I spent my 20s a drifter of sorts, wandering from city to city, apartment to apartment, searching for and building my life.
The later I got into the decade, the more the resounding voice of my Dad said, “You need to put down roots.”
In April 2013 I made a decision that surprised a lot of people and confused others. I applied for a job at the University of Miami teaching sports law. The job would not only take me 2,000 miles away from home to a place that in all honesty, the first time I visited in 2006 for a 21st birthday party I didn’t care for, but would also lead to the winding up of my legal practice.
It was a bold move, a brash move perhaps even. And I couldn’t fully verbalize or explain why I felt compelled to do it, other than I loved sports, I knew about the law and I wanted to work with young people. For some, though, these answers weren’t enough to justify a life changing decision.
In the back of my mind, though, I knew there was another reason why I was going to Miami–a reason, that at the time, I just couldn’t put my fingers on.
I dream every night. Bold, vibrant, memorable dreams, many of which come true. Rarely are there monsters in my dreams. Instead, my dreams are peeks into the exciting things about to come into my life.
Last July, I had a dream where clear as daylight, the voice in it said, “There is a boy.” A week later, Prosper came into my life. Because of Prosper and his life story, I am now a Community Champion for an organization called I’m Me, which is working to end the orphan crisis in Haiti.
I truly believe that had I not laid roots down in Miami, I never would’ve become involved with an organization located in and focused on Haiti. I do not think it’s coincidental that months before my life would cross with Prosper’s that I moved to a place that is less than a two-hour flight from Haiti.
A few days before Easter, I’m Me’s founder, David, invited me to spend Easter with the I’m Me kids. I didn’t blink at the opportunity and said, “Yes!” I flew into Haiti on Good Friday–one of the darkest, most solemn holidays of my Christian religion. Straight from the airport, David took our group to one of the darkest places I’ve been in my entire life–the orphanage from which he got Prosper and the other nine children now living in I’m Me’s home.
I went to that orphanage for the first time in November, and it’s safe to say it rocked me to the core. Going there changed my life. I held babies that hadn’t eaten in a week. I held lives that although young, were dying a slow and miserable death. I smelled sweat and sat in dirt and saw bugs fly by. In that darkness, I realized for the first time in my naive life that Hell exists on Earth.
Going there again this time still rocked me. There will never be a day that seeing children helpless and hurting becomes easy. There is no way to prepare for the pain that stings your heart when you see the sights that exist in Hell on Earth.
This time, David walked us down into the basement that we wandered into last November. In November, we didn’t find any children in the basement. This time, though, was worse. This time, we found a room full of babies, diaperless, lying in a dark room unattended to. I wanted to pick them all up, hold them and carry them home with me to America.
Unable to do that, I picked up one, Patrick–named after David’s brother, the co-founder of I’m Me–and began rocking him. I looked into his eyes, which wouldn’t meet mine. I ran my fingers across his soft face and up into his curly hair. He didn’t coo, giggle or smirk. He was lifeless, stoic. My heart was breaking in the darkness of the room I held him in.
As I stood in the dark room, I realized there was a glimpse of light breaking through the room. I turned over my shoulder and saw that the light was beaming through the sliver of a window behind me. I knew what I needed to do.
I walked Patrick over to it. I wanted to show him the light. I wanted this boy, who prior to my getting there was lying alone, half-naked in the dark, that life exists outside of the walls of his personal Hell. I wanted to bring the smallest bit of life to a boy whose life the world had all but forgotten.
When I got to the window, I moved Patrick from the cradled position I had been holding him in and propped him up in my arms so that his eyes could peek outside of the sliver of a window.
I received the most beautiful gift in that moment. I received the gift of watching life come to this boy’s face, as for perhaps the first time, his eyes were met with light.
We spent more time at the orphanage this time than we did last time, which didn’t make leaving it any easier. The time, though, came for us to leave. Afterward, we went to the I’m Me house, where I was quickly reminded how quickly love, encouragement and empowerment can change the lives of neglected children. I thought the I’m Me children were thriving in November. They are thriving even more five months later! They’ve learned their numbers and letters and can write their names. DaeDae, who couldn’t speak the first time I met him, is the chattiest toddler I know and even sings in English! It’s amazing the work that God can do in the lives of children and I am so blessed to be able to watch this journey unfold.
