A Splash of Exercise

A Splash of Exercise

by Ellen Resnick

 

“I’ll be right out,” my mother called from the bathroom.  A few minutes later, the door opened, and she shuffled into the living room where I stood waiting. 

“I didn’t know what to put on my feet, so I wore these,” she said, pointing to her toes.  “Do you think they’re okay?”  I looked down at her pink terry ballet slippers. 

 “Yes, Mom.  They’re fine.  We’re only going down to the clubhouse.” 

My eyes shifted back up to my mother’s face.  It glistened with color from the make-up she had just applied:  Peach-colored lips and rosy mauve cheeks.  The intense colors contrasted with the white full-length robe zippered top to bottom on her five foot, heavy-set frame.   A black patent leather pocketbook dangled from her wrist and she held a blue and green striped beach towel.  She was ready for her first water exercise class.

My parents had recently moved into a new, over-55 apartment building with an indoor pool.  A month before, a notice in the lobby announced the formation of a water exercise class to be held twice a week and boasted that the aqua instructor had been recruited from the local YMCA.

It wasn’t until two weeks after the start of the session that my mother told me about it.  “I can’t do that,” she said.  “I don’t swim, my balance isn’t good and besides, I don’t even have a bathing suit that fits me.”  The words came out with finality, as if daring me to challenge her. 

I had lost the battle on exercise many times before, but this time I knew I had to be persistent.  My mother’s life depended on it.  At 75 years old, Mom was 40 pounds overweight, diabetic and arthritic.  She suffered from chronic back pain and needed assistance when walking.  Despite this, she repeatedly ignored her doctors’ advice and the desperate pleas of her two daughters.  She didn’t know the first thing about fitness and had resigned herself to a sedentary life.  But deep down, Mom knew that if she didn’t do something soon, she would end up in a wheel chair.

I suggested that she observe the class to see if she might want to try it.  Afterwards, she called to tell me about it. “The women were having such a good time and the teacher took things really slow.”  Mom had spoken to the instructor after the class to explain her health issues and felt more confident with the teacher’s reassurances.

“I’m going to try it next week,” she announced. 

My reactions, in sequence, were:  surprise, happiness, and fear.  Surprise, because my mother had agreed to try the class so quickly; I had anticipated a lengthy period of persuasion.  Happiness, because she sounded so hopeful.  And fear, because Mom’s balance and agility were poor, and she didn’t swim.

“Mom, why don’t I go with you to your first class,” I suggested.  “I’ll help you down the steps and you’ll feel more secure in the water.” 

She sighed with relief. “That would be wonderful, Honey.”

On the day of her first class, we arrived early at the pool so Mom could take her time getting down the steps.  A gray-haired woman in a black bathing suit was already in the water, and she waved to my mother. 

“Hi Dorothy.  I’m so glad you came to class.  You’re going to love it.” 

Mom whispered to me later that the woman’s name was Phyllis and she was 91 years old. 

My mother put her pocketbook down on a table, unzipped her robe, lowered it to the ground and stepped over it.  She removed her pink slippers.  Leaning on my arm while we walked over to the edge of the pool, Mom confessed that her greatest fear was navigating the steps. As my mother eyed the metal bars leading down, I put my hand out for support. 

“No Ellen, I’ll need to be able to do this myself when you’re not here,” Mom protested.

Phyllis approached us and, in a soothing voice, gave my mother instructions on how to maneuver down the stairs.  “Hold onto the top bar with both hands and step down on the first step.  That’s the hardest one.” 

Mom bit her lip and grunted with pain as she followed Phyllis’s instructions. One down, four to go.  Phyllis guided my mother down, explaining how to stand and which bar to hold onto with each step. I stood close in case my mother needed help, but she didn’t.

With Phyllis’s outstretched hands welcoming my mother onto the floor of the pool, Mom took the last step and submerged her tense body into the warm comfort of the water.  She bent her knees and let the water flow over her shoulders.  As Mom closed her eyes, I quietly entered the pool and stood beside her.

“Aaahhh,” she sighed.  Then she opened her eyes and a grin appeared and spread across her face.  Mom thanked her new friend for helping her into the water. 

As we moved over where Mom could hold onto the side, more women came in.  They were probably in their 70’s like my mother, but clearly more agile.  They walked down the stairs with ease and greeted each other as they glided, arms outstretched, to the middle of the pool.  My mother introduced herself to the others and they exchanged names. 

After a few minutes, the women looked up at the clock on the wall, eager to begin the class.  At 10:25 a.m., a middle-aged, pony-tailed woman in a flowered tank and nylon shorts rushed through the door holding a huge sack filled with Styrofoam weights. 

“Hello, Pat,” the women sang in chorus. 

“Hi.  Sorry I’m late, but I’ll be with you in a minute.”  Pat dropped her bags and pulled out a pair of sneakers from a canvas bag.

