The Luminist

“If your writing disappeared, would it matter?” David Hieatt — co-founder of the Do Lectures and online writing guru — rhetorically asked this question in one of his weekly newsletters.

And it stuck with me. As a prior corporate wonk, I care more about impact than intention. Anyone can convince themselves we’re making a difference, but unless we’re actually moving the needle, we’re just giving ourselves premature pats on the back.

Sure, I have enough passion for changing the conversation about loss to launch a rocket into stable orbit, but am I channeling it in the most effective way? Is my work leaving a mark?

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And then Substack had a snafu.

Normally, we upload the voiceover, schedule the post for its Saturday 6am US Eastern time drop, then go on our merry way. But Substack was giving us a hassle and the post got stuck in limbo.  

By the time we pried it loose, it was 11:44am Eastern Standard Time.

There are a subset of TL readers I like to call the 6am club. They walk their dogs, set their coffee makers, and read that week’s post before much of America has even opened their eyes. But on that Saturday, they got nothing.

(And neither did you, my friends in Europe, South Africa and the Middle East! I haven’t forgotten about you!)

Before I even got out of bed, I started getting texts. Emails. Notes of concern.

“Is something wrong with Substack?”

”Did you skip a post this week?”

”Are you ok?” 

Leona and I rushed to get it published, and by 4pm we were amazed by the response — 657 people had read the delayed post.

You, dear readers, answered Hieatt’s question for me, with a resounding, humbling, elating YES.

Writing 100 posts, 100 weeks in a row, changes a person…

In ways I didn’t see coming.

We imagine writers sitting at their computer, tapping away because they just can’t not. The main relationship that drives their work is their passion for their ideas, their craft, their expression… right?

Wrong. It’s our readers. Writing is communication. And communication is a collaborative act. If I wasn’t reading comments, emails, and texts from all of you regularly — learning which posts really resonated with you, how TL has changed your outlook, ideas you now have yourself — I wouldn’t be here.

So instead of sharing how writing has changed me, I want to talk about how YOU have changed me, dear reader.

You’ve helped me strengthen the muscle of patience.While I fancy myself a rapid and decisive decider, I’m frequently just… rash. Too quick to hit the button, make the call, buy the new pair of reading glasses that I end up returning later. But I can’t do that with TL.

Honing a good idea for public consumption takes time. Putting a post together involves a series of voice notes, underlined book pages, cut-out newspaper articles, scribbles on post-it notes, marked up outlines, rough drafts, and oceans of deleted words. I kept thinking I was going to get better, faster, more efficient at all this. Nope.

But I’ve paradoxically discovered the joy of slowing down.

Of watching each post unfold in its own way, in its own time. Of knowing I put everything I had into it, because it’s not just about me. You’re on the other side.

You’ve made this bigger than me.As we’ve said in a prior post, I’m a streak girl. But delivering a TL post every week is more than putting a big red ‘X’ through each Saturday on an imaginary calendar. It’s the real feeling that you are out there, you are reading, and that you give a damn.

How could I not respond to that with a commitment to deliver? You depend on me, even if it’s just for a laugh. And I thrive on being depended upon. I guess it’s another way of feeling that I matter and the work I’m doing is making a difference.

I don’t feel like I’m on some solo mission. We are in this together.

You’ve inspired me to be even more ME.Writing to all of you is much more than just reporting back all my amazing ideas and discoveries. It is daily motivation to look within even though sometimes I really don’t want to, to challenge my outdated ways of thinking, and live life a little bit more fully and unapologetically than I did the day before.

In other words, it's a positive feedback loop. Having this platform to share ideas for better living helps ME live better.  

You’ve also allowed me to be my goofy, quirky, nerdy self. You allow me to quote Rilke and Captain Kirk all in the same post. You allow me to laugh at myself and my cowbell fears. You’ve been with me through it all — job change, empty-nest initiation, death-iversaries — cheering as I figure out what it all means, and how to move ahead with strength and grace. 

You’ve helped me become what I dreamed of being.One hundred posts ago, I was a corporate wonk with big ideas on how to change the conversation around loss in our culture. But now? Now, I’m a writer, with thousands of words under my belt. 

Yes, I talk about getting the most of out life every dang week, but taking my own advice when it came to sharing my writing was intimidating. Starting to publish on Substack felt like standing up in a room full of strangers and boldly declaring, “I have something worth reading! No, I don’t have a degree or really much experience in this craft… but trust me. It’ll be good!”

One hundred posts later, I now introduce myself to strangers as a writer. I learned a new craft while literally, simultaneously retiring… Because you showed up every week. I let you and your commitment carry me forward.

One week at a time, I stuck my neck out and gave this writing thing a whirl. Corporate wonk, logical-to-a-fault, not-an-artistic-bone-in-her-body Sue Deagle became a creative!

I never would have thought that publishing on the internet would help me feel closer to the human race.

And yet…

Even though many of you will never comment or even ‘like’ a post, you’re here — showing up to read and think about a topic that most would love to ignore.

It’s an act of both courage and surrender to face our mortality.

And it’s an act of humanity to do it together. To sit around the proverbial fire and share insights, embarrassing stories, heartbreak.

I didn’t know that my life was missing this until this community blossomed into existence.

Thanks to you, I know a level of purpose and fulfillment I had not imagined was possible. This newsletter started because I wanted to share my journey through loss… I had no idea that my newsletter readers would teach me so much about making the most out of life.

Thanks from the bottom of my heart.

Here’s to the next 100 posts… and beyond. Books, videos, editorials. Let’s see what unfolds ;).

Sue

> Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at theluminist.substack.com.

If there hadn’t been so many people on the escalator with me, I would have cursed the billboard out loud. I was in the Dulles airport, my home away from home back when my corporate job sent me on business trips every week or two.

Each time on my way to the United terminal, I’d go past the same advertisement — a giant electronic rectangle filling the escalator stairwell. I’d stare at it, lips pursed, fingers death gripping my roller bag’s handle, enduring the glacial ride to the C gates.

It featured a Dad in a loose blue hoodie, standing behind his tween son, arm draped lovingly over his shoulder. He was kissing him on the head, while Mom smiled glowingly a few paces back. 

I hated that ad.

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Every week I would burn with anger over the two-parent family I no longer had. Over a son who forever lost a dad to drape an arm around him. To kiss him on the head. 