On Saturday we woke up, hopped in the back of the truck and set out for a 2-hour drive into a voodoo village near the mountains. The long drive underneath the hot Haitian sun took us through the biggest per capita slum in the world, Cite Soleil. Cite Soleil can best be described as organized chaos. There are beautiful parts of it–the scenes of community, the pictures of people working hard, the visions of creativity coming to light in its street-side markets. There are ugly parts of it–the children wandering naked, the garbage spread out in large heaps everywhere, the hopeless eyes in some of the poorest people in the world.
The organized chaos is one of the worst parts of Haiti, but also one of the best. I tell my friends that going to Haiti is like an adventure. Where in America can you pile 12 into a truck and drive without getting pulled over? Where in America is there a place where you can drive 100 miles and not encounter one stop light, or stop sign? Where in America can you go and just let your hair down, sing at the top of your lungs and laugh with the wind blowing on your face? I love Haiti for the adventure it provides. I love Haiti for the beauty that exists within its borders. These two things, signal to me Haiti’s great opportunities.
After hours in the back of the truck (and my hair literally resembling a rat’s nest), we arrived at the voodoo village. It was Saturday afternoon, about 12 hours before Easter. The village was quiet, with a few people milling about. It was surrounded by a good number of trees and a mountain. Before entering the village, there’d been talk in the truck about what goes on in the village. Talk about the poverty of the village. Talk about the rituals of the village. Talk of the sacrifices performed under a tree in the village.
As the truck crept through the village, I saw all of these things. I saw the village’s poverty as its children ran about its dirt roads in tattered clothes without shoes on their feet. I saw a glimpse of the village’s rituals when I saw the church where it holds voodoo ceremonies. And I saw the existence of the village’s sacrifices when we drove past the tree boldly marked with a red line under which the sacrifices are performed.
We drove the truck to the end of the village and parked. There, we saw a handful of children playing soccer without their shoes on in dirt underneath a beautiful tree filled with leaves. They laughed and giggled, and most notably to me, they didn’t run, when we, strangers, appeared.
We met them on the dirt field underneath the tree. In our shoes and pressed clothes, we turned a jump rope for some. We joined a soccer game whose goals were marked by rocks and whose players largely went without shoes. And we were merciless against them in soccer, as David, an NFL player, may have scored at least four goals on my count against them.
We let them take selfies on our smart phones. We laughed and giggled with them and chased them up the mountain only to realize they were a lot better at getting down than we were.
We didn’t speak their language, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because we each spoke a common language–a language whose diction was marked with sounds of friendship, care and understanding.
As time went on, more children appeared. They journeyed down the road that wound through the voodoo village. Their shoeless feet hit the hot dirt to get there. They climbed over the mountain and down the hill to reach this space, marked with a beautiful, lush tree filled with leaves. At the time, I didn’t wonder why they were all coming to this space marked with nothing but a tree. Looking back, though, I should have.
About an hour into our time under the beautiful tree, two men appeared. They had with them long, wooden benches. I watched from the side as they set them up under the tree. Once all of the benches were set up, I noticed that the children wound up their games and began making their way to sit on the benches underneath the beautiful tree.
I approached one of the men to figure out what was going on. He spoke English, and I learned his name was Pastor Mark. “I come here every Saturday,” he said. “This village has been practicing voodoo forever. The adults won’t come to Christianity. Every Saturday, though, the kids come. They come to sit under the tree with me and learn about Christ.”
Pastor Mark is putting down roots. He’s putting down roots in a community that has suffered the effects of poverty for far too long. He’s putting down roots in a community whose populous is largely uneducated. He’s putting down roots in a community where sacrificing animals is still a common, accepted practice. He’s putting down roots with a younger generation that is accepting that there might be another way.
Most of all, though, Pastor Mark is putting down roots with a group of young people to teach them that love is the only way, and that forgiveness is the key to a life well lived.
The best part about the roots Pastor Mark is setting, is that they are taking hold–they are gripping the ground. The world in this community, is about to change. Light is getting ready to come in on the heels of these children, who on their own accord, walk away from the voodoo tree every Saturday evening and enjoy laughter and joy under the beautiful tree down the road.
Sunday was my favorite Easter. I ate macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, instead of my mom’s typical amazing Easter feast. I didn’t go to my home church, let alone church at all. Yet, I felt Christ and his power the most this Easter Sunday of any Easter Sunday I’ve experienced.
To me, Easter is about redemption. The story of Easter literally involves darkness and light. Good Friday–the day on which Jesus was crucified–was the darkest day in the Earth’s history. The Earth literally turned black. Three days later, on Sunday, when Christ ascended into heaven, light was restored to the world. If one believes in Christ, they understand that it is only through His love that the world saw light again.
