, and it gave me an wonderful sense of clarity.  Then there was this incredible added bonus of  hearing from people that I didn’t know all of that well that one post or another had really spoken to them. When I realized that writing had the potential to help other people, I knew that I needed to sack up, and try one more time to get this memoir published.

Mainstream publishing had proven to not be the best medium for me to get this book out into the universe, so I started to explore other options.  I looked into self-publishing, and in my research I found this incredible company called Inkshares.com. Any author can submit a proposal for a book. Once the project goes live, readers support the project by pre-ordering copies of the book. Once the 750 pre-order goal is hit, they start publishing. It sounded totally perfect for me – I wouldn’t need to talk an agent into thinking that my book was any good, I wouldn’t have to worry if a publisher would be interested in memoirs right now, I could just put the book out there, try my best and be grateful for whatever happened next.

So, I signed up, wrote this project page, uploaded my first chapter, and gave myself 3 months to get to my 750 goal. I decided that the launch date would be January 11th.  I was in, I was committed and I was TERRIFIED! From the day that I decided that I would do this, the phrase no one is going to buy this book ran through my head on a near constant loop. I paced around my apartment, I chewed my nails until they were just sad little stubs, and I made a TON of contingency plans if the books didn’t sell.  These plans usually included me buying drinks for strangers, or giving them cookies and then begging them to buy a book.  It felt like brilliant marketing!

I laid my head down on my pillow on the night of January 10th and felt hot tears dripping out of the corners of my eyes.  I couldn’t help but cry out of the fear  of the potential rejection, that others would hate it, that I would be told again that I just wasn’t good enough.  I laid there and I reminded myself that I didn’t write this memoir for other people.  I wrote this memoir for me.  More specifically for 25 year old me.  It was for that girl who was run over by a whole truck and somehow refused to give up, who didn’t take no for an answer, who found joy in small things even when she was in so much pain. She fought so hard for this little life, and dammit,  that girl deserved to have her story told.

The next morning I sat at my laptop, exhaled deeply and I made the book titled How to Get Run Over by a Truck available for pre-sale orders.  I sent out emails to just about everyone I knew. I shared the link on Facebook and I crossed all of my fingers and toes that somehow we would get to 750 pre-sales by April 11th.

Then, something truly miraculous happened.  People started sharing the link, and reading the first chapter, and amazingly books started to sell.  Not just a few books, but hundreds of books and it didn’t seem to be slowing down.  I was in a constant state of gratitude and amazement and I kept on bursting into tears. By the afternoon of January 14th, after only three days, I had met the pre-sale goal of 750 books. IT WAS BONKERFACE!!!!!

I got the notification that the 750th book had been sold while I was alone working from home, and I sat on my bed and this heavy and intense wave of gratitude overtook me.  It felt like I was being crushed by the biggest hug I had ever experienced.  I sat in that moment for a long time, and thought about the immense generosity and kindness that I had just been shown.  I didn’t think that a person could be this lucky.  I didn’t know what I had done to deserve so much joy. It was one of the greatest moments in my whole life.  And it was all because of you!

If you hadn’t taken the time to read this blog, and to be so supportive and so wonderful, I would have never had the courage to try again.  It is truly the small kindnesses that we show one another that have the potential to shift the trajectory of each others lives.  Thank you for showing me that kindness.  Thank you for changing my life.

Magic happens when you believe it can✨

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.