Then… time passed. I’d have a few weeks, maybe a month, maybe two, away from this fake family rubbing my face in all the things missing from my life. During my next C terminal escalator ride, staring up at it, I felt a different emotion. No more fiery hatred. This time, verge-of-tears sadness… 

More time passed.

The sadness lost its intensity. Sharp pain turned to dull ache. I could look at it without reaching for my tissues or my foulest curse words.

I started to see the ad for what it was. Not an indictment of my life, not a big mean finger pressing a tender bruise over and over again. Just pixels on a giant screen, advertising a health insurance company.

The ad didn’t change. I did.

That’s what happens when we let our emotions run their course. 

When we let them be what they are… without interfering. 

But here’s what we often do instead: prevent our emotions from ever arriving at the starting line. We try to jam them into a locker so they never even see the inside of the arena. So they cannot get out of the gate.

An emotion stuffed in a locker is an emotion that will never change. Or go away.

We love the stuff-down tactic for its perceived finality. “I’ve hand jammed this thing so far down it will never arise again! Hah hah! Nothing to see here!”

But we all know suppression is b******t. We are trading pain in the now for pain in the future. We’re setting ourselves up to spend months, maybe years trying to avoid what we’ve stuffed down. This makes our lives smaller. This makes us feel less free. 

For better or worse, my catastrophe was so giant that all my carefully honed suppression mechanisms were flooded and unusable. So feelings came whether I wanted them to or not. And I went through them all. 

Thank God.

Were they messy and ugly and painful and irrational? You bet. I mean, what’s the point of getting angry at a billboard? Shouting at the life insurance customer service rep? Sobbing in the Bed Bath and Beyond pillow aisle?

Yet all the mess is part of the process. It’s where the action is. It’s what creates the change. Not just in your emotions. In you.

I can’t say I understand the mechanism for how this actually works. 

All I know is it’s essential. It’s the root of my power: knowing my emotions will evolve if I let them flow.

I was back at Dulles last week, but everything felt different. I have traded my blazer for a bomber jacket, my corporate laptop for an iPad and too many books.

And that gut-punch ad? It’s been replaced by a cloud computing pitch. But as I rode the escalator, I could still see that dad and son in my mind’s eye. And what I felt surprised me:

Wistfulness.

Wistfulness for those dad-hugging, tween-raising years in our life. Wistfulness for who we were as a family. Wistfulness for what was lost. Though it was related to sadness, it was warmer. It didn’t feel like emptiness, it felt like a glow.

And oddly, that wistfulness was a form of consolation.

I’d have nothing to long for if I had not had something amazing in the first place. 

Looking back, I see how the rage, sadness, curse words, and pillow shopping/sobbing sprees were all necessary steps along the way to this warm wistful glow. 

I couldn’t skip ahead.

When we find ourselves healing from a loss, we have to move forward. Not just physically, but emotionally. We have to let our emotions do what they’ve come to do — be fully felt. Otherwise by trying to escape the pain we’ll be trapped in the pain. We’ll never know what its like to look back and say,

“Damn, that hurt like hell. But finally I can feel more than pain — I can feel all the good that came first.”

Tomorrow I may feel completely differently, but today I think I can say, I’ve made it to the other side.

One feeling at a time,

Sue

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Is that a freaking cowbell??? A few Sundays back I was up in Great Falls Park. I stick to the outer edges and seldom-trod paths on weekend days, with hopes of avoiding the droves of DC-metro-area visitors descending on my paradise. Fallen leaves rustled underfoot, sparrows sang in the treetops, a woodpecker somewhere in the distance rat-a-tatted away.  

And then, a din. A jangly, unexpected, this-shouldn’t-be-here din. A din that has haunted my nightmares all summer…

To be clear, there are no cows in Great Falls Park. There are no cows in Great Falls, period. There are McMansions and McLarens and moms rushing kids over the windy roads to their numerous activities. But cows? Absolutely not. Ghosts of cows? Well, maybe. Great Falls used to be the country, home to farmers, millers, horse breeders, and sometimes vacationing DCers. But that was nearly a century ago. 

But my mind couldn’t convince my body to relax. My heart thudded as my neck swiveled, scanning the yellowing leaves for a hulking form.

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On the pilgrimage, the cows… made an impression. They were big, curious, and surprisingly sneaky. As embarrassing as it is to admit, they scared the crap out of me a few times. Twelve weeks later, the sound of a cowbell is still making me panic.

I released my held breath slowly, feeling the adrenaline loosen it’s death grip on my nervous system… and abruptly threw my head back in laughter. Come on, Deagle! There has to be another explanation. One not related to suddenly being trampled by 50 Norwegian cows. 

Sure enough, through the trees I spotted two men winding their way towards me. Kitted out in primary-color Patagonia windbreakers and company-logo baseball hats, each held a leash. Each leash was attached to a dog. Even from a distance, I could see one of the dogs sported a bulkier-than-normal collar. 

Closing the twenty-yard gap, I greeted them with a smiling good morning. Confirmed: the sleek Rhodesian Ridgeback was the source of my fight-or-flight reaction. A miniature cowbell dangled from his neck. 

As I looked down at said dog and said bell, the taller man spoke. 

“Hi there. Can you tell us where this trail goes?” He asked.

(This is always an irrationally proud moment for me, looking so comfortable, so at ease in my beloved park that people ask me directions.)

I responded, “At the top of this hill, you’ll come to a perpendicular trail. Make a right there and you’ll do a really pretty loop alongside the stream bed of Difficult Run, then work your way back to your car.”

“Oh, we went the other direction last week. That’s great, we’ll go this way today. Thanks for your help.” I smiled like a third grader getting a pat on the head from a beloved teacher for good behavior, and paused.

The men and dogs had started to go on their way when I blurted, “I love your dog’s cowbell!”

Then, apropos of nothing, I launched into my story.

“See I was on this walk in Scandinavia and there were these cows with bells and they’re sometimes free-ranging and so damn curious, not like American cows, and you’d hear a cowbell in the freaking forest and turn the corner and there they’d be in all their giganticness coming toward you, surprisingly quickly, and I’d be worried they’d step on my foot and ruin this carefully planned walk and…”

BLAH BLAH BLAH.

They stared at me, slack jawed. Once I realized I was rambling, I reached down to pet the mini-cowbell-wearing dog, and wished them both a good hike. 