I saw Christ’s truth come to life this Easter Sunday. I saw it come to life, as I sat close by and listened to David recount the story of Jesus’ ascension into heaven to I’m Me’s children. I watched firsthand as the children accepted Christ and what He offers into their life. I saw the light beam from their eyes when they acknowledged that because of Christ, anything is possible, that their transgressions and those of everyone are forgiven, and that love is the only answer in this confusing world.
We all dig roots. Some we dig as the result of our choices. Others, we are led to dig. Regardless, roots stick. The power that they sink into the Earth remain and move forward through generations. The greatest gift of my life are the roots I’m digging in Haiti–roots that I never imagined I’d dig. As my life continues forward, I look forward to seeing the results of the deepening roots, and the light that hopefully shines over them.
I’m Me is laying down some roots of its own. A year ago, the money it raised through its “House the Vision” campaign allowed it to take in 11 orphans, feed thousands of street children, provide jobs to 12 Haitians, and feed 200 children per week. I’m Me has just launched its “House The Vision: Part 2″ campaign. This campaign is focused on fundraising for state-side office space in Dallas, TX. I’m Me has grown much faster than any of us anticipated or dreamed! Due to this, it is critical that I’m Me is able to hire the necessary people to carry out our vision and also provide these people with a safe, clean space to bring their dreams for ending the orphan cycle in Haiti to life. This campaign will fund the office space for I’m Me’s employees to help empower Haitians. To learn more and donate, click here.
Spring has sprung and my world is filled with color.
Everywhere I look seems new, refreshed and bursting with opportunity.
Life right now is golden.
There’s a saying that goes, “Bloom where you are planted.”
And this Spring, that’s all I seek to do.
I’m working on growing something new in my life.
I’m working on being intentional with things I really haven’t been intentional with in the last few years.
Free time being at the top of the list.
And cooking. And hobbies. And being silly. And finding a favorite TV show. And making it a point to read for pleasure.
For the last decade, I’ve ran a race. The finish line of the race was a dream career. I wanted a job I loved.
A couple months ago, something hit me: The race is over. I can slow down.
Career wise, I’m exactly where I want to be. There’s nothing else that I’d rather be doing in a job.
And so, that got me thinking.
Where do I need to bloom next?
For me, the answer is obvious: My personal life.
I’m lucky that I have so many friends who are so driven, so talented and so successful.
When I look at many of us, though, I see people who don’t know how to slow down. People who don’t know how to accept what they have. People who don’t know how to move on to the next thing. People who are stuck chasing things that truth be told, they don’t have to run after anymore. If there is a leader of this pack of people, it’d likely be me.
I don’t know what changed in me. Something did, though. For so long, there has been this fire burning inside of me that echoed in my ear, “You need more.” The fire would tell me to chase this opportunity or go after that one. It would never tell me to sit still. It was always leading me into a race.
The fire has faded, though. In its place, life is blooming.
It’s a life built on intentionality.
On slowing down. On letting people in. On being vulnerable.
I was driving home last night and in the time span of five minutes, two of my best friends let me know that they were engaged. I was over the moon for them. They both truly found their soul mates and are both so, so deserving of good love. My heart is so happy when I even think of the futures awaiting them. They’re so good.
This morning, though, I became vulnerable. I was texting with one of my best friends, Brit, who’s living in Germany. In the midst of catching her up on life, I wrote, “I’m just really scared that I’ve missed the boat when it comes to getting married.”
Old me would’ve never let this vulnerability card show. Old me never let her guard down. Old me had everything under control.
Or so she thought.
And I’m so glad it did.
Something changed, because I realized that if I didn’t slow down, the boat might really sail away.
And when I thought about it, more than anything, it’s a boat I didn’t want to let sail away.
These days, life isn’t about building a following on social media.
These days, life isn’t about chasing the next opportunity.
These days, life isn’t about pushing the limits.
These days, life is about blooming.
It sounds crazy, but in the last year I’ve gotten to know myself better than I had in the 29 that preceded it. I’m more intimate with my feelings, more careful with my words and more thoughtful with my gestures.
I tell people how I feel. I let people know I love them. I share when people hurt me. I tell people when they make me happy.
I’m no longer afraid of being hurt. I’m ok with letting go. I’m open to new things. I’m grateful for my past. All of it.