“She wears sneakers in the pool?” my mother wondered out loud. 

“Those are special aqua sneakers that dry quickly and make it easier to walk in the pool,” one of the women explained.

 “What are you in the mood for today – rock or disco?” Pat asked the group.  It was unanimous: Disco.  As the music filled the room, the quiet, soothing ambiance changed to one of upbeat energy and fun.  My mother smiled and shook her head to the beat.

Pat quickly slipped into the pool and the women spread out in front of her.  “OK, let’s begin our stretches,” Pat announced, as she raised her arms over her head.  She called out instructions and led the class through a series of warm-up exercises.

Meanwhile, Mom stood off to the side and struggled to find her balance in the water.  She watched the smiling women and turned to me with worry.  “I can’t do this.”

“Mom, don’t worry.  This is your first time.  Just stand to the side, hold onto the edge, and do as much as you can.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” she said, as she moved over to grip the side of the pool.

Pat recognized my mother and immediately came over to reassure her.

“Just take things slowly, Dorothy, and only do what you feel comfortable with.”  My mother smiled feebly at the rest of the women and they all smiled back. 

After the warm-up, Pat increased the pace in tempo with the music; it was time to get their hearts beating faster.  She had the women marching, and then jogging in place.  Then she instructed them to walk across the pool.  My mother held onto the side, but she watched intently as she lifted her knees in a slow march.  The music was blaring, the women’s faces radiated, and they moved their limbs with pure joy.  I watched my mother’s face as she absorbed the energy from the room and smiled along with the others.  She was having fun.

After the aerobic session, Pat got out of the pool and opened her black, netted sack.  She handed the foam barbells to the women closest to her and they handed them around until everyone had a set.  Back in the water, the instructor guided the group through a variety of underwater movements to firm triceps and biceps.  Mom held the barbells at the surface of the water, using them for support and balance.

When the class finished, Pat moved toward my mother and me.  “You see, I can’t swim,” my mother explained.  “And I have arthritis, so bending is painful.”

Pat showed her some movements she could practice: raising each leg to the side, lifting her knees in a standing march, stretching her arms and shoulders. 

“You did great today, Dorothy, and you’ll find that it will get easier with each class.  I hope that you’ll come again next week.”

“Oh, I’ll be back.  You can be sure of that,” Mom said with a smile. 

The next week I got a phone call from my mother.  “Is my swimming partner going to join me this week?”  “You bet,” I replied. 

 

Postscript:  My mother cancelled our appointment to go to the next water exercise class, and she never went again.  She died two years later after a massive stroke.  

 

 

 

The Right Father's Day Card

The Right Father's Day Card

by Ellen Resnick 

 

I walk into CVS and head for the greeting card section to pick out a Father’s Day card for my Dad.  As usual for this time of year, the Father’s Day display is huge, rivaling even that of the birthday section. To narrow the selection, I focus on the “From Daughter” grouping. 

 

Hallmark offers a wide variety of cards so that, depending on your relationship with the recipient, you can find one that feels right--that sounds authentic, like you could have written it yourself.  For Father’s Day, the choices are: dramatic (“The gifts you’ve given me have shaped my life”); sugary (“I love you too much for words”); contemplative (“Wishing you quiet moments and peaceful reflections”); childish (“Hey ewe!  I’m glaaad you’re my Daaaad”); and humorous (“How many Dads does it take to change a light bulb?”).

 

As I randomly pull cards from the rows to read them, I hold onto the finalists and then make my selection.  This year, I search for one that expresses my love for my dad, but doesn’t give him too much credit for being a positive influence in my life.  I choose a simple one with three colorful hearts and a grosgrain green ribbon.  I like the card’s child-like quality and rounded edges, and the saying is heartfelt, but not too effusive to be untrue.

 

Just wanted to remind you

that you have

a very special place

in my heart…

you always will.

 

Happy Father’s Day

 

Back home, I write in careful script “I love you, Dad” and pen my name before dropping the card in the mail.

 

At the age of 84, Dad does have a special place in my heart - but that was not always the case.  In fact, in my teens and 20’s, there was very little room in my heart for him, and he didn’t hold a very special place in my life either.  I felt indifferent about my father, and when I did feel something toward him, it was usually disappointment or anger.  It was tough to find an appropriate Father’s Day card during those years.  I usually ended up buying a humorous card, or one that was meant for a father who was not your own—the kind that included the good wishes without the goo.  Both types were safe, lacking emotion.

 

My father worked hard in his business selling commercial refrigerators to restaurants, delis and grocery stores.  Leaving the house early in the morning, he spent most of the day in his car, before returning in the evening.  My family was together every night at the dinner table, but I don’t remember much of any substance discussed.  Then my father would retire to his den, prop his feet up on a footstool and watch sit-coms on TV. 

