Apr 25

When Our Bodies—and Time—Betray Us

Recently, our daughter, Owen, 28, followed by her older brother, Jesse, 30, got married within two months of each other. While both were joyous celebrations—and a long time coming—I experienced a massive crash after the festivities. And I’m not just talking about the emotional kind. My right hip went out. Suddenly, the hip simply didn’t work right; putting any weight on it resulted in wonky instability and an excruciating, ice-pick-to-the-joint bolt of pain. The MRI was ugly.

Admittedly, I overdid it on both counts, topping off the frenzied wedding preparations with hours of reckless dancing at the receptions. My hip was already hurting but damn it, I was going to chug a glass of wine, pop some Advil and rock out!

Not surprisingly, I’m now using a cane on good days, crutches on bad ones. I can no longer walk the dog, my favorite pastime and main source of exercise, forcing Michael, my reluctant husband, to take over.

“You’re the dog person,” he reminds me daily as I gimp to the pool. He feels particularly unmanly walking little Buffett, our fluffy Bichon, around the neighborhood, in sight of “real” men walking huge Labs, Golden Retrievers, German Shepherds and Great Danes.

At first, I was attributing my crash to an unexpected, delayed reaction to the empty nest, the poignant realization that with each of our adult children’s milestones, my husband and I are fading. Also, I’m no doubt experiencing a normal come-down from a high. But since I’m now relatively crippled, and the “kids” are moving so definitively into their grown-up lives, I suspect that this double-whammy is a symbolic transition into another life stage that I have stubbornly refused to acknowledge. My body is weakening, and I feel demoralized— shocked, really. This doesn’t jibe with my identity. I can see my husband and children looking at me askance, treating me a bit too delicately. Who am I now, anyway?

Could this be depression? I am not a depressed person; I might be sad for a day or two, but I never live there. This time, I’m not so resilient; it’s out of character.

Unlike my husband, who cratered after the kids left for college, moping around the house and peering mournfully into their empty rooms, I was afire with a reinvention of self: in graduate school on the road to becoming a psychotherapist. At last, I was getting back to myself, freed up from the mind-numbing, domestic duties of motherhood. I could think again, and have intellectual discussions. I could write academic papers and give sharp Power Point presentations. I was, once again, a contender!

And now, I’m happily engaged in my profession, in a private practice with a group of like-minded professionals. In terms of the weddings, I was delighted. I love my new son- and daughter-in-law, both of who have been part of our family for many years. Even better, they all live here in Austin, as does our youngest, Sam, and his girlfriend Abby. What’s to pine about?

And then I began to sort it out. Our children’s marriages are monumental life events for us as well as them. When our children marry, our roles shift. We are sidelined in a way that may seem subtle at first, but which becomes more concrete over time. We are no longer the ultimate authority, the buffer between them and the world, the essential caretaker of their identities. They are, in a word, launched. It’s another dreaded time marker, of—dare I say it?—growing old, or old-ER.

That’s how it should be, right?

But my hip is another matter entirely—the first physical domino, I fear, of many to fall. What’s next? In favoring the bad hip, am I wearing out the other one? And what about my knees? I am not accustomed to being compromised. After a second medical opinion, I just received the grave news: hip replacement. Already? I have gone out of my way to stay fit, eat right, get eight hours’ sleep. But there’s no arguing with osteoporosis and now, osteo-arthritis.

When the children were young, I used to picture myself as the Sun—radiant, powerful, even indestructible—with the smaller planets of my children, and even my husband, orbiting around me. Now I fear I’ve become a faint, distant star, light years away, losing my brilliance as I die a slow, inconspicuous death. Get out the violins!

There is good news, though: the modern “anterior total hip replacement,” a much less invasive procedure in which the surgeon enters through the front of the hip, bodes well for a speedier and complete recovery. In a matter of weeks, I would presumably be confiscating Buffett’s leash from Michael and hitting the greenbelt. And in a couple of years, Michael and I should get another shot at significance—of the grandparent kind.

So I refuse to be trapped in the “tyranny of now,” in the words of Stanford psychologist Dr. Carol Dweck. Instead, I have every intention of tapping into the “power of yet!”


Apr 24

Jesse/Wedding Speech

It is not easy to describe one’s child. As parents, our perspectives are skewed by blind love, fear, frustration, hope, tenderness, anger, forgiveness, joy, and our own narcissism. After all, aren’t our children reflections of ourselves?

But here goes.