I listen to a couple of podcasts every week where I try to soak up new knowledge. I have favorite shows that I catch on Netflix. I return phone calls within the same day. I send handwritten notes. I am slowly learning a new language. I cook a new recipe each week. I found a church that I can call my own. I keep a journal that’s secret from the world. I make it a point to meet one new person each week. I try hard to smile at everyone. I unplug at least one day each week.
I go for runs. I download new music and let it play in my ears. I focus on my breathing. I try to lengthen my stride. I look at the colors that pass by.
And as I go, I realize this: Everything that’s blooming is beautiful.
Where I am planted is more than alright.
I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I notice this. Other people notice this. Even strangers notice this.
I’m happier than I’ve ever been, because for the first time in my life, the only thing I’m chasing is me.
These days, I’m not running after the girl I think my family expects me to be. Nor am I chasing the girl I think my friends would like to be around the most. I’m not exhausting myself trying to become the girl I think he’d want to be with. I’m not chasing the girl I think a boss would like to hire.
These days, I’m running as fast as I can after the woman who is finally ready to bloom into what she was meant to become.
This is a new season. And truth be told, it’s a welcome one.
The beauty of seasons, is we don’t know how long they’ll last. Nor do we know when they’ll begin again. All we can do in them, then, is bloom. Right where we’re planted.
And so for now, that’s what I’ll do.
I’m a daughter and a storyteller and the appreciator of a good joke.
I’m a friend and a Gemini and the lover of really bad music.
I’m a bleeding heart and a dreamer and if I’ve met you once, I can tell you that you’re important to me.
I’m a wallflower most of the time and a quiet girl sometimes and an outgoing, bubbly person when I need to be.
I’m fiercely loyal and a supporter of the Golden Rule and a firm believer in the power of a good cup of coffee.
Above all, I’m faithful to the One who gave me life and honestly, I’m just really happy to be here.
They tell you to “Be yourself! Everyone else is taken.”
And when I was a little girl, I got to be myself.
My mom operated a chauffer service of sorts, where she toted me all around town. To music lessons and dance classes and theater performances and sports practices. I did it all.
And you know what?
Doing it all helped me become me.
Just be you, they say.
I walked into the basement of an orphanage in Haiti last November 8. It was dark and hot and covered in dirt, but had nothing else inside of it.
Except for children.
As I walked down the stairs and peaked around the corner, I saw children. I saw children like the child I used to be.
Innocent children. Precious children. Hopeful children.
Children with dreams.
When I saw these children on November 8, 2014, they didn’t have a place to dream.
They didn’t have a mother like I did, who would drop everything to ensure that their dreams were fostered. They didn’t have hope shining in on their lives, but rather, only a dark home with not so much as a bed or toilet in it. They didn’t have a mentor to tell them they could become anything they wanted to be, as the older children looked after the younger children and the name of the game was survival, not dreaming.
When I walked into the orphanage they were living in, the children whose faces are burned in my mind forever were packed tightly on six wooden benches sitting on top of that dirt floor. They were silent. They were stoic. One would argue that they weren’t living, but rather, merely existing.
I believe that in life, there are a handful of moments you receive that stand out more than the rest. These are the moments that in turn, shape you and turn you into the person that you need to become.
Seeing these children was one of my moments.
Seeing these children changed me.
I sat in a corner that day holding a two-year-old boy who looked like an infant because of malnutrition. As I held him and stroked his head, I looked on at the children on those benches. I didn’t care that I was staring at them. When their eyes caught me, I would just hold my gaze with theirs. If anything, my eyes screamed to them that I was perplexed by the image of childhood that was being painted in front of me.
As I sat there, the thought that continued to pound through my mind was how angry I was that these children weren’t receiving a chance to live up to their full potential. The only thing I could think about in that moment, was how mad I was that these children didn’t have a chance to live out their dreams.
Before we left the orphanage, my friend David Nelson, one of the co-founders of I’m Me, stood in front of the group of children spread across wooded benches. Through an interpreter, David asked the children what their dreams were. He asked them what visions they had for their futures.
At first, the children were shy. None moved. Dreams? How do you dream when you’re living your life on a wooden bench in a dark room covered in dirt?
I guess though, that even darkness cannot turn out the light of a child’s hope, because, soon enough, they came alive.
One by one, for the first time in God knows how long, they got off of the wooden benches and came to the front of the room. And there, they did what no one else had ever asked them to: They shared their dreams.
They told jokes.
They opened up their hearts.
And they shared their hopes for their lives.