He is certainly a good man, a nice man, but he was a weak and ineffectual father and husband.  Mom was the dominant force in our family and he left the decision-making, household and child-rearing responsibilities to her.  My mom’s sage advice and nurturing nature contrasted sharply with my father’s superficial presence in my life. 

Although she was a kind-hearted and loving mother, Mom was a judgmental wife.  My father could never do anything right in her eyes, except make a good living and make her laugh with his corny jokes.  I was a lot like my mom, and a sassy, moody teenager to boot, and I mirrored her critical behavior towards my father.  Luckily, my sister was more tolerant and empathetic so my dad had one ally in the house. 

It irked me that my father didn’t defend himself against Mom’s and my incessant criticism.  As a teen, I longed for my father to be stronger, to discipline me, to defend his position in the household.  I clearly recall one evening when I exploded in front of him.  I was standing in the kitchen and he was in the den, leaning over the iron railing that separated the two rooms.  I spewed some disparaging comment at him that night, and my father’s reaction was typical:  He lowered his head as if I had hit him physically and was silent.  Something snapped that evening and I screamed at him, tears streaming down my face, “Why do you just stand there and take that from me?  I’m your daughter! Why don’t you yell at me?  I want you to fight back!” I needed him to rein me in and stop me from being such a mean person.

While Mom may not have respected my father much, she was loyal to him. It hurt my mother to witness my anger towards my father, and I remember her mantra, “But he loves you, Ellen” and my repeated response, “But love isn’t enough.”  With the wisdom of years, I now realize that while love was not enough for that youthful version of myself, love is enough now.

Over the years, I have come to see my dad as a simple, kind, and cheerful man.  He doesn’t expect a lot from life or relationships, and therefore, he is happy most of the time.  He’s a social guy, and enjoys making people laugh.   I know he loves me and I love him.  I still don’t admire and respect him, but I do love him.   

My relationship with my father changed when my mom became ill ten years ago and passed away three years later.  For years, after I moved out of the house, when I called my parents and my dad answered the phone, I would say “hello” and then quickly ask to speak to my mother.  But when it became difficult for Mom to come to the phone, I was forced to speak to my father to find out about her health.  When I came to their apartment, I saw my dad heating up dinner in the microwave and following my mom’s instructions to complete other household tasks like vacuuming and taking the garbage to the incinerator.  It must have been difficult for my father, a man who never did a load of laundry and relied on my mother to pick out his clothes every morning, to step up as it must have been tough for my mother to let go.    

During one visit, I recall watching them peck at each other with demeaning remarks and nasty comments.  It was a familiar scene, but on this particular day it made me angry and tested my patience.  At the end of the visit, my father went down to my car with me to get some food I had brought them.  In the elevator, I spurted, “Dad, you and Mom always fight.  How can you live like that all the time?  Why don’t you just get a divorce!”  My father’s face filled with rage and he yelled at me, “Ellen, your mother and I have been married fifty years.  You don’t just give up on someone like that! We stick by each other.”  I was relieved to see my father get angry with me, to take a strong stand that showed how much he cared about my mom.  And I felt ashamed for suggesting they separate.

As Mom’s health deteriorated, my father became her caretaker, helping her get dressed in the morning and undressed in the evening, guiding her in and out of chairs, holding her while she went to the bathroom.  The caretaking took a toll on Dad; he looked unkempt and exhausted every time I visited.  But he never complained. 

One day when my mom was in a hospital bed after one of her many surgeries—before the massive stroke that eventually killed her—she pleaded with me, “Please take care of your father when I’m gone.”  I responded with a nod, signaling my assent but not making too bold a commitment.  I felt that spending a lot of time with my father alone would be unbearable; but it turns out that my relationship with him has been quite pleasant.  

Today Dad is healthy and living in a senior community near my sister, who takes care of his day-to-day needs.  His life is uncomplicated, and that’s just how he likes it.  He watches TV most of the day in his Lazy Boy chair—sports  games, old movies, Judge Judy, news—and goes to the communal dining room for dinner at 4:30 sharp.  He’s made some friends there and he sits with the same group every night.  I use the term “friends” loosely, because Dad is not capable of engaging in meaningful relationships, or maybe he just chooses not to.  I take my dad out to lunch once a week and have him to my home for holidays and barbeques. 

Still, he shies away from serious conversation and is most happy when talking at a superficial level – telling jokes, asking questions, and repeating the news he heard that day. Dad’s world is very small and because there’s little variation, he doesn’t have to worry or think about much.  He gave up his car willingly when he moved to the senior community because he didn’t want or need independence.  My sister has taken over my mother’s role and puts his clothes out, does his food shopping and takes him to the doctor.  My whole life, I’ve seen my father get flustered and nervous when faced with making a decision or solving a problem.  Now, the only choice he needs to make is whether to have a Diet Coke or Iced Tea with his hamburger when I take him to lunch.  I jest with him that if I take him to a new restaurant, he’s not allowed to order his usual, a hamburger “with lots of onions.” But I secretly hope that he does order a burger, because I don’t have the patience to watch him study the menu for a half-hour.