When Jesse was born, and the doctor placed him in my arms, I took one look at his bright blue eyes and his beautiful, squished face and had an epiphany that changed my life: I get it now, I thought. THIS IS THE MEANING (AND PURPOSE) OF MY LIFE!
That epiphany returned twice more, with Owen and Sam, and it has never left me.

At the beginning, Jesse and I were alone against the world. Two days after his birth, Michael had to leave for a photo shoot. There we were, baby Jesse and I, in a rough loft in lower Manhattan, above a Greek souvlaki vendor warehouse that cranked up at dawn, and dispatched dozens of garlic-y Greek push-carts out to the street masses. It was a colorful neighborhood on the West Side, just off Canal Street. Jesse graduated from Snugli to backpack to stroller before we moved to Brooklyn and welcomed his siblings, Owen and Sam.

He was an exuberant child. His energy was such that at two, he insisted upon helping with the chores and laundry; by 4, he was washing his own clothes. He rarely sat still, and was interested in everything—particularly animals, the outdoors, water, and sports. It was a relief when we moved to Austin, a natural paradise. He entered Forest Trail in second grade and quickly began making lifelong friends—many of who are his groomsmen today: Jeff, Austin, Tyler, Matthew and Evan…and later, Matt and Jack. The group has swelled and morphed over time, and though their lives have diverged, they are still something of a posse.
Jesse’s resilience became evident early on. When my brother George gave him an old canoe, at 11, it became an obsession. I’ll never forget the day, at Emma Long Park, when he stepped into the canoe before we could join him and the current swept him away. Michael and I were frantic on shore, dialing 911, no Jesse in sight. Thirty minutes later, we spotted a smiling, triumphant Jesse, motoring back against the strong current. Somehow, he’d started the recalcitrant old motor and saved himself.

While the teenage years were—shall we leave it at memorable—the boys finally began to grow up. Jesse started setting serious goals for himself; he ran two Austin marathons, a Big Bend ultra-marathon, went skydiving, and joined Matthew for the grueling Texas Water Safari, a sleepless, 260-mile canoe race from Hell. When Matthew became delirious and had to quit, Jesse soldiered on alone in the middle of the night.

He discovered CrossFit in Vietnam, of all places, where he was spending a college summer in Ho Chi Minh City. A close family friend set him up with an internship at Highlands Coffee—the Starbucks of Vietnam—and Jesse was living alone with no language skills. CrossFit became his haven. Once he returned to the States, he took up CrossFit in Fort Worth, where he was attending TCU. Upon his graduation with a business degree, his passion continued back in Austin, when he started coaching, and then became part-owner, at Westlake CrossFit. While there, he became determined to travel to an ashram in India with some Canadian fitness colleagues to teach CrossFit to the children at the ashram’s orphanage. He set up a challenge for himself to complete 500 burpees as a fundraiser for the purpose. For those who don’t know, burpees are tortuous jumping jacks dropping to push-ups in a single motion. Although he nearly collapsed from the effort, he raised the money for the trip. Later, he and those same colleagues sponsored a gifted Indian youth from the orphanage to travel to America for a CrossFit certification.

Amanda entered the picture when the two met at Nick and Whitney’s wedding. Jesse proudly introduced us to her at Chuy’s on my birthday. It wasn’t long before this grounded, pretty blonde, formerly a cheerleader at Katy High School, became a fixture. She graduated from Texas State with honors, and soon plunged into the fitness business with him. She became his anchor. In the almost seven years since we’ve known her, she’s become a cherished family member, integral to all family gatherings and vacations in Port Aransas. She faithfully shows up at our BurgerFi dinners on Sunday nights, where she has adopted 89-year-old Gran as her honorary grandmother.

Meanwhile, Jesse has embarked upon another adventure. With Central Athlete in downtown Austin, he is working hard to introduce a new fitness concept to Austin: individual program design and remote coaching. It’s a high-tech enterprise, complete with apps and fitness software that support reciprocity with the coaches and keep clients accountable.

Now it’s Jesse’s turn to become accountable—to Amanda. As of tomorrow night, Michael and I will have a beautiful new daughter—this on the heels of welcoming Kemper, Owen’s husband, into the family. Our clan here in Austin—including nephew Charles, as well as nephew Stephen, his wife Ethel and daughter Hannah—is growing. Michael and I are grateful. Our children are truly bonded; they hang out together—rock-climbing, swimming in Barton Creek, sharing meals.