When they were encouraged to dream, these children came alive.
Life has a funny way of working, is one of the most important things I’ve learned in my 30 years on this Earth.
Life has a funny way of working, because as I sat in that dim orphanage on that November Saturday morning, my constant silent prayer was for these children’s dreams to come true. I prayed that they’d be given a chance to live out their full potential. I continuously hummed to myself that day, “God doesn’t put people on Earth for them to live a life of sitting on benches.” I made a silent deal with myself, that I’d give up all of my dreams coming true for just one of them to have a dream come true.
Less than two months later, the answer to my prayer began. In January 2015, I’m Me launched its fine arts program–the first of its kind in Haiti.
On day one, 200 children lined up outside of the doors of the facility that I’m Me rented to house it in. 200 children! 200 children on a hot afternoon in Haiti stood wrapped around a building in a line to get inside of a place they’d never even seen. They did, because something inside of them told them that inside of that building, their dreams would come true.
Be you, they say.
These days, the children paint and sing. They play basketball and soccer. They tinker with musical instruments and act out plays.
Some may become the next Haitian Idol. Others may land a star on Hollywood Boulevard. Some might be picked first overall in the NBA Draft.
All of them, though, are getting to do something that up until this point, they’ve never had a chance to:
Be a kid.
This March Madness, I’m asking you to join me in supporting I’m Me’s fine arts program. Supplies for the program cost $200 per month and the program runs for 9 months out of the year. I’d love nothing more than to be able to raise enough money to fund the program’s supplies for an entire year.
If you know me, you know that I believe that sports is one of the greatest facilitators of social change in the world. Sports, though, also has an uncanny way of making dreams come true. This year, a Cinderella team’s success will fuel young men’s dreams. Coaches’ dreams will come true when their team wins the National Championship. As we celebrate my favorite season of the year–yes, March Madness is its own season in my book–I’m asking that you join me in supporting the dreams of some young people who need people championing behind them the most.
Anything you can donate will help bring to life the possibility of making a young person’s dreams come true. My goal is to fundraise $100 per day over the 18 days that the tournament lasts. To donate to my campaign, which will be open through April 6, you can click here.
Thank you for believing in these children’s dreams. Thank you for empowering a nation. Thank you for being you.
I get asked a lot about what it’s like to be a woman working in sports.
In the last four years, there have been many times that I was the only woman in the room, whether it was a locker room filled with sweaty men or the media work room after a game.
And you know what? It doesn’t phase me. Not one bit.
Maybe it doesn’t phase me, because since I was 18, I’ve mostly been surrounded by men.
The undergraduate institution I went to was made up of only 23-percent women.
As such, many of my best friends are men.
I think the reason why it doesn’t bother me, though, is because my ability to do my job is not dependent upon my gender.
To me, the ability to work and succeed in sports–or anything, for that matter–isn’t about being male or female.
It’s about hard work. And determination. And skills. And smarts. And drive.
And how you treat people.
That last line, to me, is the most important. I can tell you, hands down, that many doors have opened for me solely because of how I treat people.
I think that’s important to note, because while so much of business is about competition, everything cannot be a competition.
I was at a women’s event awhile back. It was an event meant to highlight the successes and work of my peers in this industry. While I was proud of my colleagues, something left a bad taste in my mouth. Every woman who walked to the podium told a story of beating a man at something.
Let me tell you something, in my opinion, women getting ahead in the workforce isn’t about beating men.
Rather, it’s about finding ways and places to showcase what makes us different, unique and well-qualified for any job.
When one sets out with the sole intention of beating someone, they lose sight of what’s truly available to them. What’s available to anyone isn’t the opportunity to beat others, but the opportunity to become one’s best self, push one’s limits and reach one’s highest potential.
I do not believe that women have to let go of their femininity to get ahead in a sports-based career.
Rather, I believe that in many instances, femininity may be an advantage.
One of the strongest traits associated with femininity is empathy. Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another. In other words, empathy is the ability to connect.
What is the sports world driven by? Relationships. Connections.
Women need to start using this ability to get ahead. It’s time to cut the “us versus them” nonsense. The simplest way to disconnect from someone is to believe that you are setting out to beat them. Instead, women must understand that the only way we are going to push further in this industry is by working together. We need to connect.
With women. With men. Of all ages. Of all career levels. Everywhere.
I guess to some I lead a double existence.
I can talk sports with the best of them. Sports are my lifeblood.
Yet, sports are not my life.