Once I got out of sight, I laughed my ass off, once again.

This is what it’s like when we try to explain our fears to others. 

Or even to ourselves.

We look absurd. Insane. Lacking common sense. Embarrassed. 

So what do we do instead? HIDE. Hide our fears because we fear fear itself. We fear appearing afraid. We fear the assumptions people will make when they know our fears.

But when we share those fears — even in a nonsensical story on a national park trail thousands of miles from the precipitating event with two Patagonia-wearing bros — we deflate them. We drain them of power. 

And transfer that power back to us.

Not all fears are laughing matters. I still struggle with the sound of sirens. When I don’t hear from a loved one for a couple days I start to panic. But the more I accept these bugaboos about myself, the more I hold them lightly and share them freely, the sooner I can recover my equilibrium after a fear flare-up. 

Fear, humor, and oversharing. A weird combo at first glance, but like pop rocks and Coca-Cola, it has a dramatic effect. It shifts our focus away from the precipitating event, and back to the fear itself. How do I want to meet a cowbell? Do I want to let it rule me, shut me down, make me run and hide? Or do I want to find a reason to laugh at it, and myself? And maybe turn it into an inside joke with a thousand of my closest internet friends.

From my cowbell to yours, may we set them all free,

Sue

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The incoming text from my pal Todd flashed on screen.  “Here’s a link to Angie’s bio. See you later tonight.” A cut-off portion of Angie’s LinkedIn header appeared on my phone screen:

IMPRESSIVE BIG WIG

IVY LEAGUE CORPORATE SMARTY PANTS

ULTRA ACCOMPLISHED HUMAN BEING

Well… it didn’t literally say that. My mind just read it that way. 

Todd thought he was doing me a favor, sending me a pre-read so I could know more about this person I was soon to meet. 

But our meeting was not a job interview. Not a sales call. Not a probing expose on all things Angie. It was just two new people being connected by a mutual friend, no outcome intended. 

As the clipped text stared me in the face, I had a choice. 

To click or not to click? That was the question.

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We love to be prepared. 

Even for the smallest of interactions, such as a cocktail with a friend of a friend. We’d prefer their dossier and a six-part HBO documentary on their lives before we engage with them personally. That way we can be ‘ready’.

Ready for what? 

Who knows! That’s why we have to check!

So we dig around, we google, we ask friends. Then we form an image of the new person (or experience or idea or candidate or cuisine, etc) out of the information gathered — a Frankenstein built from our expectations. 

Sure, this fabrication has the characteristics of the real thing, but its forehead is too wide, fingers too skeletal, and there are all those weird screws in its neck. In other words, it doesn't represent reality. What this expectation Frankenstein mostly does is scare us, bias us, keep us wary and one step removed when the real thing comes into our orbit.

It makes me think of the phrase ‘prepare for the worst and hope for the best’. 

I lived by this philosophy for many years. But I’ve started to wonder, how often is our “preparation" actually setting ourselves up to experience the worst?

Around a decade ago, I worked at a multinational corporation. 

We were adding a new Australian teammate: Michael Dixon. 

“Michael Dixon is joining our team? Oh no, he’s terrible!” said a colleague.

”What kind of terrible?” I asked, filled with dread.

”Arrogant, selfish, harsh. He thinks he’s always right.” He replied. 

Oh damn. Forming cohesive teams is hard enough. Forming teams with jerks is even harder. 

Then I got a call from Michael himself. 

“Hi there, Sue, I wanted to introduce myself and chat about the team, the best way to support our boss, and to get to know you a bit. I’m really looking forward to joining.”

Well, wait. He wasn’t supposed to be nice. He was supposed to be awful. 

Yes, he was brusque in an Aussie’s way, and salty, but also straightforward, smart, and supportive. What was not to like? I fell in (professional) love with him. 

I’d made an expectation Frankenstein out of Michael in my head. If I’d stuck to that monstrous creation rather than letting our actual interactions define my opinion of him, I’d have lost out on one of the deepest friendships of my life, not to mention negatively impacting the team. 

I have used this story at least a thousand times in speaking to new leaders, mentoring staff, trying to get the kids to open their minds to something new. In fact at home we call it the ‘Michael Dixon rule’. No expectation Frankensteins allowed. Experience someone, something, some place new for yourself, not through the lens of others.

There are some things it’s really important to be prepared for.

A hurricane, a job interview, a flat tire. But we’ve taken that philosophy of “better safe than sorry!” and over-applied it.

More information does not always lead to a better outcome.

Observation bias refers to humans’ tendency to see what we expect to see, experience what we expect to experience. In this way, expectations put blinders on our vision, affect the options we notice and the paths we take, and make our lives a little bit smaller. Potentials, like the surreal and incredible turns my life has taken since my husband died, become less likely.

When we have no idea what’s about to happen, we pay more attention. We’re curious and open-minded. We spot little details we’d write off as unimportant if we were sure how this experience was going to play out.

And we’re more likely to notice that unexpected opportunity that just waltzed by before it slips out the back door.

I met Angie without ever opening her bio.

I decided to let the woman herself teach me who she was, rather than her LinkedIn profile. 

Because if everyone I met had already formed a preconceived notion about me as a widow, they’d treat me differently. Maybe they’d treat me like a hurricane — “rain and lightning incoming!” — or a flat tire — '“not my favorite way to spend an hour, but I guess I have no choice…”

But I’m a freaking ray of sunshine.

So I didn’t let myself put Angie in a single box. I let myself be surprised and titillated as I learned about her life, realized we have an identical sense of humor, and discovered we both know Michael Dixon!! (Lol, just kidding.)

But you just never know.

So don’t destroy your curiosity by creating an expectation Frankenstein and thinking you’ve got it all figured out.

Unprepared,

Sue

> Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at theluminist.substack.com.

On the last day of my pilgrimage, Ruben texted, “Don’t you feel like you could keep walking forever?” 

I didn’t have the heart to tell him but my answer was a hard-up NO. Not because I didn’t love the trail. But I had reached saturation.

I could not fit another insight, idea, or observation into my overflowing, maxed-out brain. Instead, I wanted to share what I already had absorbed with my family, my friends, my babies. And with you, dear reader.

Finally, I wanted to bring all my insights and perspective shifts HOME. I’d learned so much about myself; I was ready to turn all that inspiration into transformation.