And as our roles with our children start to reverse, it is Jesse, our firstborn, who is now taking care of us: making sure we stay fit, monitoring our diets, keeping close tabs. We can thank him for teaching us, his parents, the hardest of lessons: that our job now is to step back, embrace and accept.

I love you both!


Mar 11

I Am the Cosmos*

Our daughter Owen got married a few weeks ago. It was, by all accounts, a joyous occasion. It was the one cold, damp evening of the month, but her happiness was so contagious that it didn’t make a whit of difference. Everyone partied on until the wee hours—outdoors, mind you, in the limestone, twinkly-lit courtyard of the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center—oblivious to the stinkin’ weather.

Yet there was the inevitable “crash” after the festivities, complicated by my right hip going out (too much wedding prep, three hours of reckless dancing) and the poignant realization that with each of our adult children’s milestones, my husband and I are fading into the distance. In five weeks, our eldest son Jesse is following matrimonial suit, and our youngest child, Sam, has settled into a serious relationship.

The bottom line: they don’t need us much anymore.

Now what, I think to myself. I’m hoping this is just a normal come-down from a high, but since I’m now walking with a cane, post MRI, and the “kids” are moving so definitively into their grown-up lives, I suspect that this is a symbolic transition into an older age that I have stubbornly refused to acknowledge. Could this be depression? I am not a depressed person; I might be sad for a day or two at times, but I never live there. This time, I’m not so resilient.

When the children were young, I used to picture myself as the Sun—radiant, powerful, even indestructible—with the smaller planets of my children, and even my husband, orbiting around me. Now I fear I’ve become a faint, distant star, light years away, losing my brilliance as I die a slow, inconspicuous death.

But I am not lying down for this (except when I’m resting my hip). I am swimming laps and otherwise doing water therapy, continuing my vocation as a psychotherapist, de-cluttering our house, faithfully attending my spiritual group, and trying to keep up social contacts. I have to admit, though, that my heart is not quite in it. I am going through the motions, but I’m burdened by coming to terms.

So I am trying to take my own therapeutic advice: sitting with these feelings, this sense of loss, and allowing myself, even assigning myself, to grieve. A part of me considers this a selfish process as in a way, what I’m really grieving is my lost youth, or at least my relative youth. I’m grieving my loss of significance, my loss of agency in the younger world of technology, and the loss of my old self-image as a kind of life force. None of this is admirable: me, me, me. Yet it IS human, and sometimes we have to burrow into ourselves in order to emerge anew.

For the time being, then, I’m burrowing. I simply have to keep the faith that eventually, I’ll see a faint light in the distance—that distant star, blinking, brightening, finally surging back to life.

 

 

*reference: Titled borrowed from the late musician Chris Bell/Big Star


Dec 13

What’s Your Story/St. Edward’s University Commencement Speech/Masters in Counseling Graduates

What’s Your Story?
Elizabeth O’Brien, LPC

I’m telling my story today as a vehicle for giving you guideposts, or a kind of road map, through internship to full licensure.
Ch. 1: Honoring Your Roots

Everyone Has a Story

Each of YOU has a story about how you found your way from your previous life to the St. Ed’s counseling program. Whether you enrolled right after college or later on, you came to the MAC program with dreams of forging a new, perhaps more congruent path.

I was no different. All my life, I’ve been interested in people and their stories. Even when I was young, my friends came to me with their problems and I was always a willing ear. I grew up in Memphis, in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, where storytelling is an art form. An English major at the University of Tennessee (the REAL UT!), I began my career as a journalist, signing on as a copygirl at the Miami Herald. For the next 16 years, I worked as a newspaper and magazine reporter in South Florida and New York City, where I finally got my dream job at LIFE Magazine. At the time, it was a perfect fit: I captured people’s stories for a living.

Then I got pregnant; before I knew it, my husband and I had three children, five and under. I quit my job. I held down the fort in Manhattan and then Brooklyn while my photographer husband traveled for work. But eventually, the expense and logistics of the city became overwhelming. And without a career, I was a nonentity in New York. Seeking a softer life, we moved to Austin. Motherhood sped by in a blur. It was the experience of lifetime, but left me with a 20-year gap on my resume.
By the time our two older children were in college, and the youngest was a high school sophomore, I could see the empty nest approaching. I was getting itchy to reclaim my own life, and volunteer work was no longer cutting it.