I love talking on the phone with my girlfriends. I make a mean key lime pie. Decorating and antique stores make me happy. And shopping might be my downfall.
I remember birthdays. I come to parties with wine and flowers. I’m sensitive. Pink ranks in my top three favorite colors.
I want to be a wife someday. A good wife.
I want to be a mother someday. A good mother.
I want to have a job, too. And be good at it.
I’m a woman.
And because of that, I’m inherently feminine.
When I go to conferences attended by both genders, here’s what I don’t see: Men standing at podiums talking about beating women. In fact, if they did, it’d probably make national news and cause a big PR problem for someone.
Men don’t host breakout sessions at conferences focused upon how to become more feminine. Again, if they did, it’d probably make national news.
What are men doing at conferences? They are focusing upon improving traits and characteristics that are inherent to them. They are pushing forward to improve themselves. They are not hyper-focused on beating others. Rather, they drive forward building upon what lies within them and their connections. If they beat someone because of those two things, great.
I’m grateful for the women who blazed a trail ahead of me that allowed me an opportunity to work in sports. I don’t discredit what they went through or the difficulties they surmounted.
All I’m saying is this: Why don’t we focus on utilizing the traits inherent to women to get ahead?
Women should not have to act like men to get the jobs they want. We are built biologically and physiologically different for a reason. Each gender is given its own, unique set of gifts. That doesn’t mean that one gender is better meant for certain careers. Rather, it just means we have different traits to work with.
It’s time that we foster and support our female colleagues for who they are. It’s time that we embrace things like empathy and sensitivity for the positivity that they bring to the workplace. If women truly want equality in the workplace, we must demand that the workplace allows us to be our feminine selves.
Women getting to where they need to be on the corporate ladder isn’t about beating men.
It’s about being allowed and celebrated for who we are, as feminine as we want to be, in all levels of the working world.
I was walking out of Fado on Friday night, after having drinks with Molly, Avi and Jess.
A short, African-American man approached me as I walked home with my headphones in my ears.
He spoke, and I pulled them out.
“Could you spare some change? I haven’t eaten today,” he said.
“Why don’t you just let me buy you something to eat, then?” I replied.
He said, “Ok.”
And so, we started walking. With his plastic bags and limp. And my Michael Kors bag from last season and four-inch platform heels.
We marched through the people dining on patios. And the beautiful women. And the European luxury cars.
As we walked, I looked at him and said, “Why are you on the streets?”
“Alicia, right?” he said. “That’s what you said your name is?”
“I’m a junkie,” he said as he stumbled over his words.
“Hm,” I uttered.
I let those words roll through my head. Words of sincere honesty. Words void of B.S. Words not hiding anything. He answered my question, after all.
And I only had one response.
“Do you believe in Jesus?”
Without a second to give it a thought, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Yes.”
I shot a look back and said, “Well, you know that it is through Jesus that you can be healed, right?”
He looked down and mumbled, “I know.”
We walked a few more steps in silence.
And then he said, “But I’m not ready.”
And that got me thinking.
Why aren’t we ready to give up our vices–whatever they may be?
Why do we hold on to that which brings us down, when the answer is so easy?
All we have to do is be ready.
And grace is ours.
I boarded the flight on Thursday night and let out a sigh of relief that I made it on time. I was cutting things short, I knew, when I booked this flight itinerary. I relaxed, though, when I got into my seat, happy that I made it.
I made small talk with the man next to me, who was from the Dominican Republic. I talked to him about his country’s neighbor, Haiti. I talk to everybody about Haiti these days.
After our small talk stopped, I looked out the window and started to close my eyes. The airplane’s engine was rumbling and I was looking forward to napping my way from Miami to D.C.
As the wheels began spinning, I gasped. I looked at my new friend in the middle seat and said, “OH NO.”
“What?” he replied confusedly.
“I left my bag!” I exclaimed.
“Up front?” he asked.
“No. I literally left my bag. I left it in the passenger boarding area.”
So, there I was. On a flight to D.C. that was going to land at 11:30 p.m. with a speech to give at UVA that was set to begin at 9 a.m. I’d be speaking alongside vice presidents of Sony and Fox and a Harvard Law professor. Without the clothes or makeup that were in my bag that TSA was probably exploding in a field.