(And, no lie, the prospect of consistent indoor plumbing was also a factor!)

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We think change happens away from home.

This makes sense… because it feels like we are changing when we are away. That’s what my body was telling me all along St Olav’s Way: 

* That feeling of pulsating excitement every morning, so different from my usual home routine of post-morning alarm zombie impersonation.

* Finding my groove of eat, sleep, walk, repeat, even though initially it was a daunting task.

* Living so far outside of my ‘normal’, but quickly getting used to the austere cabins, daily cheese-and-cucumber sandwiches, and Scandinavian vistas.

* Even the waistband of my hiking shorts sitting a tad looser, day after day.

But that’s just the first step of the chemical reaction of transformation. 

Home is where a new experience, insight, idea has the space — the entire sprawling lab surface of our daily lives — to become lasting change. When we return to our comfort zone, it mixes with who we are, what we dream about, where we are headed, how we spend our time… and turns from an idea into evolution.

In other words, the initial spark only becomes change when it is allowed to alter our day-to-day lives.

But these day-to-day lives are stubborn! The ruts of our routines and habits are deep and hard to escape…

So it’s been ten weeks since my pilgrimage ended, and I have found myself getting frustrated. 

Almost all the momentum I had right after St Olav's Way has dispersed.

Instead of the roar of a rocket, launching me into evolution, I hear the giant sucking sound of my old life pulling me back under. I don't want to go back to the way things were, but making change feels like trying to jog through quicksand. 

So this week I sat myself down for a pep talk:

How about instead of moping, we get conscious and curious? How about we be the scientist of our lives, donning our lab coats and safety gloves, whipping out our notebooks to plan, observe, experiment with taking nascent change and making it stick?

Looking at my life, I’ve realized there are some ways I’ve already been doing this… and a few more ways I could test.

In case you want to join me in helping summer inspiration become autumn transformation, here’s what I’m trying:

Appreciating.

A clear sign the rut of routine has overtaken me is that I no longer am excited about getting to sleep in my own bed. But my bed is the best bed on earth! (I respect that you likely feel the same about your bed, and we can agree to disagree.) So I’ve been making a conscious effort to stay out of auto-pilot and appreciate it! 

Right after I reach over to turn off my nightstand light, I literally slip under my sheets and gleefully kick my legs like a four-year-old. With this goofy ritual, I remember the haven my home provides.

This place can be a cradle for my growth, not the place where my dreams of change go to die.

Revisiting.

When I travel, I make a playlist from shazaming the ambient songs playing everywhere — trains, grocery stores, restaurants, my hosts’ countertop speakers. And then when I’m back at home, I have a time capsule in my pocket. 

My body might be driving down the Dulles Toll Road, returning from taking Connor to the airport, but with The Time of Times by Badly Drawn Boy in my ears, my mind is in Morsil, Sweden sitting on the deck at host Fredrik and Karin’s house. It’s 10pm and the mounted moose antlers are glowing as the sun burns low in the sky. 

The stark contrast helps me remember how Pilgrim Sue felt different from Home Sue. (First of all, Home Sue NEVER stays up that late, especially not while chilling with strangers!) My adventures no longer feel so far away. I can revisit them, re-collect inspiration and insight, and then bring them back to the present moment. 

Processing.

Yes, I had sooo many memorable moments on the pilgrim trail, but out there I didn’t have time to unpack them. Now that I’m home, I get to talk about my most impactful moments and the marks they left on me:

* Sharing a far-better-than-IKEA, Swedish meatball, midsummer dinner with pilgrims Jerry, Niklas, Henk, and Chris at the Tannforsen waterfall.

* Learning to accept my moods, even the unpleasant ones, without distraction.

* Realizing I was actually totally content living simply.

… And my most challenging ones:

* Grinding my teeth in frustration at the winding route with needless hills the first day in Norway.

* The cows.

I tell a version of the same story every time, but with each pass I receive different questions in response and notice something new about my experience. The facts unravel to reveal the lessons I learned and the insights I want to implement in my life going forward. 

Whittling.

Being out of my routine ratcheted up my insight-recognition engine. I came up with 1,000 insights… 999 more than I can effectively implement at once. So I’m forcing myself to pick one single insight at a time, and funneling all my post-trip momentum into smashing the hell out of it. 

My first pick? The simplicity of routine. The pilgrim path’s repetition was like a time machine back to pre-teen Sue, who didn’t have a care in the world. No responsibilities and no decisions beyond the basics: school, church, swim team, family. Any time that wasn’t taken up with those was mine, which I happily filled with playing, reading, and exploring. 

I want to replicate that feeling of space and lightness and, frankly, freedom. How do I get there? A simple weekly schedule. Blocks on Monday and Tuesday dedicated to TL writing,  life admin, and book brainstorming. Empty Wednesdays. Clean up loose ends on Thursdays. Fridays, dealer’s choice. This creates the space I’m craving while also getting the necessary stuff done.

When I’ve successfully turned this insight into lasting transformation, I’ll pick which idea I want to forge into tangible reality next.

The kids are gone, it’s just me and the trees again.

The leaves are starting to fall, the bugs are disappearing, and geese are flying south over head.

I pad quietly to my very own bathroom, with my pilgrim playlist singing through the Sonos.

Looking at all my sticky notes on the mirror, I see my home anew — as my foundation for all my dreams. Which is what it was always meant to be.

But sometimes it takes leaving and coming back to see what you have.

There’s no place like home,

Sue

> Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at theluminist.substack.com.

We loaded the last of Connor’s stuff into the bed of his shiny black Chevy pickup truck. Suitcases, black garbage bags, a gargantuan gaming monitor, five dozen sugar cookies grandma made to share with friends. Then we settled in for his last night at home before his senior year in college.

Sitting on the striped living-room rug, leaning our backs against the sectional, we scarfed down burritos and talked about Connor’s experiences over the last year. Exploring every inch of New Zealand. Dipping his toe in Alaska. Forming friendships with the “full grown” adults in his summer frisbee league. 

A few Connor-isms:

“Everyone could benefit from sleeping on the floor for a couple of nights, it makes you thankful for what you have.” 

“I liked Alaska but there are too many animals there. I prefer New Zealand where there are no predators. Well, no predators of humans.”

”When a conversation goes sideways, I always keep my mouth shut and try to figure out what the other person is thinking.”