Three of my volunteer jobs were critical, though, in my decision to apply to the MAC program: working with the homeless and writing the newsletter for the local non-profit, Mobile Loaves and Fishes; doing pet therapy with my Labrador Retriever; and serving an 8-year stint in the Stephen Ministry at my church. A Stephen minister is a lay person trained over the course of several months to function as a spiritual support to a congregant in crisis, meeting weekly with the individual, much as a counselor would. Those experiences fit; in the words of my old Southern English professor, they “spoke to my condition.”

Ch. 2: Choosing St. Edward’s

For me, St. Ed’s was one of the great experiences of my life–an incubator for a new beginning. Small and nurturing, the MAC program became a family. All my professors had something unique to offer, and they practiced what they preached by working as therapists in the real world. They woke us up. They made us laugh. And many of the friends and colleagues I made in the program will be life-long. They have changed me for the better.

Ch. 3: Finding a Mentor

Grad school, it turned out, was the easy part. Then the real adventure began. The licensing exam, 3000-hour internship and crafting of a new career required an entirely different mindset and a more sophisticated bandwidth. I was fortunate to secure Sunny Landsdale as my supervisor. Another intern and I talked her into taking us under her wing in private practice. She renewed her supervisor credentials, cleaned out a storage room in her offices and allowed us to furnish it as our counseling space. We were in business, with no clients. Then a friend referred a colleague to me, and I had my first client. That client referred someone else. As time went on, I realized that what I was doing felt oddly familiar. And then I made the connection: both journalism and therapy have to do with a fascination with the human condition, and in both cases, with getting someone’s story–albeit with different agendas. I could do this!
Building a caseload, though, took time and creativity. Serendipitously, another veteran therapist, Mark White,  asked me to co-facilitate an ongoing psycho-educational parenting group. I had met him during my volunteer days, when I wrote a profile of him as one of the founders of Mobile Loaves and Fishes. He, too, mentored me. Some of those group members became my individual clients.

Ch. 4: Building a Foundation

During this period, I spent my free time doing everything I could to establish myself: creating a website and a Psychology Today profile, and writing regular blogs; networking with established therapists by taking them to coffee; attending professional meetings; giving free presentations on relevant topics at the community library; becoming certified in EMDR and Trauma First Aid; and reading what I hadn’t had time to read in grad school.

Ch. 5: Being Creative: Carving Out Your Niche

But the real turning point came one day when I was swimming laps at the Town Lake YMCA. It occurred to me that a pro bono counseling program would be ideal for the Y’s healthy mind-body-spirit mission. I proposed the idea and the Y management jumped on it. Within weeks, the program took off and I had to recruit another intern, Marvi Haynes, to help me. The Y cleaned out its Pilates storage room upstairs. We scrounged up some furniture from home and WalMart and hung up our shingle. We counseled Y members ranging from homeless individuals to CEOs. Within two years, between Sunny’s umbrella practice and the Y, I had logged my 3,000 hours.
Ch. 6: Joining a Tribe

Once fully licensed, I left Sunny to office with a group of like-minded colleagues from St. Ed’s and Capital Area Counseling. Known as the Austin Counseling Center, we share space and camaraderie on Westbank Drive. I am five minutes from home. Three of us are supervisors, and we offer interns office space in which to begin seeing clients. Frequently, with appropriate clients, I take my dog to work as a canine xanax. He cuddles up next to them and palpably lowers the anxiety in the room. Meanwhile, the Town Lake YMCA counseling program—strategically located downtown, overlooking the hike ‘n bike trail–is still flourishing. We offer Y members two pro bono sessions and then a sliding scale. Many become long-term clients. Unwittingly, the Y counseling program has become a powerful marketing vehicle.

At last I had reached my goal: a career that offered autonomy, complexity and meaning, and one which I could pursue indefinitely.

Fast forward to 2016-2017: Since I was an intern, things have changed.
Supervision costs have escalated, and it essential that you have a financial plan in place and a stable site at which to do your internship. Also, if you’re planning on going into private practice, no matter your marketing expertise, consider taking insurance. Austin is a young city, and most clients need to use their insurance for therapy.

Ch. 7: Staying True to Your Story

So I ask you: what experiences in your life can inform your new profession? What are your roots? What connections do you have that might prove useful? What are you good at, and what do you love to do? What sets you apart?
Perhaps you have a business background, or a facility with languages. You might have experience in healthcare, teaching or pertinent volunteer work. Maybe you’re a parent, part of a couple, or have experience in the LGBT arena. You might have navigated a serious illness, or a trauma.