Does my father’s passive behavior still anger me?  Am I still judgmental?  Yes.  It’s hard for me not to criticize when he doesn’t call long-time friends who try to keep in touch or acknowledge family members’ birthdays. I still squirm when he takes an eternity to make the simplest of decisions. When I watch my father eat with his fingers covered with ketchup, I must tell him he needs to use his napkin.  Or I’ll explode.  I’ll never understand why he doesn’t go out for a walk or use his cell phone or take an umbrella when it’s raining.  But I do understand that he’s very different from me, and I try to remind myself that his life choices are as worthy as mine.

I’ve learned to appreciate Dad’s good qualities in a way I was unable to as a teenager.  His positive outlook, for example.  He frequently tells me how fortunate he feels to be healthy. He feels secure to have children who care for him and take the time to visit.  And, he is content in his simple and sedentary life.  I’ve also come to appreciate my dad’s good humor, which I might point out, is different from appreciating his humor.  While I still think his jokes are stupid, rather than scowling like I used to, now I smile back at him because I know the intent is good; he simply wants people to like him.  And, he is a loving man.  He always greets me with a big smile, welcomes a tight hug, thanks me for taking him out, and tells me he loves me.  Years ago, I might not have been able to say it back.  Now I don’t hesitate to answer, “I love you too, Dad,” and picking the right Father’s Day card is easy.

 

 

Going Home

Going Home

                                                                          

When I walk in the house, I see bold red carpeting on the left against the wall, climbing up the stairs to the next level.  The entry is insignificant; what’s most important is the hallway straight ahead that leads to the kitchen in the back of the house. 

The kitchen is where the warmth of my mother’s love resides.  I see the round dark wood table that welcomes you to join in a delicious home-cooked meal, and the wooden chairs with the colorful seat pads tied with pretty bows at the back.  The sun spills in through a large bow window and lights up the walls, which are covered in a turquoise, navy, and yellow patterned wallpaper.  I thought the design was cheerful at the time, but it would probably be considered tacky by today’s standards.  Simple brown baskets of different shapes and sizes hang flat against the wall. 

            Mom has on her apron and she’s clutching the hand mixer as it whirs inside the silver bowl.  The smell of chocolate fills the room.  She’s making pudding for us and there’s love mixed in the sugary, milky-smooth dessert.  After pouring the liquid into small glass bowls, she looks up at me, smiling.  “Want to lick the bowl?”  I don’t answer because she already knows. 

I move into place beside her.  The pointer finger goes in first, making a linear path across the bowl’s inner surface, the warm chocolate sliding on in a big, drippy mound.  I open my mouth and stick my chocolate-covered finger inside.  My lips clamp down and as I slowly pull my finger out, the sweet liquid spills into my waiting mouth.  “Mmmm…”  I close my eyes. 

The other fingers soon follow the same route from metal to mouth as I cover my hands in chocolate heaven in my Mom’s kitchen.

Overachiever

I had to make my little legs work hard to keep up with my older sister and her friend.  I walked behind them each morning on the way to school because there was only room for two on the sidewalk, and they usually talked about stuff I wasn’t interested in anyway.  We had only walked two blocks, but my fear was already mounting.  I didn’t know where it came from, but it usually settled in my throat, and then my forehead would tighten and begin to throb.

 As we turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of the crossing guard ahead with her neon yellow vest.  My response was instantaneous.  It was as if she had raised a sign that said “Go Home!” I quickly spun and ran as fast as I could, unable to stop the tears.  My sister shouted my name, but I didn’t turn.

My face was wet with perspiration and tears when I rang the bell.  The door opened, and I thrust my small body into my mother’s arms, sobbing, “I don’t want to go to school.”  My mother was probably thinking, “Oh no, not again.”  This had become a pattern:  A few days a week, I returned home 15 minutes after my mother sent me off to kindergarten.  She would calm me down, reassure me and drive me to school so I would get there on time.

 

When my mom asked me why I didn’t want to go to school, she got an “I don’t know” response or silence.  But she could tell that I was tormented by something, a fear so powerful that even a new Barbie doll couldn’t make it go away. 

Years later, my mother told me how she scheduled a meeting with the school principal and my teacher, described my behavior, and pleaded with them to help her understand why I resisted going to class. My mother recalled the teacher’s certain response: “Your daughter is a classic overachiever who feels she needed to know how to read and write before she started kindergarten.”