While I clenched my teeth to prevent well-intentioned but unhelpful mom comments, (“Maybe asking them to articulate what their feeling would be a better idea??”) I realized I was watching a metamorphosis in process — Connor inventing himself. 

Gathering inputs. Deciding preferences. Pivoting to more of what he likes, less of what he doesn’t. Trying to figure out the eternal mystery of other humans. Realizing there is mystery to explore within himself. 

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It’s easy to look at where Connor is in life and sigh with nostalgia.

“I remember when life was so full of possibility.”

But… we (the full-grown adults) haven’t lost any of the possibility. In fact, our bank accounts attest to the fact that we’ve gained it. However, we have laid tracks of certainty — career paths, mortgages, car leases — and then forgotten that those tracks are still malleable, even if it requires some pumping of the bellows to soften their straight lines.

Watching Connor test life and himself is reminding me that we could all benefit from a little more assessment. A little more pause and reflect. A little more conscious choice of direction. A little less autopilot.  

Because while 21-year-olds like Connor are inventing themselves, 55-year-olds are re-inventing ourselves. ALL THE TIME. 

We’re waking up every morning and deciding what to do and how to do it. We arguably have more options than a college senior whose current opportunities are summarized succinctly by the word “internship”.

But it seems like the 21-year-old has more options because, quite simply, they haven’t made a single life decision yet. They haven’t chosen which direction to lay their track. And they haven’t let that decision turn from a goal into a prison.

My 2024 was not too shabby in terms of adventure either.

It certainly paralleled Connor’s in the sheer number of new experiences. But I’m realizing that I’ve not let those new experiences shape me and my future like Connor has.

And really, I’m not that different from Connor. Sure, I have a mortgage and two kids in college, but he has $300 in his checking account (better find a campus job, kid!). But I have just as many hours in the day, and just as much choice.

So looking out at my life, which goals, preferences, methods, identities still feel like a good fit? And which are ready for an upgrade?

I don’t need to ignore the reality of my responsibilities to do this. Ask any creative, and they’ll tell you that limitations foster creativity. A blank word document is the bane of my existence. A single directive from my editor Leona — “explore this concept from your voice note” — and the words rush forth.

There are plenty of things about my life I cannot change. I won’t get my mid-twenties fitness back. I need to budget for retirement. I can’t make it through the day without a nap. But everything else, I’m throwing on the chopping block.

What if I traded in my monochrome outfits for monk robes and meditate eight hours a day? Would a dog make me happier? Or perhaps a month-long writing retreat in the Dolomites? Or maybe I want to try a new creative hobby. Is it time I tried my hand at stand-up comedy? Do I still want to live in the treehouse? In Virginia? In the US of A?

Most of these examples are silly, but throwing them out there feels so freeing! I’m just far enough through life that I know how precious it is and how fast it goes. Instead of resigning myself to anything, I’m going to see just how many tracks I can jump.

We expect young adults to grow and change. Can we do ourselves a favor, and expect the same from “old dogs” like us?

To new tricks,

Sue

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Happy end of summer, dear reader! As you can tell from our latest posts, I’ve been taking August slooooow. I’m learning how to exist at a reduced RPM and enjoying the hell out of it.

After a road trip with Kendall to Louisiana and sending Connor off to Juneau, Alaska for a last minute boondoggle before his senior year, I’m looking around the corner towards September, my favorite month of the year. We are cooking up some great posts that are challenging my own thinking. I’m eager to share them with you.

However this week, life intervened on our post prep. Our time to work on this week’s offering was compressed. We love the topic we are noodling on (how to maintain momentum when coming home from an inspiring experience) and want to do it justice. So we’ve decided that for the first time in 94 weeks, we are going to re-run a prior post. 

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Full disclosure: I am obsessive about streaks. It’s one of the reasons that we’ve published week after week, no matter where Leona and I have been on the planet. But that’s starting to feel a little stale. A little restrictive. A little ‘Old Sue’.  If a streak is only there to say I’ve done something week after week, what is the freaking point??

While deciding whether to post or re-post, my guru Oliver Burkeman, author of 4,000 Weeks: Time Management for Mere Mortals, came to mind. In an issue of his newsletter, Burkeman asks us to ponder how much certain things actually matter. Does it really matter that we give you something you’ve never seen before every single week for… the rest of our lives? This New Sue actually doesn’t think it does. And thus the compulsion for a streak evaporated in a cloud of smoke — POOF.

Here’s why: maintaining a streak is not as important as being human. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say, maintaining a streak is almost the opposite of being human. And if there’s one thing we advocate for at TL, it’s living richly within the confines of being human, not despite them. Not superhuman. Not streaks for no reason.

I love the post we are re-running for you today! It was written from a place of deep connection with a friend’s experience… way back in Week Seven of TL. I know it’s a message some of you need to hear. Myself included.

Thanks as always for reading…

“I don’t need your support.”

My friend Nathan’s dad was in a terrible accident. 

He’s going to make it (hallelujah!) but it scared the heck out of his family and will require months if not years of healing.

Nathan has handled the shock by springing into action: 

* He’s gotten his father the best care.

* He’s supporting his mother as she works through her fear, anxiety, and worry.

* He’s basically taking care of the entire family physically and emotionally. 

When he told me the story, my heart understandably broke for him. 

It was clear that Nathan was meeting this excruciating moment with incredible strength… while also likely nursing some shock and grief quietly on his own. And I wanted to let him know that he wasn’t alone, that he had my support and my consolation, that he could lean on me if need be.

Because grieving and healing isn’t something we are meant to do on our own.

“I’m so sorry, Nate! My heart goes out to you. This is so terrible!” I began.

He quickly jumped in, “Well, really it is my dad and mom who have it the worst…”

I cut in.

“Hey Nate, can we pause this conversation for a second?”

He nodded so I continued. (Nate and I know each other well so he trusts my well-intentioned but abrupt transitions!)

“First of all, you are suffering too. This is your father. This is scary.”

He looked down at his lap; an expression of sorrow flashed across his face then disappeared just as quickly.

I reached my hands out to him across the table.

“Second, I don’t know your dad, but I know you. So you are the person I am trying to comfort, trying to give my energy to, trying to fortify with my caring and concern.

“When you cannot accept my consolation, you are saying my love for you is not necessary. But I know it is.”

