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When does a place you reside become your home? When does it cease to hold claim to a piece of your heart after you have moved away?

We lived in Orlando, Florida for five years. We have been gone for nearly nine. Many of our close friends from this time have also departed. By all accounts, this place should no longer have a claim on my soul.

But walking by Lake Ebola, passing the Orlando Public Library, breathing in the air thick with life, basking under the bright blue sky, I feel as though I have never left.

So much happened to our family during our short stint in Florida. Daniel was born. Annika started kindergarten. Will and I each turned 30, and each graduated with our PhDs. Our existing life narrative was smashed into tiny pieces and rebuilt into something stronger.

When I visit Orlando, my chest squeezes and my throat tightens. Because a part of me will always love this town. And a part of me mourns what we have lost. For even if we were to move back now, we are different people, in a different era. The mourning space in my soul is wistful over this bygone season - which we can never repeat.

I love you, Orlando. I love that you created the person I am today, the family we are now. And leaving this kind of home, again and again, is always bittersweet.

Serendipity

At my conference today, someone asked me about my doctoral program. He seemed very eager to discover helpful strategies. I think he was poised to take notes.

Here is what I told him: I applied to ONE school for my PhD. After the deadline. Because my husband had decided to earn his PhD in Optics at the University of Central Florida, and I remember the moment, sitting on the playroom floor with my infant daughter, I decided I would like to earn a PhD, too, because why not?

I had never been to Florida. I had never even heard of UCF. But serendipity was on my side. UCF admitted students to my program in odd years - it just happened to be an odd year. I submitted my application after the deadline. UCF decided to take a chance on me. After I was admitted, I remember asking my former professor, “So, are you assigned research topics you are supposed to research??” As it turns out, research topics are purely self-generated, a fact known by everyone but me.

I thrived at UCF. I had amazing mentors and worked with amazing, world-renowned faculty. I also discovered they were the nicest people on the planet - and were supportive of me as a mom of a young child, and again when I was pregnant with my son. I had no inkling of how amazing these people were, on so many levels, when I decided to apply on a whim.

Here is what I did not do: I did not research schools. I did not study for the GMAT. I did not read accounting research articles. I did not have a detailed plan of what I wanted to study. Instead, I had a vague goal, held my breath, and jumped in.

Sometimes meticulously creating and following a plan is necessary. And sometimes, serendipity is enough.

Burn

 

We live near the Konza Prairie, one of the last remaining preserves of native tallgrass prairie in the country. Every spring, as ice thaws and the flowers open their buds, the horizon becomes thick with hazy smoke from the prescribed burning on the Konza Prairie.

Prescribed burning is a very effective tool for land management. It also comes at a high cost: the thick smoke in the air makes the surrounding town very hazy. Allergies and respiratory problems flair up. The ground becomes charred, blackened, dead.

But in several weeks, something amazing happens: The once-dead ground becomes a vibrant green, teeming with newly erupting prairie grass. The native tallgrass species push their way through the rich soil, preserving the ecosystem. The ground that had been blackened with death becomes teeming with life. Prairie burning offers a powerful message: To achieve new life and rebirth, we often must burn away what is old.

This time of spring, there are so many old patterns we may cling to: Guilt. Shame. Toxicity. To burn them away comes at a high price, a time of uncertainty, a period where we worry that killing off these old patterns may cause our soul to turn to ash. This spring, I would advise you to have faith. Faith you can burn away what needs to be stripped bare, so that the emerging new life flourishes. Faith that new life will follow death. Faith that the worst thing is never the last thing.

It is tempting to want a metamorphosis without a fire. But the ensuring growth after we allow ourselves to burn is more beautiful than we can imagine.

[Photo is from a K-State news article.]

My 23-Year-Old Self

23 was a big year. I graduated with a master's degree, moved to Kansas City, began my first full-time job at a CPA firm, bought our first house, and, days before turning 24, discovered I was pregnant with my first child.

At 23 years old, I was worried time was running out. Having a baby became a single-minded obsession, having morphed from thinking children were in the far distant future to worrying that if I did not act soon, it would be "too late." What does "too late" mean when you are 23 years old? I have no idea in hindsight.

At 23 years old, I was convinced I was on a trajectory for the rest of my life. I had worked hard and studied diligently and checked all the right boxes in school, and I was rewarded with a lucrative full-time job for my first stop out of college. My husband had worked equally hard in school, had earned two master's degrees up to this point, and had obtained a government-funded job as a laser engineer. We were set for life. I could see myself in my 30s, 40s, 50s, living in the two-story brick Colonial we had purchased, walking my future children to the elementary school up the street, commuting on I-35 to snake my way downtown.

At 23 years old, I had very solid ideas. I did not see it, but I was incredibly judgmental in certain areas. I had specific ideas about how to raise my future imaginary children and secretly gloated that my future children would be, for example, adventurous eaters and eager readers. I silently believed certain poor life choices resulted from character flaws. I was privileged and yet did not appreciate all the silent advantages that had been bestowed upon me.

I loved being 23 years old. I felt my life was beginning for the first time. I hated being 23 years old. I worried that I was on a trajectory for the rest of my life that made me feel like a square peg in a round hole, but that it was "too late" to change any of my life's settings. I loved the newfound respect that seemed to be afforded to my husband and me, having moved from students to working professionals. I hated that my world seemed to be narrowing, that I had less time to consider big ideas, less space for adventures, less margin for error.

I would love to be 23 years old again. I could provide wisdom, experience, perspective to my young, naïve, sheltered self. I would hate to be 23 years old again: the uncertainty, the self-doubt, the lack of courage and imagination.