            This was the first time I was labeled an “overachiever.”  While I’m sure my mother was relieved that my fears weren’t caused by bullying or other social issues, what she probably didn’t realize at the time was that the psychological impact of an overachieving mentality can be almost as damaging. In my case, my desire to get straight “A’s”, to do the best that I could in every endeavor, brought with it self-doubt and an intense fear of failure that was sometimes crippling.

I’ve often wondered why I am so hard on myself.  Why do I always need to perform perfectly and achieve excellence?  What am I so afraid of?  While we all behave in ways that reflect both genetics and environment, I truly believe that my overachieving nature is largely innate.  Parental pressure was not the source of my problem:  While my parents encouraged my sister and me to do well in school, they did not demand top performance.  They only expected us to do our best. 

 “Overachiever” is an interesting term. Some perceive it as the ultimate compliment, but like “overweight” and “overwork,” “overachievement” implies “too much.” It hints of dysfunction.  But can you really achieve too much?  Like “overconfident,” “overachieving” is too much of a good thing. My drive to excel brought me accolades, awards and prestigious jobs. I was proud of what my hard work had produced.  But my achievements did come at a great cost.

My diligence in school earned me a place in an Ivy League university, which was gratifying, and made my parents proud since neither one had gone to college. When I entered as a freshman, I knew the competition was tough; I was going to have to work especially hard to maintain my academic record.  Four years later, I graduated in the top 1% of my Wharton class and my dad still talks about graduation day when he heard my name called out repeatedly for having received all sorts of honors and awards.  But, and there’s a big “but” here, I agonized over every test, paper, assignment and presentation that got me there. 

Even though I studied long and hard for each exam and had a consistent record of doing well, I still believed each time I walked out of an exam room that I had failed the test.  Yes, failed.  Not just “didn’t do as well as I had expected” or “was surprised at how difficult the questions were,” but point-blank “I think I failed.”  Used to my doom-and-gloom stories, my roommate casually deflected them with an “I’m sure you didn’t do as badly as you think,” and Mom always reassured me over the phone, “Honey, you know you tried your best.”

Although it happened time after time, I was still shocked and elated when I saw that my grade was not an “F,” but an “A.” I would glance at the top of my marked exam and stare in disbelief:  How could that be? 

I recall a string of negative experiences that resulted from my incessant drive and counter-productive self-doubt. But the most disastrous one occurred after I landed my first job following graduation, a coveted marketing position with a reputable company. It was my dream job, only I convinced myself that I was an imposter and not as smart and capable as the other college graduates hired at the same time.

             Lack of confidence was the source of my downfall.  I became depressed and unable to perform.  I was so overwrought that I would sit at my desk and mull over the same task for hours, unable to clear my thoughts and figure out how to get it done.  After some time, I decided to quit and go home where I could recover.  Learning from my experience, my strategy in looking for another position was to find one where I felt I was over-qualified and would surely be successful.  It worked.  A few months later, I got a job with another large company where I flourished and went on to have a successful and satisfying career. 

Years later, after taking time off when my daughter was young, I returned to work full-time in a new job.  Unfortunately, my perfectionism and lack of confidence surfaced again.  Being asked to present to a group of senior executives had me shaking in my navy pumps.  I prepared my presentation well in advance and rehearsed it in my mind until I had answers for every question that could possibly be raised.  I lost several nights of sleep before the presentation, envisioning the worst:  standing in front of the room, looking at my slides and forgetting what I had planned to say.  Stage fright.  Someone challenging my conclusion with a point I hadn’t considered.  Lack of preparation.  Still another finding an error in my calculations.  Sloppiness. 

I’m not sure how, but as usual, I got through the presentation and everything went smoothly.  I was well-prepared, appeared knowledgeable and confident, and later received kudos from my boss. 

Luckily, I learned some coping mechanisms.  I realized that action was a good cure for fear:  Starting quickly on a challenging task, something I worried I wasn’t capable of doing, helped me recognize early-on that I could succeed.  Rather than worrying whether I was able to develop a thoughtful business plan, I jumped right into an outline and quickly realized that my ideas were sound and I could access the information I needed to complete it.  I learned how to move from fear and worry to calm and confidence.

In my adult life, my perfectionist impulses spilled over into other areas of my life.  I second-guessed my parenting decisions and worried about being the best mother I could for my daughter.  When hosting holiday dinners for my extended family, I prepared weeks in advance -- planning the menu, cooking and freezing and creating a detailed schedule of when each dish needed to go in the oven and be taken out.  Two hours before guests arrived, my family dispersed to the farthest reaches of the house to escape the anxiety in the kitchen.  Everything had to be perfect!

A few years ago, when my daughter came home for Thanksgiving she remarked how happy and calm I seemed during the preparations.  I had come a long way, knowing that if I started early and kept track of the details, the outcome was predictable - dinner would be delicious and everyone would have a great time, including me! 