I landed in D.C. with my purse and laptop and made my way to the rental car counter. They gave me a Ford Fiesta that I’m pretty sure shouldn’t have been on the road. I gunned in southbound two hours to Charlottesville, VA, where I parked and stayed for the night around 3 a.m. I slept until 6, then woke, showered with the hotel’s provided toiletries and blow dried my hair with the provided blowdryer. I drove to the nearest Walmart where I stocked up on makeup and beauty supplies then drove to the nearby Target where I waited outside until it opened then proceeded to buy a decent looking outfit.
In all of this, I could only laugh. I didn’t sweat it. I didn’t get angry. If anything, I was grateful.
I was grateful, that even though I didn’t protect my belongings, I was able to replace them. It was humbling and a gentle reminder to take better care of what I have.
The weekend was awesome, albeit filled with follies.
I was never able to get a hold of TSA to figure out if my bag was in their possession. I basically wrote it off as being a lost cause.
I spoke at UVA and was blown away by the smarts and credentials of the people I sat alongside. My favorite person there, though, was my former law professor, Matt Parlow. Professor Parlow taught my 1L property class, and I’m forever indebted to him for teaching me about future interests, which subsequently allowed me to pass the California bar examination on the first try.
My 2L year, Professor Parlow taught my sports law class. In that class, we had to write 30 page papers. I wrote mine on the athletic exploitation of NCAA athletes. In red pen on my paper’s last page, Professor Parlow wrote something to the extent of, “Great job! This is of publishable quality.” Those two sentences in a sense lit a fire in my heart that sports law was something I should pursue–something I could succeed and excel at. It was fun, five years later, to be participating as a panelist at the same symposium as him.
On Saturday morning, I packed my new belongings into plastic Walmart and Target bags. When I checked out of the hotel, the attendant said, “Where are you headed?” I said, “D.C.” She said, “By yourself?” I said, “Um, yes.” She said, “Well, be careful. The roads are awful.”
I looked out the window and saw snow lightly falling. Without her seeing I rolled my eyes slightly and thought, “Oh, come on, this is nothing!” I am from Colorado, after all.
What Colorado has that Virginia doesn’t, though, is a good plow and de-icing system. The roads were awful. What was worse, though, was my Ford Fiesta. Homeboy wouldn’t even go up hills. As I maneuvered the clown car throughout Charlottesville, Virginia trying to avoid hills in an attempt to get to D.C., my mother’s face flashed through my head constantly. Among the various things my mother has taught me throughout my life is how to drive in the snow and not get stuck. Gun it. Turn your wheels. Don’t stop. I never got stuck that day when many other cars did. Christine Jessop would’ve been proud.
I realized, though, that the ol’ Fiesta and I were going to have a gnarly ride together if I took it all the way to D.C. So I opted to drop it off at the Charlottesville Airport and pick up an SUV. The entire process of leaving my hotel, getting to the airport and swapping out my car took two hours. And cost an extra $100. It wasn’t a cheap trip, but at least me and my new belongings were safe.
I headed up to D.C. and at this point, I was out of underwear. Like my mother, my Nana has taught me some important lessons in life. One of which is never go out without clean underwear on. I was meeting an old law school friend, Allison, for the Georgetown game that night and then up with my friend Michael later, so I needed to heed my Nana’s advice. The problem was that because of the storm, all of Georgetown, where I was staying, had shut down. Save for Anthropologie.
Anthropologie is one of my favorite stores. It is not, however, known for its selection of intimates. When I arrived, there was one pair for me to choose from. The pair cost $68. Like I said, it was a really expensive trip.
I got on the plane Sunday night after having breakfast in VA with Michael and meeting up with former students at Georgetown Cupcake. I thought to myself, “What a good weekend.” For all of the chaos and confusion, there was only one thing that mattered: The entire time, I was surrounded by good people.
I needed this lesson. I always say that people are more important than things and memories are more important than places. I say that, but sometimes I don’t think I really live it. This weekend stripped me of my labels. It stripped me of the outfits I planned to wear. It forced me to go into a conference filled with powerhouse leaders with just myself and my ideas. It required people to look at, judge and like me for who I am and not what is on my body.
It was humbling. And it was oh, so needed.
Sometimes, I believe that the universe, or in my case, God, sends you a big wake-up call. This wake-up call was about getting my priorities straight. It was a wake-up call about the need to sometimes, start over from nothing. It was a wake-up call to let my heart, knowledge and care for others drive my relationships and what people think of me. It was a wake-up call that the clothes truly don’t make the woman.