Nathan sighed and let his shoulders relax… Like they had put down part, not all, but part of their load. Like he didn’t have to carry it all on his own. 

Nathan knows the story of my husband’s death. So he knew this wasn't just lip service.

“I know from experience (ahem) that my energy, my prayers, my concern will make a tangible impact on you. 

“Please don’t deflect it. Please receive it, absorb it, let it strengthen you. Accept the unexplainable — that it will make a difference.”

Nathan paused, and finally slowly smiled. 

The strange math of giving & receiving.

I saw Nathan a few weeks later.

His dad is slowly healing (hallelujah x2!) but there is still a lot of family-wide stress as the recovery process plays out, as well as uncertainty about what their collective future will look like.

(Dealing with not knowing is a huge deal we’ve addressed here, here, and here post because, spoiler alert, almost all of life is not knowing.) 

But in the short-term, Nathan has flexed his receiving muscles to his whole family’s benefit. He isn’t trying to do it all on his own. He is not only accepting support, he is asking for it!

As a result, Nathan gets to sleep, spend quality time with his wife and mom, and actually go outside (running from building to car to building does not count).

Simultaneously, Nathan’s other family members get to feel helpful, impactful, powerful… Rather than lost in grief and uncertainty without being able to do a single thing about it.

Because receiving and giving, on an energetic level, are the same thing.

When we receive, we also give something to the giver — the intangible but irreplaceable feeling of making a difference. Of not just being a helpless bystander. Of contributing to life-changing, even life-saving work.

1 + 1 = 11.

* Everyone leaves with more than they had before.

* Everyone feels more connected than they did before.

* Everyone is fulfilling their own needs more than they were before (example: the burnt-out get to sleep and the antsy get to help.)

This is the new math we have to use when doing human calculations. Here, addition doesn’t exist. It’s replaced by exponential expansion of caring, of connection, of love.

In Nathan’s case, now the whole family is working together to cover shifts at the rehab center with his dad, cook meals for his mom, and just generally “show up” — whether that’s with a check-in call, an emotional-support bag of Flaming Spice Doritos, or a Costco-sized crate of Puff’s Extra Soft Tissues.

They have never felt more like a family.

They have never felt so connected to each other, so in-tune with each other’s needs, so cared for themselves.

Our collective false beliefs about the downsides of receiving.

So why don’t you like to receive?

Are you judging your suffering to be so minor compared to the person “really” suffering — Nathan vs. his dad — that accepting support feels wrong? 

Do you falsely believe there is a hierarchy to suffering, some giant, invisible pyramid where only those at the tippy top deserve support? 

Have you trained your brain to not go to dark places, fearing your emotions will spill over? So when someone offers you support, it feels like a crowbar trying to pry open the tightly-sealed chamber where you’ve stuffed all your roiling emotions… and you want nothing to do with it?

Or are you worried that receiving help will make you weak? That you’ll forget how to stand on your own two feet, that you’ll melt into a pile of mush and never find your way back to being a powerful, independent, productive human being ever again?

None of these reasons are inherently bad. 

They just are not helping you in the way you think. 

In conclusion.

Nathan shared one more vignette of giving and receiving that has stayed in my mind for weeks.

On a visit to the hospital, he was surprised to come in and see his mom feeding his dad. Nathan’s dad was capable of feeding himself — his injuries did not prevent him from doing so — and yet his mom was spooning small, careful bites into his mouth.

Nathan realized that this was his dad’s way of offering her solace. Giving his wife a tangible, action-oriented way of sharing her love, of helping him… and in the process lessening her suffering.

Nathan didn’t offer what his dad was feeling in that moment… But we can put ourselves in his hospital bed and know how we’d feel. Loved and cared for of course. But also maybe galvanized.

Maybe even more devoted to our healing.

Maybe re-dedicating ourselves to full recovery because, no matter how hard it will be, it will be worth it.

When we allow ourselves to receive, we are not just supported in tangible ways, we are also ignited in emotional ways.

We realize our healing, surviving, thriving is bigger than us. It’s for the ones we love.

So we overcome our hardships — again and again, big and small, in a thousand ways throughout our lives — to return the favor of love. To give back into this magic web of human connection and support and vulnerability that we are lucky enough to live within. Giving and receiving, over and over and over again.

Thank you, Nate, for sharing this incredible example with us all.

Dear reader, in the next week, how will you feed others? How will you let yourself be fed? 

Challenge yourself to not return a single gift of support, of solace, even a compliment unopened.

Let the nodes of network and communal support begin to form, enriching our world with symbiotic love and care… starting around you.

In connection,

Sue

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I didn’t know I could face a transition this unbothered. Though these August weeks are almost identical to those of last year, I feel completely different.

Last year while Connor and Kendall were collecting their shoes and pillows and electronics from around the house to pack for college, I was putting final touches on my Empty Nester World Tour… because the thought of coming back to an empty house filled me with dread.

Admittedly I’ve had practice now, living alone for eight of the last twelve months, but it’s more than that. 

The transitions that used to fill me with questions, and the questions that filled me with uncertainty, and the uncertainty that filled me with fear now just spark curiosity. It’s not a question of if I will meet the moment, but how. 

And so, while facing a rapid shift from a full house, family dinners, and afternoon sectional cuddle sessions back to emptiness, I feel cool and confident.

I trust myself to adjust to the solitude ahead. In fact, I trust myself, period. 

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The thing is, I thought I had already reached this pinnacle of confidence. 

Since my husband died in 2016, I’ve built an ironclad assurance in myself, layer by painstaking layer. I got myself and my kids through hell, so my ability to survive and eventually thrive is unquestioned. I know what I am capable of. I eat major life transitions for breakfast.

But always with the help of resources, options, support, and whenever time allowed, planning.

However, during my pilgrimage in June, I didn’t have access to my go-to aids. Finishing St Olav’s Way tested solely me and my adaptability. Every. Single. Day. 

Shin splints. Wrong turns. Walking in the rain for hours. Menacing cows. Burnout. Hotels that felt like the set of The Shining. Things I couldn’t plan for, opt out of, or call a friend for help with. It was just me, my two sets of clothes, intermittent wifi signal, storm clouds, and the placards that promised I was on the right path. 

(You can read all about my pilgrim highs and lows here, here, and here.)