In fact, this is now the best way for me to maintain confidence when tackling a project, personal or business– to think back over similar occasions in my life, envision the positive outcome, and know in my heart that I am capable of success.  The key to accomplishing great things and enjoying life is believing in yourself. 

Missy and Mama

I was settling into Down Dog when Missy, my yoga teacher, said “Let’s all choose to be happy today.  No one can make you happy. Only you can choose to be happy, right Mama?” I had heard Missy call out to “Mama” in class before, but I didn’t know who she was referring to.  Was it her mother?  Someone else?

That day I found out. It was in response to “Right, Mama?” that I heard a quiet “Yes, Honey” from the back of the room. As we changed poses, I quickly turned my head towards the soft voice and spotted a petite, blond woman. She had a broad smile just like Missy’s, and stood in a perfectly balanced Crescent Lunge. Ahhh, that must be Missy’s mother.

After yoga class, I walked over to her and introduced myself. “So, Mama must have a name,” I prompted. 

“Yes, I’m Pam.” Her reply came with the same warm and open expression that I was accustomed to seeing on my yoga teacher’s face. 

“How nice that you come to your daughter’s classes,” I commented. 

I wasn’t prepared for Pam’s very serious response. Her blue eyes locked with mine and she said, “Coming to Missy’s yoga class has changed my life.” 

Just then, Missy came over to us and wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. Pam circled her arm around Missy’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. As they turned to face me, smiling and still joined together, I thought of my own daughter, Jenna, and experienced a maternal longing for one of her hugs.  “Awww…”  I gushed in the presence of Missy and Mama’s unconcealed affection.

I felt a connection with these two women and saw immediate parallels between them, and me and my daughter:  Both mother-daughter pairs practiced yoga and enjoyed a special, loving relationship. Over time, I formed a casual friendship with them and wanted to learn more about Pam’s comment – about how attending Missy’s yoga classes had changed her life. I also found out that Missy was a single mother who moved from California to Florida several years ago to live close to her parents.  Piecing fragments of conversations together, I sensed that Missy and Pam shared a unique story and guessed that it would be a heartwarming one.  So I invited them over for a mother-daughter lunch when I knew Jenna would be visiting.

I felt a bit awkward inviting Missy and Pam to my home. I told them that I was a writer, and asked if they would tell me their story so that I could write about it. Here I was, a near-stranger, asking them to chronicle their lives over salad and poached chicken. But they quickly put me at ease. Pam exclaimed, “I would love to have the opportunity to kvell about Missy!”  I immediately recognized the Yiddish word that means “to beam with pride”; being a Jewish mother myself, I was prone to kvelling over my own children’s achievements. Similarly, Missy appreciated the invitation and was eager to describe the events, both tragic and triumphant, that led her to becoming a yoga practitioner and teacher. 

A few weeks later, I picked up Jenna at the airport and the following morning we went to Missy’s yoga class together. As I moved through the familiar vinyasa poses in unison with my daughter, I felt a deep connection with her.  It was as if we were moving together in a choreographed dance of serenity.

Yoga is supposed to be all about you and your mat; you should be present, in tune with your body and focused on your own practice and not that of others. But this morning I cheated:  I couldn’t help myself from taking furtive peeks at Jenna’s lithe body and beautiful profile as she followed Missy’s directions, flowing from one pose to another. I was also proud that I had built the strength and flexibility to match the moves of my athletic daughter. 

After class, I introduced Missy and Pam to Jenna.  They followed me back to my house and once inside, I led them to the screened porch and brought food and drinks out from the kitchen.  

“So, where should we start?”  Missy asked, as she poured dressing over her salad. I suggested that she begin by telling us about her childhood interests and how they might have influenced her career choices later in life.  

“I was a dancer,” Missy said. “I started ballet when I was three years old, and dancing was my thing.  It was my identity.” She began performing with a professional ballet company at the age of seven but at twelve, announced to her teacher and parents that she was going to stop dancing.  

“I wanted to be more like a normal kid,” Missy explained. 

Pam reflected on that time period: “Missy was getting all these accolades for her dancing, and her teacher told me I was a terrible mother for allowing her to quit.  She said I was doing Missy a disservice because she was too young to know what she wanted.”

But Pam trusted Missy’s decision to diverge from the path that defined her youth, and her support must have meant a lot to Missy at the time. It certainly portended the supportive relationship of this mother-daughter pair for years to come.  

I am intrigued by people who become passionate about the arts early in life, like the Russian boy, Ethan, on The Jay Leno Show, who perfectly mimicked Mozart and Beethoven on his keyboard at the age of six. Or my step-daughter, Sara, an artist, who saw the objects of life through Impressionist eyes at a very young age. Or Missy, whose ballet teacher noticed something special in her dancing at age three. 