I’ve known this for awhile. Before this, I was most recently reminded of this fact when I was in Haiti. There, people had no idea what degrees I hold, where I come from or what I do for a living. All they knew was me and how I treated them and made them feel. And with those few things alone, they accepted me. They didn’t just accept me, but they showed love to me. In the same regard, I accepted and loved them. It was humbling. It was real.
These days, I am working hard to get back to reality. When people think about or see me, I want them to think about who I am and not what I am. I’m tired of labels. I’m tired of labels because they only mask what’s under them. I want to be seen for who I am in terms of loving people, giving to people and being humble with myself.
Sometimes, a lost suitcase is a good thing. Because sometimes, it lets you start over from scratch.
I need to air a grievance.
I have a real problem with people complaining about Valentine’s Day.
My biggest problem lies with the people who mope around every February 14 if they don’t find themselves in a romantic relationship on that day. Many of these people tend to scoff at the idea of a day centered around love and call it “Single Awareness Day.” They believe that this day is one singled out on the calendar to bring attention to them and hence, allow them to wallow in self pity.
I have a problem with calling a day aimed at recognizing love “Single’s Awareness Day,” because of this: None of us are single.
On Saturday night–Valentine’s Night–I threw a party for some of my best girlfriends in Miami. Some of us are in relationships, some of us are single, some of us are juggling a few men. Regardless of our romantic status, the celebration was about one thing: Love.
Being in love is the opposite of being single. So often, though, people read that last sentence I typed and believe that the only type of love one can be in and not be single is romantic love.
That, my friends, is so, so, so far from the truth.
In the last year, I’ve experienced more love than I’ve ever experienced. And I know exactly why that is. I experienced more love in the last 365 days, because it was in those days that more so than any others in my 30 years I allowed myself to be loved and give love to others.
None of us are single. None of us are single, because none of us lives on a deserted island.
Rather, each of us lives in a world filled with people whose biggest desire is to be loved.
When I realized that what people want the most in life isn’t money or fame or social status, but love, my life changed. My life changed, because I realized that even though I may never be rich, famous or the most popular, that I can always be love.
If you can be love, you are never single.
What does being love look like?
To me, being love is about being intentional.
Yesterday, I saw a friend that I haven’t talked to in a couple months post something on Facebook that indicated she’s going through a tough time in life. I took two seconds out of my day to text and ask if she was ok.
A week ago, I noticed that I hadn’t seen a woman who works at a store on campus at work in a few days. The next time I saw her, I asked if everything was ok.
I go to the same Starbucks several times a week. In the last month, I’ve made it a point to memorize the barista’s names and get to know some of their interests and backgrounds.
Loving others is simple. To love, you show people that they matter. You empathize with them. You demonstrate your care for them.
We all do it. We all do it because were are not on this Earth alone.
And because we do it, none of us are single.
On a lighter note, the party was pretty great.
There were roses and a few too many bottles of champagne. By too many bottles of champagne, I mean, if we wanted to, we each could’ve had our own.
I made sliders and homemade french fries that I packed into french fry boxes with labels that read, “Fry Love You!” My friends made enough delicious sweet treats to fill a bakery.
There’s a magazine that is published for the neighborhood I live at in Miami. This month, the cover of their issue featured a story on the top-45 bachelors in my neighborhood. When I saw this issue lying in my mail room, I picked it up. You know, for entertainment purposes.
As I prepared for my Valentine’s Party, the sorority girl lying dormant in me suddenly had a great crafting idea: Dates-on-a-stick.
I spent a good amount of time cutting out pictures from the issue and glueing them onto sticks with each guy’s bio on the back of them. I then displayed them in a red, sparkly box and allowed my guests to pick a date-on-a-stick when they arrived. It was all in good fun.
Later that night, we went out in Miami. The best moment of the night came when we were out at a popular bar and my friend leaned over and said, “Um, I think that’s the guy on my stick.” I looked at her stick. I looked at the guy. Sure enough, it was.
I made eye contact with him and said, “Albert?!”
He said, “Yea! Do I know you?”
I said, “Um, well no. Not really. You’re on my friend’s stick, though,” at which point my friend propped the stick up and waved it at him.
Rather than being horrified by this entire scene, Albert was actually pretty generous. He chatted us up and even posed for a few good-hearted pictures.
My Mom asked the next day if he asked my friend out. I had to tell my mom that believe it or not, life isn’t a romantic comedy. So no, the date-on-a-stick didn’t ask my friend out on Valentine’s Day. But man, someone in Hollywood should pen that script!
So, romantically single she remains. Single in this world, though? No. This world is filled with love. It’s up to you to find it!