One of my interns is a competitive athlete. She is carving out a niche, at least partially, counseling high-level athletes. An older intern, the mother of two older adolescents, is working with troubled adolescents in the Hays School District. Yet another intern, a brilliant individual on the Asperger’s spectrum, is working with that population, helping young adults navigate college and coaching them in seeking and interviewing for appropriate careers.

Even if you’ve gone straight from undergrad to grad school, there is something in your background that can contribute to who you become in your career. Use your story–all of it. My journalism, parenting and volunteer background continues to be foundational to my counseling career.

The world-renowned writer and psychotherapist Thomas Moore, author of the powerful book Care of the Soul, believes that it is the storytelling itself that is important–not only for us, as counselors, but also for our clients. He says:
“Storytelling is an excellent way of caring for the soul. It helps us see the themes that circle in our lives, the deep themes that tell the myths we live. It would take only a slight shift in emphasis in therapy to focus on the storytelling itself rather than on its interpretation.”
What this means to me is that the stories people tell about themselves, how they tell them and what they choose to emphasize, is where the substance lies–the key to the psyche, as it were. Storytelling, in this way, becomes a metaphor for the true self. It is our job as therapists to guide our clients in shaping their life narratives into empowering, coherent and genuine stories.
And remember: it is our relationship with clients, not a particular technique or modality, that is the chief agent of change.
Ch. 8 Good Luck!

Today I’m here to honor your launching.
So whether you’re working at an agency, a school or other entity, or going into private practice, use your precious time to build a career around who you are. Be creative: talk to therapists who are doing the kind of work you want to do. Beef up your business and marketing smarts. Step out of your comfort zone, think out of the box. Find an internship that will work for you—logistically, financially and spiritually. Stay connected to your colleagues.
Finally, (and I’m big on this) don’t fail to practice, and model, self-care: exercise daily, stay hydrated, eat mindfully, get eight hours’ sleep.

And be grateful…You are entering a profession in which meaning, and transcendence, are built into your work…one of the rare professions in which age is actually an asset!

To paraphrase Viktor Frankl in Man’s Search for Meaning: Man comes at the meaning of his in life in three ways: through good deeds or meaningful work, through love and relationship, and through transcendence of self to help others. His tale of transcendence sets the bar for all of us.

Above all, keep listening. There’s a story there.


Aug 25

Why I Left New York By Elizabeth O’Brien, LPC-S

I was keen to stay home and raise our three children. Happily, in New York City, where we were living in the 80s and 90s, it made more economic sense for me to quit work.

But this choice was fraught: women in New York who leave their jobs to raise their children generally vaporize into the suburbs, and the few who stay end up feeling awkward and isolated in the parks and playgrounds among paid caretakers. Such mothers become invisible. Stripped of a CAREER, a woman loses her identity. The first question anyone asks at a party is, of course: “What do you do?” Motherhood was not a respected full-time vocation; it was not PC.

Fortunately, by the time I had three children, a couple of years apart, we had moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, a “softer” borough where I managed to find a handful of other mothers. But as time went on, and our first two children entered first grade and preschool, we could no longer keep up. Because of the marginal neighborhood in which we lived, we had to send the kids to a private school nearby in Park Slope. With a third giant tuition looming, we began planning to move. Besides, I was exhausted from hauling three children—one in a backpack, one in a stroller and one on foot—on daily errands, to recreational activities, and to pediatrician visits in Manhattan on the subway. My husband traveled non-stop, so the child-rearing fell to me. We didn’t own a car. I cannot count how many times the middle child jumped out of the stroller, causing it to upend from the weight of groceries hanging from the handle. A dozen eggs smashed, again.

Our decision to move accelerated one spring when all the residents of our coop building collectively planted a beautiful garden out front. Our once-grand building, the Copley Plaza, circa 1920, had fallen into disrepair. The marble, brass and mirrored lobby was cracked and fading, the doorman geriatric, his uniform askew. The place needed a facelift. But the next morning, the garden was gone: stripped bare, the plants uprooted and stolen. Ugly, cavernous holes and gnarled, errant roots greeted our bedraggled doorman, Albert, as he arrived for work. Although we got back on the horse, replanting the garden—this time, with deeply buried chains tethering each shrub—the emotional damage was done. I’d had enough.

When the children were seven, five and two, we moved to Austin: a cushy landing in 1993. We moved to a tranquil, older suburb, complete with greenbelt. We had a real house, a fenced-in backyard and a school bus stop right at the top of our cove. Public school was now an option. We finally got a dog.