Like most mothers, I hoped that Jenna would find a sport or hobby that she would enjoy and excel in. I believed that this would build her confidence, a characteristic so elusive during adolescence. While over the years Jenna dabbled in many things, she wasn’t passionate about any of them. She enjoyed each for a short period of time and then moved onto something else -- much like me, who still cycles through hobbies every three years. 

            Missy asked me to pass her the basket of flatbread, and then continued. “We were an open, communicative family,” she explained. “I took after my mom, who is a psychologist, in that I was interested in understanding and talking about my feelings. I was even in therapy a couple of times as a kid. Now, I talk about feelings and emotions in class all the time; it’s funny how things come around.”

 After graduating college with a degree in psychology and completing a one-year internship in Washington D.C., Missy moved to New York City. At the age of 22, she entered the world of business, working first for an advertising agency and then for a consulting firm.

 “I had a heavy-duty sales career. I wore suits and sold to high-powered litigators in the top law firms. I was Type A, intense, working hard, making big bucks, going to the Hamptons in the summer…You know, living the New York life.”

I learned later that Missy was “Melissa” during these years; she adopted her more playful nickname later as a yoga teacher.

Missy’s description of her family dynamics and interest in psychology helped explain why I was so drawn to her. I related to her approachable style and found her spiritual comments during class insightful. She helped me link my asana postures to positive thoughts about loving oneself, not judging others, and choosing to be happy.

Missy continued to talk about her “Melissa years” in New York.  She married her now ex-husband at 29 and quit her stressful job to take some time off.  “I got married for all the wrong reasons,” Missy acknowledged. “I married Jeff out of fear because I was almost 30 and wasn’t confident enough to be on my own and attract the kind of man who would be the love of my life.  Jeff was hot and smart and a great catch.  He had potential and I thought I could change him. That was a mistake.” 

At this point, Missy turned to face Jenna and asked her age. With the wisdom of someone who has learned the hard way, Missy advised “Be who you are, Jenna.  Get to know yourself and love yourself before you marry.” Jenna glanced at me and smiled; she’d heard that before.  I married her dad, my college sweetheart, too young and divorced ten years later.

            While I was not a directive parent, there is one piece of unwavering advice I gave Jenna beginning in her teen years.  In fact, I repeated it so many times that when I began with “Don’t marry until…,” Jenna finished the statement for me with a dramatic eye-roll and sing-song delivery: “…you’re in your late 20’s, early 30’s.”  I don’t believe now that there is a particular right age to marry, but rather a right state of mind. Jenna is far more independent and self-aware than I was at the same age, the age I married her father. 

Less than a year after they married, Missy and Jeff moved to Los Angeles so Jeff could pursue a career in television writing. This was a dark period for Missy as she felt displaced and lost without work. 

She recalls, “I just sat around. I didn’t know what to do with myself so I began eating, baking, watching the Food Network, and getting fat.”  

After three years of marriage, Missy sums up the situation: “I was bored and unhappy.  My marriage wasn’t great, but I still loved Jeff so we decided to have a baby.”

 Until this point in the conversation, Missy spoke openly and articulately. Her story flowed easily. But the next statement came out clipped and unemotional. 

“After my son Noah was born, I decided to leave my husband and move to Florida.”

There was silence as Jenna and I absorbed Missy’s abrupt and shocking declaration. 

“Missy, why?”  I asked softly. 

She took a long sip of iced tea, paused, and then explained that after her son was born, her husband retreated.  “He thought he was ready, but he wasn’t. After Noah was born, he checked out.”  

Knowing that this was difficult for Missy to talk about, Pam jumped in to explain what happened in the weeks after Noah’s birth. When Pam came to California to help with the baby, Jeff moved into the guest room and Pam slept in the baby’s room. 

“Jeff just wasn’t there for Missy. So, in the middle of the night, I would bring Noah into Missy’s room and watch her breast-feed this tiny baby. It was an incredibly bonding experience for Missy and me.” 

Missy gazed at her mother and said softly, “She’s always been there for me.”

Pam was upset by Jeff’s detachment following Noah’s birth and reluctantly left to return to her home in Naples, Florida. When Missy called her mother three weeks later saying that she didn’t think her marriage was going to work, Pam suggested she come to Naples with the baby.

“Missy was scared, but I knew in my heart the marriage wasn’t right. My husband and I were in agreement; we knew she needed to come home.”  

I understand the powerful feeling of safety provided by a strong and loving mother because, like Missy, I returned home to heal as a young adult.  After being miserable for some time in an unbearable first job, I had a similar conversation with my mother. She urged me to quit and come home where I could recover and look for another position. How relieved I felt returning home! My mom’s sound advice and the familiar walls of my bedroom restored my confidence, and a few months later, I joined another company where I flourished.

Missy shifted her long, wavy hair back over her shoulders and reached for the bowl for a second helping. “So I left my ex-husband and traveled to Florida with my new baby to live with my parents.” She recalled with sorrow, “My life was upside down.”