But most of all, when I see my 23-year-old self, I primarily see someone whom I greet with love, tenderness, and gratitude. Because that self got me to where I am this day.

The Glue that Holds Our Family Together

On the way to youth group today, Annika asked, "Mom, what would happen to our family if Dad died??" This is a bizarre question, and I think was on her mind because Will is out of town right now and things are not running as smoothly without him. "Well, we would be very, very, very, very sad," I replied. But that is not the whole truth. Our whole family would fall apart. Will is the glue that holds our family together. 

In some respects, I perform some traditional duties delegated to mothers. I plan all logistics. I enter all commitments into our calendars. I schedule our children's medical appointments. I check our children's grades, sign their planner at night, volunteer at the schools.

But in many other aspects, Will takes on duties I imagine in many families are performed by moms. Will does the laundry for our family. He cooks. He cleans. And he is the emotional center of our family, the calmest presence, the steadiest voice, the one with whom our children prefer to confide their problems, the one who listens with judgement, the one who loves without anxiety.

Different families have different divisions of physical, mental, emotional labor. And in our family, I am sure the majority of the division of these different categories of labor falls on our Will's shoulders. And he does it all without mention of the disparate division, without complaint, without bitterness.

I think I am a pretty awesome mom and wife in some respects. Will is undoubtedly an awesome dad and husband. And as the glue that holds our family together, we pray he is with us for a very, very, very, very long time.

Snowplow Parent

I read an article that Helicopter Parents are so 20th century. The new trend is to be a "Snowplow Parent" (sometimes referred to as a "Lawnmower Parent"). Helicopter parents hover. Snowplow parents take it to a whole new level, blazing down any obstacles in their child's path, even if that means crossing ethical boundaries.

None of us would like to think of ourselves as Snowplow Parents. I want to give my children autonomy, independence, and ownership. But in other ways, I feel like I am slowly creeping into Snowplow territory. Such as:

• I routinely check Parent Portal to stay updated on my children's progress in school. I keep telling myself I will stop, and have deleted the App from my phone, but still check online. If I notice one of my children ever has a missing assignment, I immediately tell them about it and nag them ("remind them," I like to tell myself) all evening and all morning before school. 

• I have gotten in the habit of going through my elementary school son's backpack and signing his planner each night. Parents are supposed to sign the planner each night, but instead of waiting for him to bring the planner for me to sign it, I have just been signing it on my own. 

• My daughter is a freshman in high school. She has a few challenges, and I have been anxious about her developing appropriate life skills for future employment. She has mentioned she would like to volunteer at the library this summer. I have been checking the library website each day to see if information has been posted about the application process for summer volunteers - rather than leaving the ball in her court. 

• I proactively make sure my son studies for spelling tests each week - again, rather than leaving the ball in his court.

None of these actions are necessarily bad, and do not believe they cross ethical or legal boundaries. But I think I am not helping my children develop ownership and autonomy. It is almost as if I am worried that they will fail if I do not intervene - so I do not give them the opportunity to fail. And this sends the message I do not think they are capable on their own, which is a self-reinforcing cycle. 

So this week, I have backed off. I told the kids I would quit nagging ("reminding") them about obligations. I would not breathe down their neck. I was going to step back and let them fail. And you know what? No one has failed yet. My son did not bring me his planner last night, and it bugged me because I knew I had not signed it - but he remembered on his own this morning. My kids both missed school on Monday for a funeral - and I did not get after them to talk to their teachers about what they had missed. And when I checked this morning (because old habits die hard...), both were still doing awesome in school. I need to figure out how to give my daughter ownership of finding a volunteer or work commitment that will help her grow - but we will get there.

Being a parent is hard. Stepping back is hard. But stepping back is also kind of liberating. And I hope my kids feel liberated, too.  

5 Things I have Learned About Autism

I have learned more about autism spectrum disorder (ASD) recently. I did not previously know much of this information, so wanted to compile some of the most surprising facts I have learned in case they were helpful for anyone else.

1. Asperger's Syndrome no longer exists. The most recent DSM came out in 2013 and categorized autism into three functional levels based on the levels of support needed, as depicted in the post graphic. It eliminated the previous diagnosis of "Asperger's Syndrome." Instead, individuals who previously would have been diagnosed as having Asperger's Syndrome are now (most likely) folded into ASD, Level 1.

2. Autism Speaks is controversial. Autism Speaks is the organization I most readily associated with advocating for autism. However, I was surprised to learn that many individuals diagnosed with ASD are not a fan of the organization Autism Speaks, as there is a sentiment that the organization does not draw on voices from individuals with ASD.

3. Difficulties in employment. Many individuals with Level 1 ASD (colloquially referred to as high-functioning autism) are quite successful in high school and college. The most common struggle is in attempting to obtain full-time employment. Several estimates place the unemployment rate for individuals with the previously-used diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome at 85%. One article stated this was a higher unemployment rate than any other disability, and that unemployment for individuals with ASD was frequently higher for college graduates than for high school drop-outs.

4. Funnel of information. Most articles on ASD are written for the audience of parents who are worried or curious whether a young child may be on the spectrum. Fewer articles are devoted to understanding life with someone with ASD, and even fewer are written about adults with ASD.

5. Autism acceptance. Many individuals with ASD do not view the diagnosis as encompassing a disability, but as a set of traits to embrace. For that same reason, individuals with autism prefer to celebrate "Autism Acceptance Month" in April rather than "Autism Awareness Month."

This is an area I am only recently encountering. I may have some details wrong or may have inadvertently used improper language. But I understand and process by writing and sharing, so am taking a stab at documenting some of what I have learned in the hopes it might be helpful to someone else.