At first, I was relieved. It was PC in Texas to raise one’s own children. Then I began to feel strange, like I’d landed on Mars. Suburbia was so very clean. Lawns and people were manicured. Cars were shiny, fresh from the carwash. The women, solo and clad in stylish tennis garb, piloted giant Suburbans with one hand, clutching a Starbucks latte in the other. When I attended my first Booster Club meeting, the pre-chatter was all about back-splashes. I had no idea what a back-splash was, and to this day I don’t have one.

But I have adjusted. We’ve launched our children and I’ve painstakingly, obligingly, re-invented myself. I inhale the big sky. I eat lots of Mexican food. I hike daily with my dog. And I dream, sometimes, of Brooklyn.


Aug 25

The Post-Mommy Abyss/By Elizabeth O’Brien, LPC-S

When our youngest child, Sam, was a high school sophomore, I became superfluous. He got his driver’s license and the family’s battered old Toyota, and peeled off into the teenage cosmos. Jesse and Owen were away at college. I was left without a job.

While I had spent the child-rearing years doing volunteer work and working part-time in my husband’s photographic studio, I lacked my own, autonomous agenda. My primary agenda, as a mother, was supporting my family members’ agendas. Now I had to face myself. What was my agenda?

I’d been itchy for some time, wondering if my brain still worked. Years before, I had been a contender: a newspaper and magazine reporter with a real career. I wrote profiles of all kinds of people, coaxed the most recalcitrant subjects to talk, and fancied myself a practical psychologist. I traveled, lived in Miami and New York. Now here I was, an 18-year gap on my resume, in a city where 20-somethings ruled. I was old, technology-deficient.

What kind of career, I wondered, would offer autonomy, part-time opportunities, enough complexity to fuel my growth, minimal technology and meaningful work? I already knew the answer: psychotherapy. Once again, I’d be getting people’s stories, albeit with a different, more compassionate objective. I had fantasized about this for years. So I applied to grad school.

St. Edward’s University embraced me, swallowed me up. But Michael, my husband, protested. He was used to having me around; he wasn’t traveling much anymore. We had to forge a new dynamic. I forced myself to wake up at 5am and write my papers before my husband and son emerged. I sacrificed my favorite Netflix series at night to get all my reading done. I spent weekends hitting the books. But I relished every moment. I remembered how to study. And this time, I was laser-focused.

School was the easy part. Next came the dreaded national exam, the search for a supervisor who could sponsor me under her umbrella in private practice, and the whopping 3,000 internship hours I had to log. Finally, I had to find a place to work on my own.

That was a decade ago. My reinvention took a few years. Today, I work at the very tranquil Austin Counseling Center, five minutes from home. I share space with a good group of like-minded therapists. We occupy the floor above a classical music school, and hear only trilling piano notes as ambient noise. I bring my elderly Bichon to work as an unofficial therapy dog: a canine Xanax. I go home for lunch. I take Fridays off.

The best part? The children witnessed my new becoming. They are proud of me. And all three have settled here. We host family dinners on Sundays and otherwise try not to intrude. We are in the in-between: that nether-world between being parents and grandparents.

But we stand ready.


Aug 16

The Empty/Emptying Nest

The Emptying/Empty Nest: Part I

By Elizabeth O’Brien, LPC-S

Many of us baby boomers are in the throes of launching our young adult children into the world. Whether the launch involves going off to college, getting first jobs, beginning serious careers, relocating to another part of the country, or simply moving into their own places, our older children are striking out, now, into an economy that is more robust than during the 2008-09 recession. Back then, many young adults had no choice but to continue living with mom and dad, or to boomerang back home post-college. At the very least, many were still receiving financial support.

What would have been an often poignant transition for parents, especially for primary caretakers, became a transition of another sort: how to deal with strapping, often frustrated, young adults in the house, in terms of shared chores, house rules, financial responsibilities, common consideration, and general expectations.

But now, it seems, our Western culture—which encourages children to leave home pre-marriage —once again prevails. Even boomerangers are beginning to move out. Jobs are more plentiful, and there seems to be a trend among millennials to live collectively, with multiple roommates, in order to achieve autonomy.

Parents, meanwhile, are grappling for equilibrium. When our children leave home, our lives change dramatically. We must begin to redefine ourselves. Whether or not we have careers outside the home, the absence of our children in our daily lives is a loss, and for many, a big one. It forces us to take stock, to re-evaluate our life purpose, to think about who we really are, beyond parenthood.