After two months, Missy rented a place of her own, joined a gym, and began going to yoga classes.  While she had taken a few Bikram classes in New York and a prenatal yoga series in California, Missy had never been consistent or serious about yoga until this point. 

“I was going to yoga and crying my eyes out, and I started to see how yoga was helping me heal,” Missy said.

 She later began taking classes at a Baron Baptiste-inspired yoga studio where the classes were smaller.  “I’m not sure how it happened but something ignited within me and I wanted to immerse myself in learning more about yoga.” 

Missy became dedicated to yoga, waking up at 5:30 to practice before work.  Pam cared for Noah while Missy tried to get herself back on her feet in a new sales job. “I lost all my weight and started to feel good about myself again. It truly was a transformation,” Missy said.

Encouraged by her yoga teacher, Missy went to a week-long intensive teacher training program taught by Baptiste.  “I didn’t know if I’d ever teach yoga, but I figured the training would be a great learning experience regardless. It turned out to be life-changing.”

Soon after registering for the teacher training, Missy was laid off from her job. She smiled and said, “This was the universe saying to me ‘You have to teach yoga.’ My inner voice was saying, ‘You need to share this with people and help them realize they can grow and change and better themselves.’”

But Missy struggled with the notion of becoming a yoga teacher.  She was proud of being an educated professional and worried about what people would think of her if she taught yoga.

“People have misperceptions about yoga teachers. They think they are not intelligent or are just fitness people or flat-out flaky,” she said with a smile. Missy also worried about her prospects if teaching yoga didn’t work out.  How would she explain the gap on her resume?

After teacher training, Missy vacillated for a month before deciding to push away her fears and follow the path she felt was right. Soon after making the decision to teach, she began “selling” her teaching credentials and passion for yoga, and getting jobs in fitness centers and yoga studios.  

            Someone’s profession often tells us about their education, intellect, level of ambition and wealth. However, I don’t think these assumptions are so clear anymore.  More well-educated young people are choosing professions based on the value they will bring to the world rather than the money they will accumulate. Missy chose teaching yoga to share with others a means to be happy and feel empowered. “I want people to leave my class lighter, happier, uplifted.” 

            I think that’s a noble intention.

Likewise, Jenna has chosen a righteous profession. She turned to non-profit organizations after graduating college with a business degree and now works for Goodwill Industries International in resource development, which she finds very fulfilling. I admire these two young women for putting aside any concerns about what others might think and taking on careers with true meaning.

As Missy built her new career, Pam continued to support her daughter, enabling this important life transition.  At the same time, Pam observed her daughter’s transformation as she deepened her yoga practice; Missy began to exude health, happiness, and hopefulness. Intrigued, Pam decided to participate in Missy’s yoga classes.

She wasn’t athletic and had never worked out, so she found yoga extremely difficult in the beginning. “I had a tough time with even the easy poses like Cat-Cow; I was just that uncoordinated,” Pam recalled. “I didn’t like yoga and wanted to quit. But I didn’t, because I wanted to be there for Missy.”    

While Pam’s initial purpose for attending Missy’s class was to support her daughter, over time she realized that she was coming to yoga class not for Missy, but for herself.  “The tables were turned and now, Missy was helping me in my own transformation,” she said.

Pam attributes her ability to handle stress and life’s challenges to her yoga practice.  “The warrior poses taught me to approach life differently.  My parents are elderly and I am a care-taker, which is very difficult.  Yoga taught me to have a lot of fortitude.  It has been wonderful for me.” 

She also attributes a new-found sense of confidence to her yoga practice.  She maintains that she is more assertive and accepting of herself.  “Like when we’re on the mat, I figure if we do the best we can with a kind and loving heart, we’re doing okay.”

Pam’s yoga practice has also had a profound impact on her health. After a serious auto accident over 15 years ago, Pam had surgery to have a titanium plate inserted in her neck, which put pressure on her spinal discs.  She went to physical therapy and pain management clinics, but it didn’t alleviate her pain and stiffness.  Pam believes it was her yoga practice that eventually restored her health. 

She said happily, “I don’t see pain management doctors.  I don’t even check in with a neurologist anymore. I absolutely think it was the yoga, the stretching, that helped release the nerve pressure and gave me back range of motion.”

Missy politely interrupted and told us she needed to leave shortly to go to a client’s house for a private yoga session. After spending two hours together, the four of us felt connected in so many ways.  Missy and Jenna both know without a doubt that their mothers will be there to support and love them no matter what. Pam and I are both learning new ways of thinking and living from our wise daughters. And yoga has connected and restored us all.

We hugged and took pictures so we would remember this special day.  Jenna and I waved good-bye as Missy and Pam walked out towards their cars. I called, smiling, “I’ll see you at yoga on Thursday.”