Don’t get me wrong — I believe that unapologetically utilizing any and all resources is an aspect of resilience. I am not saying anyone needs to tough anything out. But the pilgrimage was meant to be a stripping. I was ready to be challenged without my Mary Poppins bag of coping strategies and easy distractions.

I specifically decided to walk St Olav’s because I wanted to go deep into myself, explore any forgotten caverns of my psyche, and emerge liberated by the knowing that I was not avoiding an inch of my interior world. 

I’ve tested myself like this before — intentionally facing my rock bottom, but physically rather than emotionally. A couple of decades ago, after months and months of training, I completed an Iron Man triathlon. Crossing that finish line, I felt tough as nails, forged by fire, and capable of moving any mountain. (After I slept for 18 hours straight.)

However, my victory lap since the pilgrimage has had an entirely different flavor. I am not strutting around like a superhero, feeling unstoppable and powerful and confident. I am simply… at peace.

Even while the kids shout from two floors down about a missing airpod and last minute paperwork and that doctor’s appointment they forgot about but is actually happening right now, I feel unshakable peace.

‘Peaceful’ is not the first word that anyone would use to describe me. 

Peace feels self-contained, like a legs-folded, orange-robed monk on a cushion chanting in front of a candle-filled altar. 

Me? I’m a Tasmanian devil of whirling energy and leaned-in engagement. I’m talking to complete strangers in the shower at my rec center. I’m laughing loudly, head thrown back in unabashed glee. I’m brazen with curiosity and bold questions.  

But after having a 28-day-long heart-to-heart with the voice in my head, I’m at peace with myself.

Which didn’t happen from changing myself, but from coming to know myself.

Removing my grab bag of supports meant that while on the pilgrimage, I had no place to hide — no Star Wars movie or art museum or even peppy playlist to distract me from my thoughts and feelings. (I made a point to walk the entire thing without headphones.)

Five years ago, while I was still full-time grieving, full-time parenting, and working a full-time job, you would have had to pry those coping mechanisms out of my cold, dead hands. But in the last year I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life managing my emotions with external measures. I didn’t want to be constantly “coping”. I wanted to learn to sit with the full experience of being alive, just as it was. 

As an advocate of vibrant living, it felt important to face life unflinchingly — instead of always turning down the volume during the uncomfortable portions.

I just didn’t realize the main part of life that I was still avoiding was myself.

So I walked into the woods without company or a single downloaded podcast, and here’s how it worked out:

* I learned to recognize my foibles and kookiness without denying or hiding;

* I faced heavy, aching emotions that I thought would break me, but did not;

* I relaxed enough to watch myself bounce between emotional extremes without trying to “fix” them;

* I became less judgmental of myself, and more curious;

* I realized I am in awe of my ability to adapt and evolve;

* I became my own friend, ally, cheerleader, believer.

After 28 days staring Sue Deagle in the eyes, I know there’s no one else I rather spend this life with.

Post-loss survival gave me power. 

But post-pilgrimage self knowledge was the key to turning that power into peace.

Peace that comes from seeing my imperfections, but meeting them with curiosity and compassion instead of castigation. Peace that comes from knowing that I can and will screw up, but can and will fix things too. Peace that comes from the choice to work with the truth of who I am, rather than trying to change it.

It’s crazy how much of the chatter in our heads can be comforted into silence when we decide we believe in ourselves, just the way we are.

Going forward, I’ll always have my trusty coping mechanisms in my back pocket, but I don’t think I’ll need them as much. Not because life is going to be smooth sailing now that I’ve reached self-actualization. In fact, the next week or two in the echoing emptiness of the treehouse could be pretty rough. 

But after pulling back the curtain and facing all that I am, that doesn’t frighten me. Sue Deagle is capable, adaptable, and pretty good company. I don’t need to hide from what she’s feeling. 

As long as I’m on my own team, no aspect of my internal world will break me.  

In fact, the aching hurt within usually just wants a listening ear.

And now that I know how to be that for myself, uncertainty, unknowns, and transitions just got way less scary and way more inviting.

In power, peace, and potential,

Sue

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The lull rolled in with the August heat. Connor, Kendall, and I found ourselves sitting on the gray sectional, watching the Olympics on mute and sharing any thought that crossed our minds.

“You look like you belong in a monastery.” ​Connor quipped. 

Kendall ​half-heartedly rolled her eyes, white compression bandage encircling her head, keeping the chubby cheeks of post-wisdom-teeth-extraction​ at bay. 

“I think you mean a convent, ​dude, that’s where nuns live.” I replied. 

​"Oh, oops, yes then that's what I mean." he responded.

“I’d terrorize the ​​men in a monastery!​!” ​A semi-drugged Kendall ​thrust her finger in the air and proclaimed, sounding like she had mouth full of marbles. 

​"Yes, indeed you would." I shook my head. "Those poor things."

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We are in a time-warp bubble. Everyone is home. No one has much to do. I can’t remember the last time we spent this much time sitting around all together. Well, I guess that would’ve been during COVID, but this time we’re actually enjoying it.

My entire adult life has been speed-walking (still an Olympic sport!) from one achievement to another.

It's been a rich, rewarding life. For a while, it suited me. It suited us.

But that season has passed, at least for the time being.

Now I find myself intentionally pumping the brakes. No pressure to accomplish. No outcome to chase down. Just a lot of being, joking, eating, napping, laughing, gently mocking each other's foibles and picking congenial fights when no one takes out the trash. A lot of space for big hugs and the occasional kiss on the head… for no reason at all. 

I talked a couple weeks ago about how pausing is a necessary part of integration. The integration has mostly run its course, but I’m still pausing because it just feels so damn good.

Imagine a skipping stone. It bounces along the surface of the water, spinning so fast it's practically flying. It goes far, but the progress is all superficial. It’s not until the stone finally slows down that it has a chance to sink. It slips below the surface and settles on the bottom of the river. Life flutters above it — minnows darting to the surface to slurp up bugs, and then darting back down to avoid birds; leaves getting caught in eddies; bumble bees dipping down for a drink. The rock isn’t in motion itself, but in its stillness, it's able to take in all the details. Action has been traded for observation, progress has been traded for depth.

When I was young, I wanted to be an anthropologist. But as soon as I figured out it wouldn’t make me any money, I set my sights on economics and never looked back. However, this lull has allowed me to return to my love of noticing and delighting in the details. My children, the way they have changed and the way they are exactly the same. My home, the cozy corners I’m drawn to with a book or binoculars. Myself.