What now? is a common, albeit silent refrain. Who am I now, and how am I going to justify my existence? Obviously, this is much more visceral for primary caretakers, generally mothers who have given up their own, autonomous lives in the service of family. Such parents must often recreate themselves altogether.

How does one deal with a huge resume gap? How does a woman transition from the domestic, family life to the working world after a considerable absence? Inevitably, for women who have had the luxury to stay home with their children, or who were able to work part-time, getting back on the serious career horse requires further training and education. Often, tech skills are not up to snuff. The learning curve—in all arenas—can be daunting.

Beyond the practical, the issues of carving out a new identity are also psychological and spiritual. Whereas contribution, meaning and purpose are “built in” to child-rearing, we must come to terms with how to address these needs now that we are no longer essential in the same way. For the affluent, who don’t require a second income, volunteer work can become a fulfilling pursuit. But for those who must return to work, how do we even begin to find meaningful work? What if we don’t have the resources to pay tuition or training/certification fees? We can be faced, at midlife, with the prospect of unskilled labor—an occupation that is anything but resonant.

Whatever the particular situation, primary caretakers whose children are leaving home would do well to prepare for this transition well ahead of time: researching possibilities, assessing

requirements, making a list of personal and professional contacts, attending workshops or seminars, volunteering for an entity they admire, and which might offer future job opportunities, and above all, taking time to contemplate and identify a new life purpose. Creating or joining a group of like-minded women in similar situations can be hugely empowering. Seeking short-term therapy or career counseling are other useful initiatives.

Taking charge, instead of being hijacked by the empty nest, is practicing self-care and resilience.

*Emptying/Empty Nest Psycho-educational and Support Group beginning Fall of 2016

Coming Next—Part II:

How I Faced the Post-Mommy Abyss


Mar 23

Making the Bed

Most of us have a morning ritual that kicks off our day: drinking coffee or tea, eating breakfast, feeding the dog, reading or listening to the news, exercising, even meditating. But among the things I do in order to begin the day in the right spirit, making the bed is by far the most important. Why should such a mundane task rank so high?

It may seem trivial, but the habit of making one’s bed every morning is anything but. When done in a mindful manner, this task can have the effect of starting the day with a clean, orderly slate. When I am making my bed, moving from one side of the bed to the other, pulling up and straightening the covers, smoothing out the bedspread, fluffing the pillows, I feel as if I am “making the bed” of my mind—ordering my thoughts, acknowledging my emotions, soothing my psyche. I am focusing on the details in front of me, and in so doing, I am allowing my mind to take a break from “monkey brain” and concentrate, instead, on the matter at hand. When I am finished, it’s a no-brainer to pick up stray clothes, shoes or towels, putting them away in their rightful places. Seamlessly, I move on to the kitchen. A domestic chore that was once a headache, an odious task that I found almost impossible to face, becomes easy by association. Well, I think, the bed’s made…I may as well clean the kitchen, too. And I imagine how happy I’ll feel when I come home, at the end of the day, to an orderly house.

Even once I was in the habit of making my bed, the kitchen was a more formidable obstacle. Generally, I couldn’t even begin to clean up the mess until I had first emptied the dishwasher, which brought up resistance: a dreaded “pre-task” that requires bending over uncomfortably, again and again. It was only when I was able to install thoughts of gratitude—gratitude that I even have a dishwasher, and dishes to put into a dishwasher, and a kitchen to house the dishwasher, etc…not to mention the pretty Greenbelt view from my kitchen window—that I was able to begin. Now that’s become a habit, too.

Of course, all this goes back to my childhood, and my mother. When I was growing up in Memphis, I recall what a big deal it was when we finally got a dishwasher. I must have been a teenager by then. I remember Mother feeling guilty when Daddy bought it, like it was too fine a possession, something she didn’t deserve. Before that, Mother washed everything by hand without complaint. She was a stay-at-home mom—a common occupation in the 50s—and she saw keeping house as her job. When it came to the beds, she first pulled back all the covers to the foot of the beds, allowing the sheets to air out for several hours before making them. My main chore, as a little girl, was emptying all the waste baskets in each room into one can for efficient disposal. I adored doing this; it made me feel important, and helpful. I was Mother’s mini-me.

Now my mother is gone and even my own motherhood, in the daily, kids-underfoot sense, is past. It has occurred to me that I don’t even have to make the bed anymore. It’s only my husband and I in the house and, to his credit, he could care less. Also, if I asked him, he would happily oblige. I make the bed because I can. It’s an exercise, not in rigidity and compulsivity, but in gravity—gravity of the spiritual kind. This chore, and the others that follow, bind me to this life, this Earth. They tether me to myself.


Feb 20

Rapprochement at BurgerFi

By Elizabeth O’Brien, LPC-S
We have a family tradition of gathering on Sundays at BurgerFi in South Austin. BurgerFi, a small and seemingly little-known chain, happens to make some of the best burgers in town: grass-fed, hormone-free, organic beef that simply tastes better than most burgers I’ve tried. The place is located at Mopac and Slaughter Lane, in the Alamo Slaughter shopping center.

This Sunday-evening tradition began as a way to integrate our three adult children, our nephew and their partners—all in their 20s—with my elderly mother-in-law. Our idea was to avoid subjecting the “kids” to visiting the “old people’s home” where their grandmother lives. I sympathize: I remember being that age and hating the thought of visiting the Trezevant Manor in Memphis, where various relatives and later, my own mother, ended up before they died.

Besides, my mother-in-law, or “Gran,” as we call her, adores cheeseburgers—and she doesn’t get out much. She allows herself such indulgence only once a week, and only if I split a cheeseburger with her. I can’t neglect to mention the accompanying “Cry and Fries,” a deep-fried mix of giant onion rings and thick, skin-on fries that is the required side. Gran asks that I cut one onion ring in half for her; she doesn’t skimp, however, on eating the fries. Weather permitting, we gather on the patio outside at a large picnic table. We often bring our dogs as well. We eat, and catch up, while the sun is setting.

But there’s more method to this innocent madness. Since our children and nephew have all launched, with jobs and houses of their own, they are trying their best to separate and individuate, according to their adult imperatives—not an easy thing to do pre-marriage and children. If they hang around our house or see us too much, they fear regression, and infantilization. I don’t blame them.

So they come willingly, and happily, to BurgerFi. This practice, I realized, is a kind of rapprochement. The term, borrowed from the French, officially means “a re-establishment of cordial relations,” as between countries or entities in conflict. But in psychology, it means returning, intermittently, to the secure base of one’s parents, or caregivers. The concept of rapprochement grows out of Attachment Theory. The idea is that throughout our lives, we often practice a certain rapprochement with our original families as a way to refuel, redefine and re-launch ourselves. We begin this process as toddlers; when we are learning to walk, we venture farther and farther from Mom, eventually even briefly toddling from the room where she is, but quickly returning for comfort and reconciliation. In connected families, rapprochement is a lifelong process.

Although I often miss having my children in my daily life, or even underfoot, my husband and I have embraced our BurgerFi evenings with aplomb. After all, it’s time we moved on as well.


Dec 22

The Cosmos Barks

If one is stuck, and struggling with life, choosing a good therapist—one who’s a good fit and who, in the words of my old college English professor, “speaks to your condition”—is paramount. Recently I had to make such a choice. As a therapist myself, with many colleagues in the field, the search was especially fraught. Anonymity and confidentiality are difficult in a city like Austin, with its sunny, outdoorsy arena and small-town feel.

I was considering this, and despairing a bit, as I sat on the steps of a building where I had arrived too early for a meeting. The doors were still locked, and so I waited. Presently, along came a gentleman with a large, fluffy Bichon on a leash. I sat up straighter and took note because the dog was the image of my own dog. Bichons are generally much smaller than the one I have, and this Bichon, too, was unusually buff. Not only that, but the man himself looked vaguely familiar. We struck up a friendly conversation and he introduced himself: it was a name I immediately recognized. He is a well-respected therapist whose web page I had seen, and liked, when trolling for someone to see. He was gentle and warm, and I liked the instinctive way he related to his dog.

I asked the dog’s name.

“This is George,” he said. “He’s a rescue, and he has terrible separation anxiety, so I bring him with me to work.”

My heart skipped a beat. My late father’s name was George, and so is my older brother’s. And I take MY Bichon, Buffett, to work with me to allay his separation anxiety. He hops up on the couch with clients and snuggles up next to them. Usually, I can feel the anxiety lowering palpably in the room.

I greeted George, letting him sniff my hand, and the man and I continued to chat, mainly about dogs. Then, since he had keys to the door where my meeting was being held, he offered to let me in.

That was the end of the exchange. But the following day, after sleeping on it, I called him and booked an appointment. And now, every two weeks, George joins me on the couch.

Sometimes, the universe speaks, albeit with a small, unexpected bark.


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