A fear of death motivates us to extend our lives, even at the cost of our daily enjoyment.  

A relationship with death does the opposite. It teaches us to revel in every moment we have.

Spending six hours a day talking about nothing with your family might sound monotonous — it did to me, once.

But that’s when I judged everything by its productivity. Was it moving the needle forward? No? Not worth my time. That strategy got me far in life, so I won’t bash it. But a well-lived life means balancing ambition with the other end of the spectrum — lingering in the moments of normality until your eyes adjust and you can see the richness lacing every mundane detail.

The way Connor slips on Kendall’s electric blue crocs and rushes out to help me carry in the groceries, with a hearty hug and a ‘I got this, Ma!’ How Kendall delights over her friend’s tiktoks, passing the phone across the couch to show me, endlessly loyal and cheerleading. The white-speckled baby deer outside my back door, eating the low, soft leaves while butterflies flit around her head, disturbed from their nectar seeking. The pattern of purple flowers and spiky grasses lining the curve of my driveway, a carpet surrounding the flourishing magnolias reaching up to the sky. 

I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever go back to a faster pace. I’ve learned enough since being body slammed by loss to not pretend I can predict the future. No ‘never again’s or ‘over my dead body’s here. The human mind, pattern-recognition machine that it is, has a habit of finding one way and immediately denouncing all others. But maybe variety should be the goal, range the point, and adaptability the key.

Life is not about finding The One Way and ignoring all else in its pursuit, whether that be happiness, success, security, or peace. Because that means we’ll always be seeking, believing that just around the next bend we’ll reach the Promised Land and finally start enjoying ourselves. But if we can embrace the period we find ourselves in — from grieving to relaxing, from achieving to receiving, from pilgriming to couch-potatoing — living will transform from an end result into an ongoing experience.

It doesn’t actually matter if we are the skipping stone or the still, sunken rock as long as we are fully immersed in whatever this moment has to offer.

Lazy and loving it,

Sue

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This summer I spent 28 days hoofing it from one twin bed to the next, sleeping in bunk rooms with strangers, and sharing my bathroom, which was also sometimes an outhouse.

There was a part of me — blazer-wearing, global-frequent-flying, c-suite veteran — that was accustomed to the finer ways of travel. Lay-flat, business class beds. Posh hotels. Uber XL. If she had really thought this pilgrimage thing through, peeing in the woods and all, she would have put the kibosh on the entire endeavor with a raised eyebrow and a ‘I could never’. 

But she could, and she did.

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Just like we cling to safety and certainty in the outer world, we cling to it internally too.

We use our identities as scaffolding — they’re how we describe ourselves, but also how we understand ourselves.

Our identities: 

* Define our priorities, which is undeniably useful when there is somehow less and less time in the day. 

* Clarify our values, so we have a template for how to respond to the ever-changing world around us. 

* Simplify decision-making. What would a compassionate mother, shrewd business woman, outdoorsy pilgrim do?

* Give us meaning and purpose, which is better than a cup of coffee in the morning.

When we’re young, we often play with our identities — do I want to be an athlete or band geek or cool kid today? But by midlife, most of us have spent years crafting these internal structures, getting comfy cozy inside them, and relying on them for our sense of safety.

We go from defining our identities to letting them define us. 

In a perfect world, that doesn’t sound so bad. We’ve intentionally chosen these identities and now they help us be who we want to be in the world. They act as our north star, providing us clarity in an overwhelming buffet of options, distractions, and advice. For example, I can imagine how owning the identity of ‘athlete’ would help one be consistent in their workouts, nutrition, and general self care. 

But this isn’t a perfect world. Sometimes we choose identities for the wrong reasons, and realize later we have to start over. Sometimes even good identities hold us back. And sometimes identities we love get ripped away from us, leaving us disoriented inside and out.

The biggest identity I’ve lost in my life has been that of ‘wife’ — trading down significantly for ‘widow’.

A soap box I pull out a lot here is rewriting the story of loss, which could also be seen as rewriting the identity of ‘widow’. Because when you think of a widow, you likely imagine a sullen-faced woman in all black who lives in a creaky house full of cobwebs. At least I do. And though I am in fact a widow, I have NO interest in letting that identity define me (or at least the cultural understanding of it). 

You’d think because I’ve already learned to ignore expectations and blaze my own trail, I would easily spot the pitfalls of identities and smoothly steer around them. Not so much. Most recently I swapped ‘corporate leader' with ‘creative’ and ‘regular business traveler’ with ‘stay-at-home mom’, not to mention ‘bougie business woman’ with ‘intrepid pilgrim’. I feel like I’m wearing clothes that don’t quite fit, and am constantly looking around for some assurance that I’m on the right path. 

And I know I’m far from the only one feeling the confusing growing pains of midlife. As kids move out, retirement looms, health declines, desires evolve, and priorities shift, it can be hard to know how to move forward.

I think loss of identity is one of the reasons that transitions, even when positive, feel so scary.

We are giving up part of our structure of self knowing — tearing it down to renovate it. That identity may have felt cramped and out-dated for ages, but it still felt safe.

However, evolution is an inevitable part of the human experience. Sometimes we have a choice, sometimes we don’t. Either way, there has to be a way we can widen our scope of self to make it easier to evolve, rather than harder.

Thank god for podcasts.

“I’ve learned to anchor my identities to why I do the things that I do, rather than what I do,” Dr. Maya Shankar, violinist turned neuroscientist turned podcast host shared on the Huberman Lab.

Ah, yes! For much of my life I’ve gotten lost in ‘the what’, but the point is really always ‘the why’. And ‘the why’ gives us so many more options to show up in the world beyond the one we are living today. When we are focused on ‘the why’, the details of our lives can change, but we don’t get lost.

I don’t need a job leading 10,000 people, a swanky hotel room, or a business class flight to do what’s most important to me: make an impact on other human beings. And I don’t need to be a wife to know that my love is felt, appreciated, and reciprocated. There are endless ways we can show up in the world to achieve our whys, once we let go of the whats. 

I want to build a scaffolding that can bend instead of break when my life is inevitably turned upside down again… or when I decide that I’m ready for something different. Because part of the fun of life is exploring the unknown, getting outside my comfort zone, and surprising myself. 

Even if it involves peeing in the woods.

To new identities,

Sue

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